Some two years since, on the strength of what we regarded as reliable information, we announced the death of the elephant Hannibal, at Canton, and accompanied the announcement with a short sketch of that remarkable animal. We happened to be familiar with several interesting incidents in the private life of Hannibal, and our sketch was copied by almost every paper in America and by several European journals. A few months ago a "traveled" friend showed us the sketch in a Parisian journal, and possibly it is "going the rounds" of the Chinese papers by this time. A few days after we had printed his obituary Hannibal came to town with Van Amburgh's Menagerie, and the same type which killed the monster restored him to life again.
About once a year Hannibal
"Gets on a spree,
And goes bobbin around."
to make a short quotation from a once popular ballad. These sprees, in fact, "is what's the matter with him."
The other day, in Williamsburg, Long Island, he broke loose in the canvas, emptied most of the cages, and tore through the town like a mammoth pestilence. An extensive crowd of athletic men, by jabbing him with spears and pitchforks, and coiling big ropes around his legs, succeeded in capturing him. The animals he had set free were caught and restored to their cages without much difficulty.
We doubt if we shall ever forget our first view of Hannibal—which was also our first view of any elephant—of THE elephant, in short. It was at the close of a sultry day in June, 18—. The sun had spent its fury and was going to rest among the clouds of gold and crimson. A solitary horseman might have been seen slowly ascending a long hill in a New England town. That solitary horseman was us, and we were mounted on the old white mare. Two bags were strapped to the foaming steed. That was before we became wealthy, and of course we are not ashamed to say that we had been to mill, and consequently THEM bags contained flour and middlins. Presently a large object appeared at the top of the hill. We had heard of the devil, and had been pretty often told that he would have a clear deed and title to us before long, but had never heard him painted like the object which met our gaze at the top of that hill on the close of sultry day in June. Concluding (for we were a mere youth) that it was an eccentric whale, who had come ashore near North Yarmouth, and was making a tour through the interior on wheels, we hastily turned our steed and made for the mill at a rapid rate. Once we threw over ballast, after the manner of balloonists, and as the object gained on us we cried aloud for our parents. Fortunately we reached the mill in safety, and the object passed at a furious rate, with a portion of a woodshed on its back. It was Hannibal, who had run away from a neighboring town, taking a shed with him.
. . . . .
DRANK STANDIN.—Col. — is a big "railroad man." He attended a railroad supper once. Champagne flowed freely, and the Colonel got more than his share. Speeches were made after the removal of the cloth. Somebody arose and eulogized the Colonel in the steepest possible manner—called him great, good, patriotic, enterprising, &c., &c. The speaker was here interrupted by the illustrious Colonel himself, who arising with considerable difficulty, and beaming benevolently around the table, gravely said, "Let's (hic) drink that sedimunt standin!" It was done.
1.48. HOW THE NAPOLEON OF SELLERS WAS SOLD.
We have read a great many stories of which Winchell, the great wit and mimic, was the hero, showing always how neatly and entirely he sold somebody. Any one who is familiar with Winchell's wonderful powers of mimicry cannot doubt that these stories are all substantially true. But there is one instance which we will relate, or perish in the attempt, where the jolly Winchell was himself sold. The other evening, while he was conversing with several gentlemen at one of the hotels, a dilapidated individual reeled into the room and halted in front of the stove, where he made wild and unsuccessful efforts to maintain a firm position. He evidently had spent the evening in marching torchlight processions of forty-rod whisky down his throat, and at this particular time was decidedly and disreputably drunk. With a sly wink to the crowd, as much as to say, "We'll have some fun with this individual," Winchell assumed a solemn face, and in a ghostly voice said to one of the company: