“The Funniest Works in Existence.”
DOESTICKS’ BOOKS,
New editions of which have been
RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY
RUDD & CARLETON, 310 BROADWAY, N. Y.
DOESTICKS, WHAT HE SAYS.
Pp. 380. 12mo. Elegantly bound in cloth.
Price $1 00.
Being a compilation of the original letters from the immortal Q. K. Philander Doesticks, P. B. (Perfect Brick.)
[From N. P. Willis’s Home Journal.]
“Things so copied, so talked of, so pulled out of every pocket to be lent to you, so quoted, and so relished and laughed over as Doesticks’ writings, never were launched into print.”
PLU-RI-BUS-TAH;
A SONG THATS BY NO AUTHOR—A DEED WITHOUT A NAME.
Pp. 264. 12mo. Elegantly bound in cloth.
Price $1 00.
As a History of the country this book is invaluable, inasmuch as it notices a great many events not mentioned by Bancroft, Hildreth, or Prescott. As a Novel it is unapproachable, for it contains several characters unknown to Cooper, Dickens, Marryatt, or Bulwer. As a Mythological Work it should be immediately secured, as it makes mention of a number of gods and deified worthies hitherto unknown to old Jupiter himself. As a Poem, its claims to consideration cannot be denied, as it comprises a great many beauties not discoverable in the “Song of Hiawatha,” besides several Indian names which were therein omitted.
THE ELEPHANT CLUB.
BY DOESTICKS AND KNIGHT RUSS OCKSIDE, M.D.
Pp. 321. 12mo. Elegantly bound in cloth.
Price $1 00.
A veritable and veracious History of the Doings and Misdoings of the members of the Elephant Club. With the minute and particular narrative of what they did. To which is added a complex and elaborate description of what they didn’t. Containing also the exultant record of their memorable success in eventually obtaining, each and every one, a sight of the entire and unadulterated animal, from the primitive hair on his attenuated proboscis, to the last kink of his symmetrical tail.
NOTHING TO SAY;
Being a satire on Snobbery, which has
“NOTHING TO DO” WITH “NOTHING TO WEAR.”
Superbly Illustrated on Tinted Paper.
Pp. 60. 12mo. Elegantly bound in cloth.
Price 50 cents.
These Books are all profusely embellished by Engravings from the finest original comic designs by John McLenan, and are books which no American miscellaneous library should be without.
Copies of any of these books will be sent by mail, postage paid, to any part of the U. S., on receipt of the price.
Nothing To Say:
A Slight Slap at Mobocratic Snobbery,
WHICH HAS
“Nothing to Do” with “Nothing to Wear.”
BY
Q. K. PHILANDER DOESTICKS, P.B.
“My verdict for the white rose side.”
1 Henry VII. ii. 4.
New York:
RUDD & CARLETON, 310 BROADWAY.
M.DCCC.LVII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by
RUDD & CARLTON,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
R. CRAIGHEAD, PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
Carton Building,
81, 83, and 85 Centre Street.
I, Q. K. P. Doesticks, of No Hall, Nowhere;
No Castle, no Villa, no Place, Court, or Terrace;
Who didn’t write “Junius,” or “Nothing to Wear,”
Who never have visited London or Paris;
Who am not a phantom, a myth, or a mystery,
But a “homo,” as solid as any of history;
As real as Antony, Cæsar, or Brutus,—
A wide-awake Yankee, so “tarnation ’cute” as
To always write Nothings, while Nothings will pay,
Am the author of this Nothing—Nothing to Say.
I mention this fact in advance, that Miss P***
May not strive to embezzle the laurels from me.
That her Reverend friend may attend to his Litany,
And leave me my fame, if perchance I shall get any.
I deemed it best, to set at rest,
This question before it was started, lest
Some terrible girl from the far countree,
Without proper regard to veracitee,
Should haste to town, to drag me down
From my envied post of poetic renown.
Miss P***, I’ve a favor to ask.—If ’tis true,
That “Nothing to Wear,” and “Nothing to Do,”
And “Nothing to Eat,” were all written by you,—
Let those three Nothings content you I pray,
Say nothing yourself; leave me “Nothing to Say.”
From time immemorial, people of fashion
Have been the target of poets and penny wits,
And been lampooned without stint or compassion,
From Dan to Beersheba—from Dublin to Dennevitz;
And our now-a-day rhymsters, taking the cue,
Have aimed all their shots at the Fifth Avenue,
Till the clever author of “Nothing to Wear,”
Fired his broadside at Madison Square.
Now I don’t consider this sort of thing personal,
I’m not a bit of a dandy or fop;
But the seed it is constantly sowing, is worse than all
Others, and bears a most plentiful crop;
For it all goes to strengthen the popular fallacy
That, because a man lives in a “brown stone palace” he
Must be a miser, a rogue and a knave,
Without soul enough to condemn or to save—
That a broadcloth coat argues sin, if not felony;
If a man has the tact in the world to get well on, he
Cannot be else than a thorough-paced scamp;
That the “villanous rich” wear a cloak and a mask, all,
And the greater the riches, the greater the rascal.
That the cardinal virtues only endure,
In the atmosphere with the “virtuous poor;”
That nowhere are found the true Christian graces,
Save closely allied to the dirtiest faces.
I shall not contradict this delightful tradition,
But beg—No, I won’t, I will take it—permission,
To state, that I think there’s a word to be said,
From a different text, on the opposite head.
And so I’ll invent, as well as I’m able,
A new home-made, allegorical fable;
And my honest purpose shall be, to see
If the scoundrel rich have not borne a part
In those noble charities, which are
The pride of this jolly old city’s heart.
And if I shall find that the virtuous mob
Have ever been known one farthing to pay,
Without hoping a hundred-fold profit to make:
Where the “rich man,” the “miser,” “aristocrat,” “snob,”
Has poured out his thousands for Charity’s sake,
I’ll lay down my pen, and have “Nothing to Say.”
I shall not describe the Spirit of Cant,
Of popular humbug, and vulgar rant,
And tell how he looks in a tangible form,
And give the length of his horns and claws,
The spread of his wings, the width of his jaws,
And detail the other proportions grim,
Which belong to a powerful demon like him.
Go and look at the melodramatic stage,
When a “spectacle” piece is all the rage;
And there, in the midst of some “property” storm,
While the sheet-iron thunder is rattling its best,
And the rosin lightning, and all the rest
Of the elements are, for some tragedy-reason,
Making the “awfullest gale of the season—”
See, at the sound of the prompter’s tap,
The fiend come up through the “Vampyre trap;”
Take a mental photograph then, and there,
Of that imp, with his “fixins” all complete—
The elfish grin, the tangled hair,
The dragon wings and the scaly feet—
And you’ll have a notion of him I mean,
The demon of this, my opening scene.
I might go to Milton, and steal, bit by bit,
A description to suit my Spirit of Cant,
A second-hand suit, but a “shplendid fit,”
As a Jew would assure me—but then I sha’nt.
His work is to preach the humbug which passes
For gospel among the “down-trodden masses;”
And to prate of the “wrongs and indignities,” which
Are heaped on their heads by the “cold-hearted rich.”
This Spirit was busy at work one day,
Amongst a crowd of Bowery boys,
When Charity happened to come that way;
And she stopped to listen—though, sooth to say,
She seldom is fond of clamor and noise.
“Now, pray, Mr. Author, wait just a minute,
Stop!
Drop
Your subject, and don’t again begin it
Till you tell us: What did Charity wear?
Was her dress of moire antique, or satin;
Or was it plain muslin—just like that in
Which love-lorn maidens on the stage
Go raving crazy?—and had she a page?
Did she wear hoops? and what sort of a bonnet?
And tell us, what kind of trimming was on it?
What—” Stop, stop, dear ladies, it isn’t fair
To question thus closely a modest young man.
If I could tell the items, I would, I declare;
For I always oblige you whenever I can.
I know that of dresses she has a variety,
Though vanity’s not her predominant passion,
She was costumed, no doubt, with the greatest propriety,
In the very extreme of the reigning fashion.
Well! she stopped to listen, a minute or more,
To the fellow’s mischievous harangue, before
She resolved what to do; then she stepped to the door
Of an Astor Place car, and beckoned to him,
And he followed at once, while his audience scattered;
To tell the truth, he felt quite flattered,
And he smiled a smile most heavy and grim,
For he thought he’d awakened a tender passion
In the heart of a belle, a lady of fashion.
And they sat side by side, this curious pair,
While they rode up to Eighth street—and she paid the fare.
They stepped from the car, and stood before,
The “Cooper Institute’s” new-painted door—
“Who hath done this?” asked Charity then;
“Who hath done this for his fellow-men?
Hath builded this house, that all may come—
The poor most welcome—to Learning’s treasure,
And drink their fill without stint or measure?
Who hath so nobly used his thrift,
And bestowed on the world this priceless gift,
Free to all, whoever may come?
Was this noble work built up by the ‘masses,’
Or by one of the ‘miserly, upper classes’?”
To the Spirit, this speech was quite unexpected,
And he stood in a sort of stupid dismay;
And before his few scattered thoughts were collected,
She rightly concluded—he’d Nothing to Say.
Then she lifted her skirts with a masterly hand,
And out of the puddles and ruts kept them well up,—
Thus showed that she had the most perfect command
Of the crinoline mysteries of her envelope,
’Twas done with the daintiest grace all the while,
And discovered the daintiest possible gaiter,—
Then she turned to her friend with a nod and a smile,
And told him to follow—he straightway obeyed her.
As they hurried along, she kept ever before him,
And he kept his eye on the tempting prunella,
Secretly hoping there’d come such a shower
As would make a new Flood in half-an-hour—
That she, with a womanly care for her bonnet,
Which would “spot,” with the least drop of water upon it,
Might become condescending, and humbly implore him
To come along-side with his cotton umbrella.
But the shower didn’t come, and without a disaster,
They reached the huge Library—christened of Astor.
Then she shook down her skirts to their natural latitude—
Ahem’d once or twice—struck out a nice attitude—
And then she struck into this little oration,
Though I’m sure I don’t know where she learned declamation.
“Spirit, behold! these bending shelves
Are groaning ’neath the gathered store
Of every nation’s varied lore.
Most welcome are the poor themselves
To freely turn these countless pages,
And gather from the words of sages
All the light of former ages.
Whoever wills is here a guest,
The poorest are the welcomest.
Who hath done this? your virtuous mob,
Or a ‘cold-hearted miser,’ a ‘pampered snob’?”
Here her Companion began to perceive
That her feminine tongue would have its own way;
That the cleverest thing he could do was to leave
The talking to her, and have Nothing to Say.
The lady had now been chattering so long,
She felt that her voice was beginning to fail her;
A punch would, she felt, be a blessing and boon,
The “dientical” thing with which to regale her,
So they pushed their way through the gathering throng,
And hurried away to Taylor’s Saloon.
They seated themselves at the table together,—
The customers “staring their eyes out,” to see
Who this queer-looking couple could possibly be,—
Asking each other in whispers, whether,
It wasn’t the likeliest thing that she,
Was a Western Actress, and he an Editor;
And some were terribly frightened, because
They couldn’t help thinking there certainly was,
The Old Nick to pay, and that he was their creditor.
But the strangers composedly sat, never heeding
These stupid remarks, or taking offence,
And they quietly kept on their drinking and feeding,
Without the slightest regard to expense.
If an appetite sharp is a thing so delightful,
Charity had no occasion to sigh at hers;
Boarding-house keepers would say it was frightful,
And ruinous too, to the hotel proprietors.
They were sated at last, and turned from the door;
He, wondering whither she now would go—
And well he might—in an instant more
He was over shoes in the frozen snow;
While she coolly remarked, with a Camille cough,
That the North Pole was only a half a mile off.
How it was they got to their present location,
I’m sure I don’t know, and it’s not my vocation
To give the details of their quick locomotion.
Electricity may have done it, or steam;
But motive powers are not my theme.
My heroes were there, near the frozen ocean.
The man had too much of “cold without,”
And the lady sighed for her tippet and muff;
For though they had come by a summary route,