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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XXI.

BENTHAM TO THE RESCUE.

European travellers in this country—especially if oneeconomical condition of their coming hither has not been thecomposition of works of imagination on America, sufficientlycontemptuous to pay all the expenses of the trip—have, occasionally—andparticularly if they have been invited to write for New York magazines,take professorships in native colleges, or lecture on the encouragingContinental progress of scientific atheism before Bostonaudiences;—such travellers, we say, convinced that they shall lose nomoney by it, but, on the contrary, rather sanguine of making a littlethereby in the long run, have occasionally remarked, that, in theUnited States, women journeying alone are treated with a chivalriccourtesy and deference not so habitually practiced in any othersecond-class new nation on the face of the earth.[^[1]]

What, oh, what can be more true than this? A lady wellstricken in years, and of adequate protraction of nose and rectilinearundeviation of figure, can travel alone from Maine to Florida with asperfect immunity from offensive masculine intrusion as though she wereguarded by a regiment; while a somewhat younger girl, with curls and aninnocent look, can not appear unaccompanied by an escort in an Americanomnibus, car, ferry-boat, or hotel, without appealing at once to thefinest fatherly feelings of every manly middle-aged observer whose wifeis not watching him, and exciting as general a desire to make her tripsocially delightful as though each gentlemanly eye seeking hers wereindeed that of a tender sire.

Thus, although Miss POTTS'S lonely stay in her hotel had beenso brief, the mysterious American instinct of chivalry had discoveredit very early on the first morning after her arrival, and she arosefrom her delicious sleep to find at least half a dozen written offersof hospitality from generous strangers, sticking under her door.Understanding that she was sojourning without natural protectors in astrange city, the thoughtful writers, who appeared to be chieflyWestern men of implied immense fortunes, begged her (by the delicatename of "Fair Unknown") to take comfort in the thought that they werestopping at the same hotel and would protect her from all harm withtheir lives. In proof of this unselfish disposition on their parts,several of them were respectively ready to take her to acircus-matinee, or to drive in Central Park, on that very day: and herprompt acceptance of these signal evidences of a disinterestedfriendship for womanhood without a natural protector could not be moresimply indicated to those who now freely offered such friendship, thanby her dropping her fork twice at the public breakfast table,or sending the waiter back three times with the boiled eggs tohave them cooked rightly.

FLORA had completed her chemical toilet, put all the bottles,jars, and small round boxes back into her satchel again, and sat downto a second reading of these gratifying intimations that aprepossessing female orphan is not necessarily without assiduouspaternal guardianship at her command wherever there are Westernfathers, when Mr. DIBBLE appeared, as he had promised, accompanied byGospeler SIMPSON.

"Miss CAROWTHERS was so excited by your sudden flight, MissPOTTS," said the latter, "that she came at once to me and OLDY withyour farewell note, and would not stop saying 'Did you ever!' until, torestrain my aggravated mother from fits, I promised to follow you toyour guardian's and ascertain what your good-bye note would have meantif it had actually been punctuated."

"Our reverend friend reached me about an hour ago," added Mr.DIBBLE, "saying, that a farewell note without a comma, colon,semi-colon, or period in it, and with every other word beginning with acapital, and underscored, was calculated to drive friends todistraction. I took the liberty of reminding him, my dear, that younggirls from boarding-school should hardly be expected to have advancedas far as English composition in their French and musical studies; andI also related to him what you had told me of Mr. BUMSTEAD."

"And I don't know that, under the circumstances, you could doa better thing than you have done," continued the Gospeler. "Mr.BUMSTEAD, himself, explains your flight upon the supposition that youwere possibly engaged with myself, my mother, Mr. DIBBLE, and thePENDRAGONS, in killing poor Mr. DROOD."

"Oh, oughtn't he to be ashamed of himself, when he knows thatI never did kill any absurd creature!" cried the Flowerpot, in earnestdeprecation. "And just think of darling MAGNOLIA, too, with her poor,ridiculous brother! You're a lawyer, Mr. DIBBLE and I should think youcould get them a habeas corpus, or a divorce, or some otherperfectly absurd thing about courts, that would make the judges tellthe juries to bring them in Not Guilty."

Fixing upon the lovely young reasoner a look expressive of hisaffectionate wonder at her inspired perception of legal possibilities,the old lawyer said, that the first thing in order was a meetingbetween herself and Miss PENDRAGON; which, as it could scarcely takeplace (all things considered,) with propriety in the private room ofthat lady's brother, nor without publicity in his own office, or in ahotel, he hardly knew how to bring about.

And here we have an example of that difference between novelsand real life which has been illustrated more than once before in thisconscientious American Adaptation of what all our profoundly criticalnative journals pronounce the "most elaborately artistic work" of thegrandest of English novelists. In an equivalent situation of real life,Mr. DIBBLE'S quandary would not have been easily relieved; but, by themagic of artistic fiction, the particular kind of extemporizedcharacter absolutely necessary to help him and the novel continuouslyalong was at that moment coming up the stairs of the hotel.[^[2]]

At the critical instant, a servant knocked, to say, that therewas a gentleman below, "with a face as long me arrum, sir, who axed mewas there a man here av the name av SIMPSON, Miss?"

"It is JOHN—it is Mr. BUMSTEAD!" shrieked FLORA, hasteninginvoluntarily towards a mirror,—"and just see how my dress is wrinkled!"

"My name is BENTHAM—JEREMY BENTHAM," said a deep voice in thedoorway; and there entered a gloomy figure, with smoky, light hair, acuriously long countenance, and black worsted gloves. "SIMPSON!—oldOCTAVIUS!—did you never, never see me before?"

"If I am not greatly mistaken," returned the Gospeler,sternly. "I saw you standing in the bar-room of the hotel, just now, aswe came up."

"Yes," sighed the stranger, "I was there—waiting for a Westernfriend—when you passed in. And has sorrow, then, so changed me, thatyou do not know me? Alas! alack! woe's me!"

"BENTHAM, you say?" cried the Ritualistic clergyman, with astart, and sudden change of countenance. "Surely you're not therollicking fellow-student who saved my life at Yale?"

"I am! I am!" sobbed the other, smiting his bosom. "Whilestudying theology, you'd gone to sleep in bed reading the Decameron. I,in the next room, suddenly smelt a smell of wood burning. Breaking intoyour apartment, I saw your candle fallen upon your pillow and your headon fire. Believing that, if neglected, the flames would spread to somevital part, I seized a water-pitcher and dashed the contents upon you.Up you instantly sprang, with a theological expression on your lips,and engaged me in violent single combat. "Madman!" roared I, "is itthus you treat one who has saved your life?" Falling upon the floor,with a black eye, you at once consented to be reconciled; and, fromthat hour forth, we were both members of the same secret society."

Leaping forward, the Reverend OCTAVIUS wrung both the blackworsted gloves of Mr. BENTHAM, and introduced the latter to the oldlawyer and his ward.

"He did indeed save all but my head from the conflagration,and extinguished that, even, before it was much charred," cried thegrateful Ritualist, with marked emotion.—"But, JEREMY, why this aspectof depression?"

"OCTAVIUS, old friend," said BENTHAM, his hollow voicequivering, "let no man boast himself upon the gaiety of his youth, andfondly dream—poor self-deceiver!—that his maturity may be one ofrevelry. You know what I once was. Now I am conducting a first-classAmerican Comic Paper."

Commiseration, earnest and unaffected, appeared upon everycountenance, and Mr. DIBBLE was the first to break the ensuing deepsilence.

"If I am not mistaken, then," observed the good lawyer,quietly, "the scene of your daily loss of spirits is in the samebuilding with our young friend, Mr. PENDRAGON, whom you may know."

"I do know him, sir; and that his sister has lately come untohim. His room, by means of outside shutters, was once a refuge to mefrom the Man"—Here Mr. BENTHAM'S face flamed with inconceivablehatred—"who came to tell me just how an American first-class ComicPaper should be conducted."

"At what time does your rush of subscribers cease?"

"As soon as I begin to charge anything for my paper."

"And the newsmen, who take it by the week,—what is their usualtime for swarming in your office?"

"On the day appointed for the return of unsold copies."

"Then I have an idea," said Mr. DIBBLE. "It appears tome, Mr. BENTHAM, that your office, besides being so near Mr.PENDRAGON'S quarters, furnishes all the conditions for a perfectlyprivate confidential interview between this young lady here, and herfriend, Miss PENDRAGON. Mr. SIMPSON, if you approve, be kind enough toacquaint Mr. BENTHAM with Miss POTTS'S history, without mentioningnames; and explain to him, also, why the ladies' interview should takeplace in a spot whither that singular young man, Mr. BUMSTEAD, wouldnot be likely to prowl, if in town, in his inspection of umbrellas."

The Gospeler hurriedly related the material points of FLORA'Shistory to his recovered friend, who moaned with all the more cheerfulparts, and seemed to think that the serious ones might be worked-up incomic miss-spelling for his paper.—"For there is nothing more humorousin human life," said he, gloomily, "than the defective orthography of afashionable young girl's education for the solemnity of matrimony."

Finally, they all set off for the appointed place ofretirement, upon nearing which Mr. DIBBLE volunteered to remain outsideas a guard against any possible interruption. The Gospeler led the wayup the dark stairs of the building, when they had gained it; and theFlowerpot, following, on JEREMY BENTHAM'S arm, could not help glancingshyly up into the melancholy face of her escort, occasionally. "Do you neversmile?" she could not help asking.

"Yes," he said, mournfully, "sometimes: when I clean my teeth."

No more was said; for they were entering the room of which thetone and atmosphere were those of a receiving-vault.

[1] Shades of QUINTILIAN and Dr. JOHNSON, what a sentence!

[2] Quite independently of any specific design to that end by the Adapter,this Adaptation, carefully following the original English narrative asit does, can not avoid acting as a kind of practical—and, of course,somewhat exaggerative—commentary upon what is strained, forced, or outof the line of average probabilities, in the work Adapted.

CHAPTER XXII.

A CONFUSED STATE OF THINGS.

The principal office of the Comic Paper was one of thoseamazingly unsympathetic rooms in which the walls, windows and doors allhave a stiff, unsalient aspect of the most hard-finished indifferenceto every emotion of humanity, and a perfectly rigid insensibility tothe pleasures or pains of the tenants within their impassive shelter.In the whole configuration of the heartless, uncharacterized placethere was not one gracious inequality to lean against; not a ledge torest elbow upon; not a panel, not even a stove-pipe hole, to becomedearly familiar to the wistful eye; not so much as a genial crack inthe plastering, or a companionable rattle in a casement, or a littlehuman obstinacy in a door to base some kind of an acquaintance upon andmake one less lonely. Through the grim, untwinkling windows, gapingsullenly the wrong way with iron shutters, came a discouraged light,strained through the narrow intervals of the dusty roofs above, todiscover a large coffin-colored desk surmounted by ghastly busts ofHERVEY, KEBLE and BLAIR;[^[3]]a smaller desk, over which hung a picture of the Tomb of WASHINGTON,and at which sat a pallid assistant-editor in deep mourning, openingthe comic contributions received by last mail; a still smaller desk,for the nominal writer of subscription-wrappers; files of the Evangelist, Observer and Christian Union hanging along thewall; a dead carpet of churchyard-green on the floor; and a print ofMr. PARKE GODWIN just above the mantel of momumental marble.

Upon finding themselves in this temple of Momus, and observingthat its peculiar arrangement of sunshine made their complexions lookas though they had been dead a few days, Gospeler SIMPSON and theFlowerpot involuntarily spoke in whispers behind their hands.

"Does that room belong to your establishment, also, BENTHAM?"whispered the Gospeler, pointing rather fearfully, as he spoke, towardsa side-door leading apparently into an adjoining' apartment.

"Yes," was the low response.

"Is there—is there anybody dead in there?" whispered Mr.SIMPSON, tremulously.

"No.—Not yet"

"Then," whispered the Ritualistic clergyman, "you might stepin there, Miss POTTS, and have your interview with Miss PENDRAGON, whomMr. BENTHAM will, I am sure, cause to be summoned from up-stairs."

The assistant-editor of the Comic Paper stealing softly fromthe office to call the other young lady down, Mr. JEREMY BENTHAM made asign that FLORA should follow him to the supplementary room indicated;his low-spirited manner being as though he had said: "If you wish tolook at the body, miss, I will now show you the way."

Leaving the Gospeler lost in dark abstraction near the blackmantel, the Flowerpot allowed the sexton of the establishment toconduct her funereally into the place assigned for her interview, andstopped aghast before a huge black object standing therein.

"What's this?" she gasped, almost hysterically.

"Only a safe," said Mr. BENTHAM, with inexplicable bitternessof tone. "Merely our fire-and-burglar-proof receptacle for the moneyconstantly pouring in from first-class American Comic journalism."—HereMr. BENTHAM slapped his forehead passionately, checked something like asob in his throat, and abruptly returned to the main office.

Scarcely, however, had he closed the door of communicationbehind him, when another door, opening from the hall, was noiselesslyunlatched, and MAGNOLIA PENDRAGON glided into the arms of her friend.

"FLORA!" murmured the Southern girl, "I can scarcely credit myeyes! It seems so long since we last met! You've been getting a newbonnet, I see."

"It's like an absurd dream!" responded the Flowerpot,wonderingly caressing her. "I've thought of you and your poor,ridiculous brother twenty times a day. How much you must have gonethrough here! Are they wearing skirts full, or scant, this season?"

"About medium, dear. But how do you happen to be here, in Mr.BENTHAM'S office?"

In answer to this question, FLORA related all that badhappened at Bumsteadville and since her flight from thence; concludingby warning MAGNOLIA, that her possession of a black alpaca waist,slightly worn, had subjected her to the ominous suspicion of theRitualistic organist.

"I scorn and defy the suspicions of that enemy of thepersecuted South, and high-handed wooer of exclusively Northern women!"exclaimed Miss PENDRAGON, vehemently. "Is this Mr. BENTHAM married?"

"I suppose not."

"Is he visiting any one?"

"I shouldn't think so, dear."

"Then," added MAGNOLIA, thoughtfully, "if dear Mr. DIBBLEapproves, he might be a friend to MONTGOMERY and myself; and, by beingso near us, protect us both from Mr. BUMSTEAD. Just think, dear FLORA,what heaps of sorrow I should endure, if that base man's suspicionabout my alpaca waist should be only a pretence, to frighten me intoultimately receiving his addresses."

"I don't think there's any danger, love," said Miss POTTS,rather sharply.

"Why, FLORA precious?"

"Oh, because he's so absurdly fastidious, you know, aboutregularity of features in women."

"More than he is about brains, I should think, dear, from whatyou tell me of his making love to you."

Here both young ladies trembled very much, and said theynever, never would have believed it of each other; and were onlyreconciled when FLORA sobbed that she was a poor unmarried orphan, andMiss PENDRAGON moaned piteously that an unwedded Southern girl withoutmoney had better go away somewhere in the desert, with her crushedbrother, and die at once for their down-trodden section. Then, indeed,they embraced tearfully; and, in proof of the perfect restoration oftheir devoted friendship, agreed never to marry if they could avoid it,and told each other the prices of all their best clothes.

"You won't tell your brother that I've been here?"said the Flowerpot. "I'm so absurdly afraid that he can't help blamingme for causing some of his trouble."

"Can't I tell him, even if it would serve to amuse him in hisdesolation?" asked the sister, persuasively. "I want to see him smileagain, just as he does some days when a hand-organ-man's monkey climbsup to our windows from the street."

"Well, you may tell him, then, you absurd thing!"returned FLORA, blushing; and, with another embrace, they parted, andthe deeply momentous interview was over.

(To be Continued.)

[3] Author of "The Grave."

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

OFFICE SEEKING.[^[4]]

BY ICHABOD BOGGS,

THE NEW AMERICAN POET.

PREFATORY NOTE.—The reader is requested to judge the followingproduction mildly, as it is the first effort of a youthful genius (16years old in looks and feeling, 42 by the family bible and census.) Theauthor has felt that America should have a new kind of verse of itsown, and he thinks he here offers one which has never been used by anyother mortal poet. It is called the duodekameter. Perhaps it may beproper to add that the following is poetry.

You see everybody in our town was runningaround, getting fat jobs
and positions, and picking up amillion dollars or so,
So I felt it incumbent on me
To shake myself up, and see ifthere wasn't a good butter firkin, well
filled, loafing around idle, inwhich could conveniently locate my
centre of gravity, and so Isaid to myself, I'll go
To Washington and see,
Says ICHABOD BOGGS, says I.

Now, don't you see, you might just as wellask for a big position at
first, and then take what youcan get,
At least that has been my ruleso far,
For, as I says to myself, ifyou can only get a very high position, with
a sort of nabob's salary, andlots of perquisites running in
annually, you needn't doanything, you bet,
But puff at your cigar,
Says ICHABOD BOGGS, says I.

So I put on my best clothes, and a sort ofa big blue necktie, and shortly
thereafter showed myself to Mr.GRANT,
And said that there had beenquite enough
Of this giving away big officesto people who hadn't big reputations,
and that he had other fish tofry, and that, as he wouldn't give the
Custom House to my son, I'dtake it myself, and then I stopped,
and he looked, "I shan't,"
But all he said was—puff,
Says General GRANT, says he.

Then all the smoke got in my nose, and Isneezed and snorted a bit,
and then I just simply remarkedand said
That he needn't go and get intoa huff,
And if he didn't like to giveme that office, couldn't he make me
Minister to England, as I was abig feeder, or if that didn't suit, why,
if he'd do it, I wouldn'tobject to being Minister to Cuba, when
the Cubans had been all killed,and were thoroughly dead?
But all be said was—puff,
Says General GRANT, says he.

Well, then I got kind of discouraged, butI thought that I'd better try
again, and not get up so far,
But ask for what he'd givebeyond doubt,
So I asked for a position asnight watchman at the Navy Yard, and
thought I'd get it, and he'danswer my request, for I'd noticed that
his Havana was graduallygrowing smaller, and he did answer me,
just as he'd thrown away theend of his cigar,
He simply said, "Get out!"
Says General GRANT, says he.

So I got out, as fast as a pair of legs,with a number twelve boot
kicking at the place wherethey're joined, would permit,
And wandered off, just about asfar
As I conveniently could, andthen I sat down on a milestone and raised
my voice to Heaven, and criedaloud, that, weather permitting,
General GRANT should never, never,NEVER, go back to the White
House, not if I could help it,
To puff on his cigar,
Said ICHABOD BOGGS, said I.

[4] We hope none of our readers will labor under the impression that welook upon the above effusion as a poetical one, but, in this day ofmany isms, it may happen that the above style may become prevalent, andwe think it our duty to present everything that is new. EDS.

2.02 TO HARNESS.

Mr. Punchinello on the Turf.

History relates that the era of Horse-racing commenced aboutthe year 680 B. C., but it was some time after that when Mr.PUNCHINELLO made his debut as a candidate for the honors of theturf. To put the matter more concisely, it is just six days since hedrove his horse "Creeping Peter" on the track at Monmouth Park, LongBranch. The only object which Mr. P. had in view, when he purchased hiscelebrated trotter and put him into training, was the improvement ofthe breed of American horses. While our BONNERS, VANDERBILTS and GRANTSare devoting all their surplus time and means to this great end, Mr.P., in placing the name of his yellow horse in the hands of thepoolseller, would scorn to have a less noble aim.

But this great object need not interfere with others of lessimportance, and therefore Mr. P. will not deny that, after havingexhibited to his friends and the sporting fraternity in general, hislittle investment in fancy horseflesh, he made up a very satisfactorybetting-book.

Now Mr. P. believed,—and events proved him to be correct,—thatwhen his friends and the sporting fraternity saw his horse, they wouldbet heavily against him. Mr. P., however, in all the pride of amateurownership, bet quite as heavily upon his noble steed. Hisfriends and the above-mentioned fraternity chuckled and winked behindhis back, but although Mr. P. heard them chuckle and knew that theywere winking, his belief in his final success never wavered. Anyordinary observer might be expected to remark that Creeping Peter wasnot entirely without blemish. Besides being spavined and having threeof his hoofs injured by sand-crack, he had poll-evil, fistulas,malanders, ring-bone, capped hock, curb, splint, and several othermaladies which made him a very suitable horse for the general public tobet against.

But Mr. P.'s courage never quailed!

When he made his appearance on the track (for he drove hishorse himself) he was the object of general attention. The followingview (from a photograph by ROCKWOOD) gives an excellent idea of thehorse and driver.

Nearly everybody on the ground advised Mr. P. to leave hiscloth in the stable, for it would certainly interfere with the speed ofhis horse and probably get wrapped up in the wheels and cause anaccident. But Mr. P. would listen to nothing of the sort. He toldeverybody that he wasn't going to catch cold in his knees, even if helost the race, and that he was perfectly willing to run the risk ofaccidents.

For the benefit of his readers, however, Mr. P. will lift upthis heavily shotted lap-cloth and show what was under it.

Here is arranged a steam-engine, which drives the wheels ofthe vehicle, and which will of course propel the whole turnout, horseand all, at a great rate of speed.

It will now be easily perceived why Mr. P. persisted inkeeping his lap-cloth over his knees.

The entries were as follows:

IN THE LIBRARY. Jones, (reading.) "THE GLASS OF FASHION AND THEMOULD OF FORM, THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS." Jenkins, (with enthusiasm.) "PERFECT DESCRIPTIONOF MY WIFE!"	IN THE GARDEN. THIS IS MRS. JENKINS, IN HER MORNING TOILETTE.
ROBERT BONNER'S	b.h.	Dexter.
DEREN O. SUE'S	b.m.	Lady Thorn.
PUNCHINELLO'S	y.h.	Creeping Peter.

When the word was given, the horses all got off well andDexter immediately took the lead,—buzzing through the air like ahumming-top,—followed closely by Lady Thorn, her nose just lapping hisoff jaw. For the first few seconds Mr. P. fell behind, owing to hisfires not yet being properly under way, but the water soon bubbledmerrily in his boiler, and his wheels began to revolve with greatrapidity. And now he sped merrily. Never did the war trumpet inspirethe fiery charger, or hounds and horn excite the mettled hunter, as thesteam-engine in his rear woke all the energies of Creeping Peter.

Swift as revolving pin-wheels or rapid peg-top, those spavins,those ring-bones, those bulbous hocks, those sand-cracked hoofs andthose rattling ribs went whistling o'er the track. Mid the shouts andyells of the excited multitude he passed Lady Thorn, overtook Dexterand shot ahead of him! But he cannot stand that tremendous pace, anddown goes Creeping Peter on his knees. Every man who had bet againsthim set up a howl of rapture, but Mr. P. never relaxed a muscle, and onwent Creeping Peter, just as fast as ever, his horny bones dashing awaythe sand and gravel like spray from the cut-water of a scudding yacht,and, amid the wildest clamor, he shot past the judges' stand on hisnose and one leg, making his mile in two minutes and two seconds!

It is needless to dwell upon the results of this race.

Mr. P. now owes no man anything, nor is he even indebted tohis noble steed. Behold his testimony to the merits of that valuableanimal!

Something Original In Suicide.

An item in an evening paper states that "a man near Syracuserecently cut his throat with a scythe."

Well, certainly this was a new Mowed of doing the business,although, as it was the first instance of the kind on record, it cannotproperly be said that the business was done à la mowed.

Jocular and Ocular.

Can the public be properly said to have looked forward toSEEBACH?

ANNA DICKINSON.

One bright October morning in the year 1828, a lone lorn womanby the name of GUMMIDGE might have been seen standing at the corner ofa wheat-field where two cross-roads met and embraced. She was weepingviolently. Ever and anon she would raise her head and gaze mysteriouslyin the direction of a cloud of dust which moved slowly over the hilltoward the town. Her name was FATIMA. FATIMA GUMMIDGE. "Sister ANNIE,"she cried, "what do you see?" But sister ANNIE was far away. She wasnot there. She was attending an agricultural fair in the beautifulyoung state of Kansas.

Thus gracefully do we introduce our heroine upon the scene.The reader will be able to judge, from this, whether we are familiarwith the literature of our day, or not. He will be able to form acomplimentary opinion of our culture. He will perceive that we areacquainted with the writings of Messrs. JAMES, and DICKENS, andBLUEBEARD. There is nothing like impressing your reader with anadequate sense of your ability for laborious research, when you aredoing biography for a high-toned journal.

At what period in her career our illustrious victim applied tothe Legislature to change her name from GUMMIDGE to DICKINSON, we areunable to discover. There is no record of the event in the musty tomeswe have waded through at the Astor Library in search of reliable data.One thing must be apparent, even to the most violently prejudiced andbrutish bigot—namely, that Miss DICKINSON no longer confesses to thename of GUMMIDGE. However disrespectful this may be to the memory ofMrs. GUMMIDGE'S father—but on reflection is it not possible that Mrs.GUMMIDGE'S maiden name was DICKINSON? There may be something in this.Let us see. Mrs. GUMMIDGE was born of the brain of Mr. C. DICKENS. Mr.DICKENS may be said to be the father of the whole GUMMIDGE family.This, of course, includes GUMMIDGE père. GUMMIDGE pèrewas therefore DICKENS' son. Hence the name of DICKENSON. Very good, sofar. Now—

But it is unnecessary to press the argument. If the prejudicedbigot is not yet convinced, nothing would convince him short of ahorse-whipping.

The poet, when he wrote "Thou wilt come no more, gentleANNIE," was clearly laboring under a mistake. If he had written "Thouwilt be sure to come again next season, gentle ANNIE," he would havehit it. Lecture committees know this. Miss DICKINSON earns her livingby lecturing. Occasionally she takes a turn at scrubbing pavements, orgoing to hear WENDELL PHILLIPS on "The Lost Arts," or other violentexertion, but her best hold is lecturing. She has followed the businessever since she was a girl, and twenty-four (24) years of steadyapplication have made her no longer a Timid Young Thing. She is notafraid of audiences any more.

It is a favorite recreation of the moral boot-blacks and piousnewsboys of New York to gather in the evening on the steps of Mr.FROTHINGHAM'S church, and scare each other with thrilling stories ofthe gentle ANNIE'S fierce exploits and deeds of daring. Among the bestauthenticated of these (stripped of the ornate figures of speech withwhich the pious newsboys are wont to embellish the simple facts) arethe following:

1. In the memorable canvass of 1848, Miss DICKINSON stumpedthe mining districts of Pennsylvania for FRED DOUGLASS, and was shot atby the infuriated miners forty-two times, the bullets whistling throughher back hair to that extent that her chignon looked like a section ofsuction-hose when the campaign was over.

2. Near the close of the rebellion, Miss DICKINSON wrote toJEFF DAVIS that she was going to raise a regiment and go for him. Peacefollowed promptly.

3. In the year 1867 she published a book.

4. In the year 1868 she went to California overland, byrailroad, alone.

5. In the year 1869 she attended a lecture by OLIVE LOGAN, andfurther showed her fearless nature by embracing Miss LOGANtempestuously, and offering to marry her.

6. At various times during her career she has received andsuccessfully done battle with 14,624 proposals of marriage, 14,600 ofwhich were made to her in the city of Chicago!!!

These evidences of her courage are sufficient to show what sheis equal to, under any emergency. We are now waiting to hear of aseventh act of bravery on her part which will distance all the above;when she shall have announced that she is prepared to lecture on"CHARLES DICKENS" she will have given the last convincing proof thatshe is equal to anything terrible.

(Should Mr. PUNCHINELLO object that this biographical sketchis desultory and "wandering," let him try, himself, to write thebiography of a lady who is incessantly and frantically roaming from oneend of the country to the other, and if he don't wander it will be awonder.)

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT!—HEIRS WANTED!

NEW YORK, Oct. 1, 1870.

We, the undersigned, as representatives of the family of thedecedent, hereby call upon all heirs of the late RICHARD COEUR DE LION,who may be residing in or near this locality, to meet at the AstorHouse, in New York, on the fifteenth of this present month of October,to take measures for the recovery of such portion of the estate of saidLION as is known to have legally descended to his heirs in thiscountry. This property, to which it will be easy to prove that we, theundersigned, together with the other members of our family, are thelineal heirs, is believed to consist mainly of the two hundred thousandbyzants assured to the said LION by SALADIN after the capitulation ofAcre. This sum, which we have reason to believe was duly paid by saidSALADIN at the time appointed, when reduced from golden byzants intogreenbacks, and compound-interest at seven per centum for theterm of six hundred and seventy-nine years calculated thereupon, willbe found to amount to upwards of one hundred and seventy thousandmillion dollars. When the ransom money of twenty-five hundred Saracens,slain by said LION to enforce the speedy payment of the principal ofthis sum by the said SALADIN, shall have been deducted and paid to suchheirs and survivors of said Saracens as may immediately present theirclaims, the remainder will be divided, (as soon as the necessary legalmeasures shall be taken,) among the heirs and descendants of said LIONin this country.

The immediate object of the meeting, which is now called bythe undersigned, is the collection of sufficient funds from said heirsand descendants to defray the expenses of a committee (composed of theundersigned) who shall be charged with the duty of visiting England,Normandy and Palestine, and obtaining such evidence and such copies ofrecord in relation to this portion of the estate of the said LION, asshall make necessary a speedy and equitable division of paid propertyamong the members of the family in this country.

Lineal heirs who may not be able to attend this meeting inperson will have their interests taken in charge by the undersigned, onthe receipt of twenty-five dollars, which will be due from each heir asthe primary instalment on account of necessary expenses.

Punctual attention to this notice is requested.

(Signed)

RECOGNITION OF NILSSON.

Notthat we mean to "patronize," fair Swede;
No, no, indeed!
'Tis homage, honest homage thatwe bring;
For you can sing!

Pray, do not think we build youany throne
On skill alone;
There's nothing regal in a musicbox—
In simple vox!

But when an ardent spirit warmsthe strain—
When it is plain
The artist feels the passion ofthe scene—
She's then our Queen!

But, dear CHRISTINA! we shouldstill declare
The Fates unfair,
Unless she lived as chastely asthe rose;
As NILSSON does!

Still, still we hesitate!—We willconfess,
(For you'd not guess!)
We'd have her—that the likenessbe complete—
Young, fair, and sweet!

In fine, (and now we'll tell youeverything,)
If she can sing,
And act, and feel, and look, and belike you,
Why, that will do!

THE YOUNG DEMOC-RATS, ENCOURAGED BY THE OLD RAT DANA, COME TOGRIEF IN TRYING TO PUT OUT THE HOFFMAN LIGHT.

A New Pierian Spring.

The Principal of the "Student's Home," at V------, N.Y.,advertising the advantages of his school, makes the following tellingappeal, which we should think would be hard to resist by such as findstudy interfere with digestion.

"COME TO V------. Its Mineral Water strengthens the body, andits Seminary the mind."

The hope of eventually leaving those classic shades in such astate of two-fold invigoration, should prove inspiring to the dyspepticand studious.

Whether this constant cramming of the mind and purging of thebody be the true secret of longevity as well as of scholarship, we knownot; we should judge, however, from the appearance and conversation ofstudents in general, that a system directly the reverse of the abovementioned process would be more certain of turning out the real article.

Spare Us!

Nor only is everybody's attention directed towards Paris, butthe English Sparrows appear to be gradually Worming themselves intopublic estimation. They have been picking away so vigorously, sincethey were brought over here, that some of them are now able to picktheir way across Broadway, in the muddiest weather. In course of time,we suppose the worms will disappear, and then, when these poor birdshave nothing else to pick, they will go out to pic-nics. Come, arousethen, friends of the sparrow! Fetch out your bread and your grain, andfear not that these little twitterers will ever over-burden the city.

A Gourd of Honor(!)

The latest, and most important news from Spain is that SICKLEShas been furnished with a guard by the government.

Some things are managed better in Spain than in this country.SICKLES should have been placed under guard, here, many a year ago, tokeep him out of mischief.

"Carpe Diem."

The following telegraphic item is a remarkable instance of theexactness with which news can be transmitted by the submarine cable:

"LONDON, September 16. Mr. CHARLES REED, member of Parliamentfor Hackney, to-day unveiled the monument to ALEXANDER DEFOE, atBunhill Fields. The monument in practically one to ROBINSON CRUSOE."

With the triffing exception of calling ROBINSON DEFOEALEXANDER DEFOE, (and that is a pardonable error, considering thatALEXANDER SELKIRK was the prototype of DANIEL CRUSOE,) the above itemis perfectly satisfactory. All the more so, if one pays attention tothe date, and remembers that September 16 fell upon a FRIDAY.

BY TELEGRAPH FROM VARIOUS PARTS OF THE WORLD.

[Special Correspondence of Punchinello.]

BERLIN, October 15.—In a conversation with King WILLIAM,yesterday, he said that he relied upon the growing taste in Hoboken forBavarian beer to destroy the sympathy of the United States with theFrench Republic.

METZ, October 12.—While examining the fortifications to-daywith BISMARCK, I lent him my cigar-holder, and he told me that Prussiawould refuse to entertain any propositions tending to peace until theSchleswig-Holstein question was definitely settled.

STRASBOURG, October 14—Among the priceless volumes destroyedin the library here, was a full set of ABBOTT'S NAPOLEON histories.They were all presentation copies from the author, with autographinscriptions. The regret expressed at their destruction is deep-feltand universal.

WINDSOR, Oct. 16th.—I came up to-day with VICTORIA fromBalmoral. She was engaged during most of the trip in reading HORACEGREELEY'S "What I Know About Farming," with which she is muchdelighted. She said she thought the satire was finer than SWIFT'S, andwondered the people did not insist upon GREELEY'S being Governor.

ROME, Oct. 15.—Talking this morning with the Pope, who tookbreakfast with me, His Holiness said he had accepted JAMES GORDONBENNETT'S invitation to come to Washington Heights on a visit, andwanted to know whether I thought he would be expected to wear his tiaraduring meals. I told him that I thought it would not be obligatory.

DUBLIN, Oct. 16.—The Irish Republic was to-day proclaimed atCork, with GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN as Emperor. The Fenians say they wouldprefer a constitutional monarchy.

PARIS, Oct. 15.—General CLUSERET assured me to-day that thoughMinister WASHBURNE speaks French better than a native, yet he has notentirely forgotten what little English he used to know, and further,that he is confident it is not that gentleman's intention to makehimself Dictator of France by a coup d' état.

LONG BRANCH, Oct. 22—While smoking to-day with GRANT, I askedhim what he thought of the European complication, and he answered witha most expressive silence.

STAYING THE MARCH.

Liberty. "HALT!"

HIRAM GREEN IN GOTHAM.

The venerable "Lait Gustise" sees the Sights, under PerplexingDifficulties.

The native borned Gothamite mite have notissed, a short timesince, a venerable lookin' ex-Statesman, dressed in a becomin' soot ofclothes and a slick lookin' white hat.

The a-four-said honest old man carried a bloo cotton umbrellerin one hand, and an acksminister carpet bag in t'other. He had jestarroven to the meetropolis on a North River steambote. The reader hasprobly gessed by this time, that the man in question was the subscriber.

If he hasen't so surmised, I would inform him that it was.Jess so. Arrivin' at a well-known tavern, where hash is provided forman and beast, I handed my carpet bag over the counter.

The clerk at the offis put on rather more airs than a Revenoooffiser. In fact, he was so full of airs I got a vilent cold standin'in his pressence.

"Shan't I take that anshient circus tent?" said he, pintin' tomy umbreller, "and lock it up in the safe?"

I made no reply to this onmanerly interogetory, but strikin'an attitude of pain, give him one of those gazes which BEN BUTLERallers makes tell, in tryin' criminal cases.

I looked at that clerk cross-eyed, and it made him squirm.

I wasen't blind—not much.

That clerk wanted to steel that umbreller, to send toHORRIS GREELEY, so the Filosifer could keep the reign storms of Tammanyfrom spatterin' his white cote.

I understood his little dodge and nipped it.

"Snowball," said I, addressin' a dark skinned individual witha white apern, while I was seated at the dinner table, "what in thedeuce makes all your dishes so small?"

"Dem is for one pusson, sah," said he. "Dat is an indiwidualbutter dish, sah. Dem is indiwidual vegetable dishes—and dat's anindiwidual salt-cellar, sah," said he, pintin' to each piece ofcrockery.

I was hungry, and the crockery was soon empty.

Seein' a platter of ice cream down the table aways, I got uponto my feet, and havin' a good long arm, reached for it.

It was awful cold, and sot my stumps to achin'.

I got one holler tooth full of the stuff.

"Snowball," said I, "look here."

"Well, sah?" he replied.

"I've got my tooth full of that cold puddin'," said I, pintin'to the dish; "please bring me an individual toothpick, so I can dig itout." He vanished. I coulden't wait, so I undertook to dig it out withmy fork.

A man opposite me, who thot heed play smart, sent word to thetavern-keeper that I was swollerin' his forks.

Up comes the tavern-keeper, and ketchin' holt of my cotecoller, shaked me out in the middle of the dinin'-room floor.

"What in thunder are you about?" says I.

"Old man," says he, "them forks cost $9.00 a dozen. How manyhave you swallered?"

"Not a gol darned fork," hollered I as loud as I could screem.Gittin' onto my feet, I pulled off my cote and vest, and if I didn'tmake the fur fly, and give that 'ere tavern-keeper the nisest littlepolishin' off mortal man ever become acquainted with, then I don'tunderstand the roodiments of the English prize ring.

At Central Park, that hily cultivated forrest, the sharperstried to chissel me.

Just as I approched the gate which leads into the Park, afansy lookin' feller with short hair and plad briches stopt me andsays: "Unkle, you'r fair."

"You're a man of excellent judgment," I replide; "I think I ampooty good lookin' for a man of my years."

"You don't undertand me, sir," he agin said. "Come down withyour stamps."

"My which?" said I, turnin' a little red in the face.

"Your gate money," he replied, tryin' to shove me back. "Wecharge $1.00 for goin' in here."

"You do, do you?" said I, wavin' my umbreller over his headthreatenin' manner. "When our goverment resooms speshie payment aginmaybe I'le send you a silver dollar with a hole into it, and maybe Iwon't; it will depend a good deal on the pertater crop."

I was very much agitated. Pullin' out my silver watch I says:"My sweet sented Plumbob, if you don't histe your butes away from thatgate in 2 seconds I'le bust your biler with this 'ere bunch of bones,"and I tickled the end of his probocis with my fist, as I gently rubbedit under his smeller.

He saw heed caught a Tarter, in fact, a regular Tarter emetic,and he slunk away rather sudden.

I had sent too many of such skinamelinks to the clay bankswhen I was Gustice of the Peece to allow 'em to fool me much.

I visited WOOD'S Museum to see the wacks figgers and things.

The statutes of the 12 Apostles attracted my attention.

"And this," said a ministerial long-faced lookin' man, with awhite choker, "is the last supper.—What a sagacious eye has PETERgot—How doubtful THOMAS looks—MATTHEW is in deep thought, problythinkin' of the times he was a fisherman. What a longin' lookin that astoot eye," said he, nudgin' me with his gold-headed cane.

"Yes," said I, "he is probly longin' for that 'eredish of ham and eggs, in the middle of the table."

"Look at SIMON," he continered. "See! his eye rests upon hisrite hand, which is closed beside him on the table. His lips are partedas if he was going to say—

"SIMON says thumbs up," I quickly replide, interruptin' him. Ididen't mean anything disrespectful to nobody, but that 'ere man flewinto a vilent rage.

"Can it be, that a soul so devoid of poetry lives in thisage?" said he. "My venerable friend, I blush for you—yes, I blush foryou, you are devoid of sentiment."

"Look here, Captin," said I, "you may be a good preacher andall that sort of thing. Excuse me for sayin' it, you hain't aBEECHER—Skarcely. H. WARD soots me—He is chock full of sentiment—at thesame time he can relish a joak ekal to the best of us. Mix a littlesunshine with that gloomy lookin' countenance of yours. Don't letpeople of the world think they must draw down their faces and colaps,because a man joaks about a lot of wacks figgers dressed up in 6 pennycaliker. Them's the kind of sentiment which ales me every time." Sayin'which I storked contemptously out of the wacks figger department.

I shall remain a few days in the big city, friend PUNCHINELLO,and if the citizens of New York insist on givin' me a reception at theCity Hall, I will submit to the sacrifice, especially if the vitels arewell cookt. Ewers on a scare up,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustice of the Peece.

THE CENSUS ENUMERATOR'S PLAINT.

Thenames that these newspapers call us
Are hardest of all to surmount,
They say Mayor HALL may o'erhaulus;
He claims that our count is no'count.

I never had any such trouble
In registering voters downSouth,
I set every nigger down double
And put the whites down in themouth.

But here they're so very exacting
They kick up a row, don't youknow?
Though under instructions we'reacting
In playing our figures "forlow."

I try to play Sharpe in thesematters,
I dodge all the bricks andspittoons—
(Curse that bull-dog! he's tornto tatters
The seat of my best pantaloons!)

A tailor refused me admission,
And said he "vould shoot mithis gun,"
So I, out of Shear opposition,
Counted him and eight othersfor one.

While not in the habit ofswearing,
I can't but be slightly profane
To hear these New Yorkersdeclaring
Their names have been taken invain.

The most appropriate kind of dish on which to serve upHorseflesh

A Charger.

SEVERE ON BYRON BUBBS.

Bubbs. "DOES YOUR SISTER NETTIE EVER TALK ABOUT ME?"

Little Rose. "OH, YES! I HEARD HER TELL MA, YESTERDAY,YOU HAD SUCH A BEAUTIFUL NECK, SO LONG THAT IT WOULD DO TO TIE IN ADOUBLE BOW-KNOT!"

BY GEORGE!

(Concluded.)

LAKE GEORGE, N. Y., Sept. 12.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: "SLUKER," continued the long-haired man inan absent-minded manner, "was a corker! there is no mistakeabout that.

Like the Ghost at BOOTH'S, he was a terror to the peacefulHamlet. He was always getting up shindys without the slightestprovocation, and was evidently possessed of the unpleasant ambition, aswell as ability, to whale the entire township in detachments of one.

Things got to be so bad after a while that the bark was rubbedoff every tree in town on account of the people incontinently shinningup them whenever SLUKER came in sight.

It was no unusual thing to see business entirely suspended forhours, while SLUKER marched up and down the main street, whistling,with his hands in his pockets, and every soul in the place, from theminister down, roosting as high as they could get, six on a branch,sometimes.

Matters went on in this way until one day a little incidentoccurred that somewhat discouraged this gentle youth. He had justreturned from a discussion with a butcher, (from the effects of whichthe latter now sleeps in the valley,) when a party of hisfellow-townsmen entered the store in which he was loafing, and ordereda coil of half-inch rope from New York by the morning's train.

It was the Overland route that SLUKER took for California, andwhen his aged mother heard that three eyes had been gouged out in oneday in the Golden City, she wept tears of joy. Her fond heart told herthat the perilous journey was over, and her darling boy was safe.

After ten years of a brilliant career he bethought him againof the place of his birth. His heart yearned for the gentledelights,—the heavy laden trees—of his boyhood's home. He said he mustgo.

His friends said he must go, too. In fact they had alreadyappointed a select and vigilant Committee to see him safely on his way.

In some respects SLUKER came back an altered man. The stamp ofchange was on his noble face, indeed it had been stamped on itself,until it looked like a wax doll under a hot stove. But he stillretained his warlike spirit.

There was not so much chance of indulging it now, however. TheFire Company had disbanded, and nearly every one had grown rich enoughto own a shot-gun. There was only one chance left.

He joined the Presbyterian Choir.

Not that he had much of a voice, though he used to play'Comin' thro' the Rye' oh the fiddle sometimes, until he got it going throughhim so much he couldn't draw a note.

Nobody would have taken them if he had.

Well, SLUKER had a pretty warm time of it in the Choir, andenjoyed himself very much, until they got a new Organist who pitchedevery thing in 'high C,' which was this young man's strong lead.

As the Choir always sang in G, of coarse, there was a row thefirst Sunday, and it was generally understood that SLUKER was going tofix MIDDLERIB that night.

When the evening service commenced, and the Choir was about tobegin, the congregation were startled by an ominous click in thegallery, and looking up, they beheld SLUKER covering the Organist'ssecond shirt-stud with his revolver.

"Give us G, Mr. MIDDLERIB, if you please!" he said blandly.

But the pirate on the high C's refused to Gee, and Whoa wasthe natural result.

The confusion that followed was terrible: SLUKER fired ateverybody. MIDDLERIB hit him with the music stool. The soprano wasthrown over the railing, and somebody turned off the gas.

In the ensuing darkness every one skirmished for themselves.SLUKER took off his boots and hunted for MIDDLERIB in his stocking feet.

Suddenly he heard a single note on the 'high C.' He groped hisway to the keyboard, but there was no one there.

The solution rushed upon him,—MIDDLERIB must be in theorgan.

He crept round to the handle and bore his weight on it.

It was too true; the unhappy wretch had cut a hole in thebellows and crawled in. But for his ruling passion he would haveescaped.

There were a few muffled groans as the handle slowly descendedupon the doomed man, and as the breath rushed out of his body into hisfavorite pipe, the wild 'high C of agony that ran through the sacrededifice told them that all was over.

Let us draw a vail over the horrid picture."

I was very much interested in this story, very much indeed,and so I jostled the long-haired man—who was about falling asleep—andasked him if anything was done to this wicked SLUKER.

He looked at me reproachfully. "What's the matter with you, myfriend?" he said, in the same melancholy voice. "Don't you know who Iam? I write for the Ledger, and whenever 'I draw a vail, etc.,'that ends it, that does!"

As we stepped from the steamer to the landing, I observed ayouth of about six summers dressed in the most elaborately agonizingmanner. He had two Schutzenfest targets in his cuffs; in one hand heheld an enormous cane, in the other a cigar, and through an eyeglass hegazed at the ankles on the gang-plank with an air of patient wearinesswith this slow old world that was very touching.

"Where," I exclaimed as I surveyed this show-card of a fastgeneration, "O! where have our children vanished? Take fromchildhood the sparkling water of its purity—the sugar of its innocentaffections—its ardent but refreshing spirits—and what, ah! what have weleft?"

"Nothing," said the melancholy voice at my elbow. "Absolutelynothing save the mint and the straw!"

And he was right, my dear PUNCHINELLO, he was right.

SAGINAW DODD.

"SOLEMN SILENCE."

Perhaps very few persons—and especially very few members ofthe Republican party—are aware that a monument to ABRAHAM LINCOLN hasat last been completed, and that it has been placed on the siteallotted for it in Union Square. It is very creditable to theRepublican Party that they exercised such control over their feelingswhen the day for unveiling the LINCOLN Monument arrived. Some partiesmight have made a demonstration on the occasion of post-mortuary honorsbeing accorded to a leader whom they professed to worship while helived, and whom they demi-deified after his death. No such extravagantfolly can be laid at the door of the Republican Party. "Let bygones bebygones" is their motto. They allowed their "sham ABRAHAM," in heroicbronze, to be hoisted on to his pedestal in Union Square in solitudeand silence. That was commendable. A live ass is better than a deadlion; and so the Republican Party, who consider themselves very muchalive, went to look after their daily thistles and left their dead lionin charge of a policeman.

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

OTTA is lithe;(which is alliterative,) pretty, piquant, and addicted to the banjo.The latter characteristic is inseparable from her. In whateversituation the dramatist may place her, whether in a London drawing-roomor a Cockney kitchen, whether on an Algerian battle-field or in aCalifornia mining-camp, she is certain to produce the inevitable banjo,and to sing the irrepressible comic song. In fact, her plays arewritten not for LOTTA, but for LOTTA'S banjo. The dramatist takes thepresence of the banjo as the central fact of his drama, and weaves hisplot around it. His play is made on the model of that celebrated dramawritten to introduce Mr. CRUMMLES'S pump and tubs. Thus does hepreserve the sacred unity of LOTTA and the banjo.

Heart's Ease—in which she is now playing at NIBLO'SGarden, is plainly born of the banjo, and lives for that melodiousinstrument alone. The author said to himself, "A California mining-campwould be a nice place for a banjo solo." Wherefore he conceived thecamp, with a chorus of red-shirted miners. Wherefore too, he created acomic Yankee who should be eccentric enough to bring a banjo to thecamp, and a lover who should be charmed by its touching strains. Itrequired a prologue and three acts to enable him to successfullyintroduce the banjo. In a somewhat condensed form, these acts and thisprologue are here set forth.

PROLOGUE. A seedy husband who is audaciously palmed uponthe public as a Reasoning Animal is discovered in a London garret, witha healthy-looking wife, in a rapid consumption.

REASONING ANIMAL. "I loved you, my dear, and therefore broughtyou from a comfortable home to this dreary garret. I cannot bear toleave you, so I will go out for a walk." (The bell rings, and thewife's mother, brother and family physician enter.)

MOTHER. "You must leave your husband and come home and livewith us."

BROTHER. "Of course you must. You need not hesitate about alittle thing like that. Go into the other room and consult the Doctor.Here comes your husband." (Re-enter REASONING ANIMAL.)

REASONING ANIMAL. "Her berrotherr! Herre!"

BROTHER, "Yes. You can't support your wife. The Doctor saysshe needs nice parties and other necessaries of life. Give her to us,and go to California."

REASONING ANIMAL. "I will. Bring her here till I embrace her. (Sheis brought.) Farewell, my dear. I will go and make my fortune."

WIFE. "Take our little girl with you."

REASONING ANIMAL. "I will, for she needs a mother's care.Good-bye! Leave me to weep and wash the baby's face and hands alone."

ACT I.—Scene, a California mining-camp. Various miners ofassorted nationalities—one of each—hard at work lying on the ground.

1ST MINER. "I want more whiskey."

CHORUS. "So do we."

2ND MINER. "MAY WILDROSE won't sell any more."

CHORUS. "But she gives it to her lover."

3RD MINER. "He looks clean; he must have found a nugget. Let'skill him."

4TH MINER. "Sh—we will." (Enter MAY WILDROSE—whichher name it is MISS LOTTA.)

MAY. "Here comes my darling LIONEL. Let me get you somebrandy, love."

LIONEL. "Certainly, my dear. How full of forethought is a truewoman's love!"

CHORUS of MINERS. "She gives it to him, but not to us. Beware,young woman, or we will go back on you."

MAY. "No you won't. My father earns a laborious living bymaking me keep a whiskey shop. We have a monopoly of the business, andyou will have to buy of us, whether you like it or not. Get out of mysight, or I'll lick the whole boiling of you." (They fly, and shereturns to the parental whiskey shop.)

LIONEL. "Night is coming on. I will go among the rocks; why, Idon't know, but still I will go." (Goes. Three miners follow andattack him.)

LIONEL. "Save me, somebody."

MAY. Appearing suddenly with a revolver—"You bet." (Sheshoots the miners and brings down the curtain triumphantly.)

ACT II.—Scene—the whiskey shop of the REASONINGANIMAL.—LIONEL asleep on a bed evidently borrowed from someboarding-house—since it is several feet too short for him.—MAY engagedin peeling potatoes.—Enter REASONING ANIMAL.

REASONING ANIMAL. "My daughter! I see you are passionately inlove with LIONEL. Therefore, as I know him to be a fine young fellow,you must never see him more." (Enter COMIC YANKEE.)

COMIC YANKEE. "Here's your new banjo, Miss MAY. Play ussomething comic and depressing."

MAY. "Thank Heaven, I can get at the banjo at last" (Playsand is encored a dozen times.)

COMIC YANKEE. "Miss MAY, you must go and take a walk." (Shegoes.) "LIONEL, you are well enough to leave this ranche. Get upand get."

LIONEL. "Farewell, beloved whiskey shop. Tell MAY I am goingto leave her, and give her my sketches. If she once looks at them, shecan love me no longer." (Goes out to slow music. Re-enter MAY.)

MAY. "The wretch has left me without a word. I will bury hisinfamous sketches under the floor. They may frighten away the rats." (Pullsup the floor and finds an immense nugget. Her father rushes in to seeit. Two miners also see it and try to raise it. They are promptly seenand called by MAY, who shoots one and holds the pistol pointedat the other, while the curtain slowly falls.)

ACT III.—Scene, a London drawing-room. Enter MAY, gorgeouslydressed. Also her father, who has forgotten all about his wife, and alsoLIONEL and the COMIC YANKEE.

COMIC YANKEE. "Let us sing."

MAY. "Come on, old hoss." (They sing and dance for an hour,such being the pleasant custom of fashionable London society.)

MAY. "Miss CLARA! I understand you are engaged to marryLIONEL, and that if you marry anybody else you lose your dower oftwenty thousand pounds. Sell LIONEL to me, and I will give you a checkfor the amount."

CLARA. "Thanks, noble stranger, there is the receipt. Handover the money."

LIONEL. "Dearest MAY, as you must have a pretty large bankaccount, to be able to draw checks for twenty thousand pounds, I amquite sure I love you."

MAY. "Come to my arms. Now then, everybody, how is that forhigh!" (Slow curtain, relieved by eccentric gymnastics by theCOMIC YANKEE.)

BOY IN THE AUDIENCE. "Pa! isn't that splendid?"

DISCRIMINATING PARENT. "What! How! Who! Where am I? O, to besure, I came to see Heart's Ease, and to take my evening nap.Did LOTTA play the banjo?"

BOY. "O didn't she just. She played and sung dead loads oftimes."

DISCRIMINATING PARENT. "I have had a sweet nap. My son, Ithink I can now risk taking you to the minstrels. If I slept throughthis, I could feel reasonably sure of sleeping through even the darkconundrums and sentimental colored ballads. There is only a shade ofdifference between the two styles of performance, and that slight shadeis only burnt cork."

MATADOR.

Mural Decorations in Rome.

The "dead walls" of Rome, as we learn from the telegrams, werelately placarded with immense posters proclaiming the Italian Republic.

Rome being an "Eternal City," we were not previously awarethat any of her walls were dead. If they are, however, it may be thatthe posters of the posters referred to took that method of bringingthem to life again, which may be looked on as a post mortemproceeding.

THE RETORT COURTEOUS.

Newly-arrived Briton. "ENGLISH SPARROWS?—IMPOSSIBLE.WHY, THEY CHIRP THROUGH THEIR LITTLE NOSES LIKE WEGULAR YANKEES."

Park-Keeper. "WELL, I DON'T KNOW, BUT IT TAKES TWO MENAND A CART, EVERY DAY TO REMOVE THE 'Hs' DROPPED BY THEM ABOUT THEPARK."

OUR PORTFOLIO.

PARIS, FIRST WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: Things are becoming so mixed here that I amthinking of retiring to Tours with the other tourists. The city is allon the go—that is to say, the non-combatants are all going out of it asfast as possible.

GAMBETTA left here the early part of the week, and it wasbetter for him that he should. I wouldn't give a sou for any ofthese republicans if they chance to fall into the clutches of KingWILLIAM. It is reported that he has issued an order for thestrangulation of all French children between the ages of three andfive, in reprisal for the treacherous blowing up of Germans at Laon.

BISMARCK has requested the privilege of cooking ROCHEFORT'Smutton for him, should he be taken alive when Paris falls. What hemeans by "cooking his mutton" has not yet transpired, but it isgloomily vaticinated that he intends to boil him down. ROCHEFORT muttonwith caper sauce ought to satisfy the epicurean taste of BISMARCK,especially as ROCHEFORT would cease his caperings from that hour. Latelast night there was an alarm in the city that the whole Prussian armywas at Noisy-le-Sec. As you may have suspected, a noisy demonstrationfollowed this announcement.

I got out of bed, rang the bell, and requested the conciergeto bring me an auger. The man looked a little astonished at what heundoubtedly considered a strange request.

For a man to get out of bed in the middle of the night andcall for an auger, was indeed a trifle peculiar. When he brought it, Iincreased his astonishment by proceeding to bore a hole through the topof my trunk.

"C'est un imbécile," said the concierge,retreating a step or two.

"Not much," I retorted, boring away with renewed vigor.Presently the orifice was made. Into it I thrust an Alpen stock whichhad accompanied me in many a toilsome march through Switzerland, andlifting the lid, took from the cradle of the trunk a star-spangledbanner made of silk, which had been presented to me by the Young Men'sChristian Association of New York, prior to my departure for Europe, asa token of their esteem for my services in the capacity of a "reformeddrunkard." I fastened the flag to the stock, put my boots, clothes andother valuables on top of the trunk, and in a voice intended to expressmy defiance of King WILLIAM and his German Lagerheads, spoke thesewords:

Wave fearless, there, thou standard sheet!
That Yankee trunk and all itholds
(Though Prussian hirelingsthrong each street)
Is safe beneath thy starryfolds!

Saying which I dismissed the humiliated concierge,took a drink, blew out the bougie, and sank into the arms of"Tired nature's sweet restorer."

Instances like the above are quite common among Americans inParis. It was only the other day at the dépôt of the Cheminde fer du Nord that I saw a sick Bostonian sitting on his trunkoutside the gates, waiting for a chance to get into the train, with aSkye-terrier between his legs wrapped in the American flag. You easilyget accustomed to such sights, and don't think anything about them.

Yesterday I called at the office of the American Minister. Igave the porter my card, and asked if "WASH." was in. He eyed mestrangely. (Most people when they first see me generally do. I havethought sometimes that a certificate of good character postedconspicuously about my person would obviate this—but as they say here, "n'importe.")

"I'll see," said the porter, in reply to my question. Hewalked off, taking with him the door mat, an umbrella that stood in thehall, four coats and three hats that hung on the rack, besides numerousother small portable articles of vertu that would have comehandy for a professional "lifter."

I did not consider this movement a reflection upon mycharacter, for it seemed but appropriate that he should do it. "What,"said I to myself, "are porters for, but to remove portable articles?"

"WASH" was in, and fortunately for me, too, as I obtained abit of news that has not yet been printed in the cable dispatches from"Private Sources."

It came by letter from General FORSYTH, SHERIDAN'Saide-de-camp and Lord High Chamberlain, and was to the effect thatSHERIDAN had not tasted a drop of whiskey or uttered an oath sincelanding in Germany. WASH, asked me to communicate the fact to you withthe request that you would forward it to the "Society for theEncouragement of Practical Piety" at Boston. He also told me that,between looking after German interests in Paris and receiving ovationsfrom enthusiastic mobs, he didn't think he could do justice to hissalary.

"WASH," says I, "it isn't so much that, as it is that thesalary doesn't do justice to you. If that's the case speak right out;PUNCHINELLO can fix it for you." This took WASH. so suddenly that hecouldn't speak, but his eyes were running over with language. Don'tmove in the matter, however, till you hear from me again, when I shallhave something more to tell you about the march of the Prussians tothis capital, and the capital march I propose to make out of it.

Yours, in a revolutionary state, DICK TINTO.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

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