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THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SKELETON IS MCLAUGHLIN'S CLOSET.

Night, spotted with stars, like a black leopard, crouched oncemore upon Bumsteadville, and her one eye to be seen in profile, themoon, glared upon the helpless place with something of a cat'snocturnal stare of glassy vision for a stupefied mouse. Midnight hadcome with its twelve tinkling drops more of opiate, to deepen thestupor of all things almost unto death, and still the light shoneluridly through the window-curtains of Mr. BUMSTEAD'S room, and stillthe lonely musician sat stiffly at a dinner-table spread for three,whereof only a goblet, a curious antique black bottle, a bowl of sugar,a saucer of lemon-slices, a decanter of water, and a saucer of clovesappeared to have been used by the solitary diner.

Unconscious that, through the door ajar at his back, a pair ofvigilant human orbs were upon him, the ritualistic organist, who was invery low spirits, drew an emaciated and rather unsteady hand repeatedlyacross his perspiring brow, and talked in deep bass to himself.

"He came in, af'r' bein' brisgly walked up'n-down the turnpikeby PENDRAGON, and slammed himself down-'n-that-chair," ran thesoliloquy, with a ghostly nod towards an opposite chair, drawn backfrom the table. "'Inebrious boy!' says I, sternly, 'how-are-y'-now?' Hesaid 'Poorawell;' 'n' wen' down on-er-floor fas'hleep! I w'sscan'l'ized.—Whowoonbe?—I took m' umbrella 'n' thrashed 'm with it,remarking 'F'shame! waygup! mis'able boy! 's poorysight-f'r-'nuncle-t'see-'s-nephew-'n-this-p'litical-c'ndit'n.'—H'slep on; 'n' 't last Ipicked up him, 'n' umbrella, 'n' took 'm out t' some cool placet'shleep't off. Where'd' I take him? Thashwazmarrer—where'd'I leave'm?"

Repeating this question to himself, with an almost frenziedintensity, the gloomy victim of a treacherous memory threw an unearthlystare of bloodshot questioning all over the room, and, after a swayingmotion or two of the upper half of his body, pitched forward, with hisforehead crashing upon the table. Instantly recovering himself, andstarting to rub his head, he as suddenly checked that palliativeprocess by a wild run to his feet and a hideous bellow.

"I r'memb'r, now!" he ejaculated, walking excitedly ata series of obtuse angles all over the apartment."Got-'t-knockedinto-m'-head-'t-last. Pauper bur'l ground—J.M'GLAUGHLIN. Down'n cellar—cool placefa' man's tight—lef' m' umbrellathere by m'stake—go'n' get't thishmin't—"

Managing, after several inaccurate aims at the doorway, toplunge into the adjacent bedroom, he presently reappeared from thence,veering hard-aport, with a lighted lantern in his right hand. Then,circuitously approaching the neglected dining-table, he grasped withhis disengaged digits at the antique black bottle, missed it, went allthe way around the board before he could stop himself, clutched andmissed again, went clear around once more, and finally effected thecapture. "Th 'peared t' be two," he muttered, placing the prize in oneof his pockets; and, with a triumphant stride, made for the half-openhall-door through which the eyes had been watching him.

The owner of those eyes, and of a surprising head of floridhair, had barely time to draw back into the shadow of the corridor andnotice an approaching face like that of one walking in his sleep, whenthe clove-eater swung disjointedly by him, with jingling lantern, andwent fiercely bumping down the stairway. Closely, without sound,followed the watcher, and the two, like man and shadow, went out fromthe house into the quarry of the moon-eyed black leopard.

Fully bound now in the sinister spell of the spice of theMolucca islands, Mr. BUMSTEAD had regained that condition of his duplexexistence to which belonged the disposition he had made of hislethargic nephew and alpaca umbrella on that confused Christmas night;and with such realization of a distinct duality came back to him atleast a partial recollection of where he had put the cherished two.Finding Mr. E. DROOD rather overcome by the more festive features ofthe meal,—notwithstanding his walk at midnight with Mr. PENDRAGON,—hehad allowed his avuncular displeasure thereat to betray itself in athreshing administered with the umbrella. Observing that the young manstill slept beside the chair from which he fell, he had ultimately, andwith the umbrella still under his arm raised the dishevelled nephewhead-downward in his arms, and impatiently conveyed him from the heatedroom and house to the coolest retreat he could think of. Theredepositing him, and, in his hurry, the umbrella also, to sleep off,under reviving atmospheric influences, the unseemly effect of theevening's banquet, he had gone back on both sides of the road to hisboarding-house, and, with his boots upon the pillow, sunk into aninstantaneous sleep of unfathomable depth. Dreaming, towards morning,that he was engaging a large boa-constrictor in single combat, andstruggling energetically to restrain the ferocious reptile from gettinginto his boots, he had suddenly awakened, with a crash, upon thefloor—to miss his umbrella and nephew, to forget where he had put them,and to fly to Gospeler's Gulch with incoherent charges of larceny andmanslaughter. All this he could now vaguely recall, his presentpsychological condition, or trance-state, being the same as then; andwas going entrancedly back to the hiding-place where, with the best ofmotives, he had forgetfully left the two objects dearest to him in life.

On, then, proceeded the Ritualistic organist in the tawnylight of the black leopard's eye: his stealthy follower trailingclosely after in the shade of the roadside trees where the star-spottedleopard's black paws were plunged deepest. On he went, in zig-zagprofusion of steps and occasional high skips over incidental shadows ofbranches which he for snakes, until the Pauper Burial Ground wasreached, and MCLAUGHLIN'S hidden subterranean retreat therein attained.It was the same weird spot to which he had been brought by OldMORTARITY on the wintry night of their unholy exploring party; and,without appearing to be surprised that the entrance to the excavationwas open, he eagerly descended by the rickety step-ladder, and heldhimself steady by the latter while throwing the light of his lanternaround the mouldy walls.

His immediate hiccup, provoked by the dampness of thesituation, was answered by a groan, which, instead of being solid, wasvery hollow; and, as he peered vivaciously forward behind his extendedlantern, there advanced from a far corner—O, woeful man! O, thriceunhappy uncle!—the spectral figure of the missing EDWIN DROOD!

After a moment's inspection of the apparition, which pausedterribly before him with hand hidden in breast, Mr. BUMSTEAD placed hislantern upon a step of the ladder, drew and profoundly labiated hisantique black bottle, thoughtfully crunched a couple of cloves fromanother pocket—staring stonily all the while—and then addressed theyouthful shade:—

"Where's th' umbrella?"

"Monster of forgetfulness! murderer of memory!" spoke thespirit, sternly. "In this, the last rough resting place of theimpecunious dead, do you dare to discuss commonplace topics with one ofthe departed? Look at me, uncle, clove-befogged, and shrink appalledfrom the dread sight, and pray for mercy."

"Ishthis prop'r language t' address-t'-y'r-relative?" inquiredMr. BUMSTEAD, in a severely reproachful manner.

"Relative!" repeated the apparition, sepulchrally. "What sortof relative is he, who, when his sister's orphaned son is sleeping athis feet, conveys the unconscious orphan, head downward, through amidnight tempest, to a place like this, and leaves him here, and thenforgets where he has put him?"

"I give't up," said the organist, after a moment'sconsideration.

"The answer is: he's a dead-beat." continued the young ghost,losing his temper. "And what, JOHN BUMSTEAD, did you do with my oroidewatch and other jewels?"

"Musht've spilt'm on the road here," returned the musinguncle, faintly remembering that they had been found upon the turnpike,shortly after Christmas, by Gospeler SIMPSON. "Are you dead, EDWIN?"

"Did you not bury me here alive, and close the opening to mytomb, and go away and charge everybody with my murder?" asked thespectre, bitterly. "O, uncle, hard of head and paralyzed inrecollection! is it any good excuse for sacrificing my poor life, that,in your cloven state, you put me down a cellar, like a pan of milk, andthen could not remember where you'd put me? And was it noble, then, togo to her whom you supposed had been my chosen bride, and offer wedlockto her on your own account?"

"I was acting as y'r-executor, EDWIN," explained the uncle. "Idid ev'thing forth' besht."

"And does the sight of me fill you with no terror, no remorse,unfeeling man?" groaned the ghost.

"Yeshir," answered Mr. BUMSTEAD, with sudden energy. "Yeshir.I'm r'morseful on 'count of th' umbrella. Who-d'-y'-lend-'t-to?"

It is an intellectual characteristic of the more advanceddegrees of the clove-trance, that, while the tranced individual canperceive objects, even to occasional duplexity, and hear remarks moreor less distinctly, neither objects nor remarks are positivelyassociated by him with any perspicuous idea. Thus, while theRitualistic organist had a blurred perception of his nephew'sconversational remains, and was dimly conscious that the tone of thesupernatural remarks addressed to himself was not whollycongratulatory, he still presented a physical and moral aspect of denseinsensibility.

Momentarily nonplussed by such unheard-of calmness under aghostly visitation, the apparition, without changing position, alloweditself to roll one inquiring eye towards the opening above thestep-ladder, where the moonlight revealed an attentive head of redhair. Catching the glance, the head allowed a hand belonging to it toappear at the opening and motion downward.

"Look there, then," said the intelligent ghost to its uncle,pointing to the ground near its feet.

Mr. BUMSTEAD, rousing from a brief doze, glanced indifferentlytowards the spot indicated; but, in another instant, was on his kneesbeside the undefined object he there beheld. A keen, breathlessscrutiny, a frenzied clutch with both hands, and then he was upon hisfeet again, holding close to the lantern the thing he had found.

The barred light shone on a musty skeleton, to which stillclung a few mouldy shreds left by the rats; and only the celebratedbone handle identified it as what had once been the maddened finder'sidolized Alpaca Umbrella.

"Aha!" twitted the apparition, "then you have some heart left,JOHN BUMSTEAD?"

"Heart!" moaned the distracted organist, fairly kissing thedear remains, and restored to perfect speech and comprehension by theawful shock. "I had one, but it is broken now!—Allie, my long-lostAllie!" he continued, tenderly apostrophizing the skeleton, "do we meetthus at last again?—

'Whatthought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, whatspeechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the Aprilrain!'

Where is thine old familiar alpaca dress, my Allie? Where isthe canopy that has so often sheltered thy poor master's head from thestorm? Gone! gone! and through my own forgetfulness!"

"And have you no thought for your nephew?" asked thepersevering apparition, hoarsely.

"Not under the present circumstances," retorted the mourner;he and the ghost both coughing with the colds which they had taken fromstanding still so long in such a damp place—"not under the presentcircumstances," he repeated, wildly, making a fierce pass at thespectre with the skeleton, and then dropping the latter to the groundin nerveless despair. "To a single man, his umbrella is wife, mother,sister, venerable maiden aunt from the country—all in one. In losingmine, I've lost my whole family, and want to hear no more aboutrelatives. Good night, sir."

"Here! hold on! Can't you leave the lantern for a moment?"cried the ghost. But the heart-stricken Ritualist had swarmed up theladder and was gone.

Then, going up too, the spectre appeared also unto two othermen, who crawled from behind pauper headstones at his summons; the faceof the one being that of J. MCLAUGHLIN, that of the other Mr. TRACYCLEWS. And the spectre walked between these two, carrying Mr.BUMSTEAD'S skeleton in its hand.[^[1]]

[1] The cut accompanying the above chapter is from the illustratedtitle-page of the English monthly numbers of "The Mystery of EdwinDrood;"—in which it is the last of a series of border-vignettes;—andplainly shows that it was the author's intention to bring back his heroa living man before the conclusion of the story.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Bibo.—Is there a champagne wine having the flavor ofgun-flints?
Answer.—The wine made at Pierry, in the Champagne country,is said by connoisseurs to be so flavored. There is much alarm nowamong the wine-growers, however, lest the next vintage may have aflavor of percussion-caps instead, owing to the war and the modernweapons.

Plantagenet de Vere.—Would you believe a person namedJONES on his oath?
Answer.—We would not.

Smike. We read of houses being "gutted" by the Prussiansoldiers; have houses entrails, then?
Answer.—All occupied houses have livers, and most houseshave lights.

M. T. Head.—We cannot pay strangers in advance forcontributions that have not been sent in by them.

Icarus.—What do the balloon scouts of Paris use forballast?
Answer.—Bundles of newspapers, chiefly. Immense bales ofthe unsold copies of the New York Free Press are now exportedfor the purpose. They are preferred to any other papers because, whenplaced anywhere in the balloon, they Lie so, and, having already fallenfrom grace, falling from a balloon is nothing to them.

Taxidermist.—What is the best material for stuffingballot-boxes with?
Answer.—Greenbacks.

Leatherhead.—Is it true that most of the prominent menof England—"TOM BROWN" HUGHES, for instance—are proficient pugilists?
Answer.—We have never seen "TOM BROWN" spar, but we haveoften seen JOHN STUART Mill.

Abby Gansevoort.—No, my dear, your name does not occurin any of SHAKESPEARE'S plays.

Figdrum.—Born to the drudgery of commerce, I aspire toliterature: what am I to do to see my name in print?
Answer.—Put it in the City Directory.

Voice-in-the-Fog.—Why is it that all the queer isms ofthe day, such as socialism, are more cultivated by Red Republicans thanby any other political sect?
Answer.—Red, as artists well know, is the complementary oropposite color to green. The social phenomenon to which you refer,then, may be accounted for on the principle that extremes meet.

Clericus.—Is it proper for me, as a clergyman, to wearmoustaches?
Answer.—Quite so, unless they are red, in which case theymight interfere with your published sermons.

Astrolabe.—What is the exact distance between the DogStar and Roxbury, Mass.?
Answer.—We do not know. PUNCHINELLO is not a Siriusjournal.

Juniper Byles.—My rent has just been raised, and I havehad a curtain-lecture from my wife for swearing about it. Would not youswear if your rent was raised?
Answer.—Certainly not—at least not if it was raised bybenevolent subscription.

AN ACQUAINTANCE.

Tom.—"I say, JACK, what a beautiful complexion MissSMITH has. Do you know her?"

Jack.—"No, but I know a girl who buys her complexion atthe same store at which Miss SMITH buys hers."

"CUM GRANO SALIS."—Musk-melon.

A HORSE-CAR CONTINGENCY.

Gallant Tar (To horrified lady of uncertain age), "BELAYTHERE, OLD WOMAN! TAKE THIS SEAT."

OUR PORTFOLIO.

PARIS, FOURTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

Dear Punchinello: You may not have heard that BISMARCK hasbeen here, had an interview with FAVRE, and is off again. I didn'tsuppose you would know it, so I hasten to give you and your army ofreaders a brief synopsis of what took place, as nearly as I can in theexact language used by the distinguished diplomats upon the occasion.

The scene of the consultation was one of the Imperialwine-cellars under that pavilion of the Tuileries palace whichoverlooks the Seine at the southwestern extremity of the Place duCarrousel. The spot was selected for two reasons: it was farremoved from the noise and hubbub of the city, and it furnishedfacilities for "liquoring up" in case of necessity. I was there andleft, as you will see, under circumstances calculated to give me alasting impression of the event. We all three of us sat around a pinetable, upon which faintly flickered a tallow candle in a soda-waterbottle, that shed around a sickly glare (that is to say, the candledid). BISMARCK looked a little the worse for wear, I thought, and, ashe unbuttoned his vest with a grunt of relief, he struck me likewise asbeing rather short in his wind.

FAVRE was loose and frisky as a four weeks old kitten, andspoke with a quick, decided tone that reminded me of HORACE GREELEY. Henever once swore, however, during the whole interview. Your readerswill observe that even if this momentous meeting was not marked by theusual diplomatic usages, the language is strictly according to theusual diplomatic idiom. It is important to note this fact, aseverything hinges on the "idiom."

BISMARCK was the first to break silence:

"The difficulties which embarrass the questions underdiscussion stand first in the order of elimination."

FAVRE assented, and BISMARCK continued: "We must remove theperitoneum to get at the viscera of the issues (I was much struck withthe force and originality of this method of putting it), and evictthose impressions which are purely matters of national sensibility."

I snuffed the candle and waited for FAVRE.

FAVRE: "Your Excellency abounds in subtle diagnoses."

BISMARCK: "It is not a question of noses."

FAVRE: "Your Excellency mistakes me. I meant to say that, likethe 'Heathen Chinee,' your ways are dark."

I moved the light closer to the Count. FAVRE only smiled.

BISMARCK: "Touching 'rectification,' then, Germany sticks toher position."

I regarded this as an insinuation that somebody was "stuck."

FAVRE: "France adheres unalterably to her previous resolution.National traditions, deeply interwoven with the fine fibre ofindividual natures, forbid the relaxation of tissues logicallyirresistible."

A smile of triumph flitted faintly o'er the features of theFrenchman. He evidently thought he had made a "ten strike." I whisperedapprovingly, "Tres bien, Monsieur, tres bien!"

BISMARCK: "Does the German heart yearn for the Rhine? Does ityearn for Strasbourg? Does it yearn for Metz? and if not, what does ityearn for?"

He was looking straight at me when he said this, and so Ianswered "Bier."

A dark scowl flitted frantically over the features of theGerman, but he went right on: "Are all the longings of all these years,dating from the birth of CHARLEMAGNE and extending through GUSTAVUSADOLPHUS to FREDERICK the Great and WILLIAM the First, by his father onhis maternal grandmother's side, who lies in the iron coffin of the domkircheat Potsdam, whence we derive the consolidated grandeur of HOHENZOLLERNmingling its rich ancestral dyes with the dark woof of fate to dispelthe expanding dream of German aspiration?"

I had not time to witness the effect upon FAVRE, but, gaspingfor breath, I started from my seat and uttered these words, which Iremembered to have read in a German-English libretto of MARIE STUART: "MeinGott, ich kenne eures Eifers reinen Trieb, Weiss, dass gediegneWeissheit aus Euch redet!"

It did not matter to me that FAVRE lay swooning on the floor.That the Count glared at me savagely and crunched his jaws withmaniacal energy. My knowledge of German was up. It had caught thefierce impulse, the majestic sweep of his ponderous linguosity. Iremembered another sentence, and hurled it wildly at him: "Bei Gott,Du wirst, ich hoff's, noch viele Jahre auf ihrem Grabe wandeln, ohnedass du selber sie hinabzustürzen brauchtest!"

Again I looked at the Count. His jaw had ceased working, andthe expression of his eye had changed. His arm moved furtively beneaththe table. What could he be doing? Horrible moment of uncertainty.Still the arm worked, as if tugging at something. I could stand it nolonger. Seizing the soda-water bottle, I stooped to cast the rays ofthe sixpenny dip beneath the table. As I did so, a boot-heel flashed inthe air, the Count's arm descended with a terrific detonation, and Isaw no more.

(Interval of twenty-four hours.)

The result of the interview will be communicated to theAmerican public by a Tribune special, as soon as a carrier-pigeon canreach SMALLEY at London. I am still suffering from a sensation ofhaving been recently hit,

DICK TINTO.

ASPIRATION.

Of all sorts of people in the world, the Cockney has thequeerest notions about vegetable nature. Show him the first letter ofthe alphabet, for instance, and he pronounces it "hay."

APPARENTLY ANOMALOUS.

Should the Prussians ever succeed in entering Paris, it ishardly possible that they can be well received by the citizens, whetherthey find FAVRE there or not.

OUR PRIVATE GALLERIES.

The Belmont Collection.

This admirable gallery includes among its treasures many ofthe old masters and-when open for exhibition—a bewildering collectionof young nurses. The latter are frequently inaccurate in anatomicaldetails, but in point of brilliancy of color they far outshine the bestefforts of RUBENS and TITIAN. The flesh tints produced by many of ourFifth Avenue belles infinitely surpass the obsolete tints upon whichthe great Venetians used to pride themselves.

In Mr. BELMONT'S gallery there are so many original RAPHAELSand MURILLOS, painted by the very best European artists of the presentday, that it would occupy far too much of our limited space were we tonotice them in detail. We will therefore pass them by, and simply callattention to some of the more noteworthy pictures, executed bycontemporary painters, which hang side by side with the more smoky buthardly less valuable works of antiquity. Prominent among these is amodest little "Fruit and Flower" piece, by that promising young artist,Miss SUSAN B. ANTHONY. It deserves especial praise for its accuratecopying of nature, the varied beauty of its coloring, and the deeplonging of the heart—the hunger of the soul—which must have inspiredthe fair artist. We give a faithful sketch of this charming picture,though, of course, the glories of its rainbow hues cannot berepresented here.

FRUIT AND FLOWER PIECE.

A beautiful work, and one evidently inspired by the sound ofbattle, is the noble historical painting entitled "On Picket," by Mr.C.A. DANA, Associate Artist National Academy of Velocipedestrianism.The artist has produced a picture that must inspire us all with theabsolute truth of the story it so dramatically tells, while he hasfilled our hearts with deep sympathy and lofty admiration for thelovely and heroic combatant depicted on his canvas. Our armyofficers—Col. FISK for example—who are ignorant of the sword exercisemay derive a hint from this spirited work, as to the importance ofobtaining a thorough mastery of the fence.

Claude's renowned landscape of the "Ruined Mill" is familiarto all who are acquainted with it, and has been greatly admired bythose who did not feel impelled to condemn its many faults. But CLAUDEis now known to have been no artist, but a mere pretender. There isreason to believe that he had never read RUSKIN, and was hencenecessarily ignorant of the aim and method of landscape painting. Ouryoung friend BROWN, the spirituel and fascinating assistantRector of a fashionable uptown church, has in this gallery a renderingof a similar subject. How manifest is his superiority to CLAUDE! Withwhat truth and fidelity to nature; with what holy calm, and child-likefaith, and lofty aspiration has BROWN filled his glowing canvas! Andwithal, he does not lead us back to the dead faith and traditions ofthe past, save to urge us onward in the pathway of—in the pathway—inshort, to urge us on more or less. To those envious minds who affect toregard BROWN as a mere amateur, an undertaker of more than he has theability to execute, we would deign but one reply, and that would be,"Look at his trees in the picture called the 'Ruins of the Mill,' andthen cower back into your native insignificance."

RUINS OF A MILL.

There are many other pictures which we would like to notice inthis article, but want of space will forbid us to do so this week. Wehave merely room to mention, with warm approbation, the exceedinglydramatic little genre picture entitled "Shoo-fly," by theveteran Minstrel, Mr. DANIEL BRYANT, whose recent translation of HOMERhas given him so high a rank among the best German scholars of the day.

SHOE FLY!

RULES AND MAXIMS.

How they change! ESCULAPIUS now gives to us and our children,as medicine, what he denounced to the last generation as "pizen."The heresy of yesterday is the orthodoxy of to-day.

Thus the philosophy of those who are under the turf isrefuted by those who are on the turf. It used to be said inregard to horses:—

"One white foot, buy him,
"Two white feet, try him,
"Three white feet, deny him,
"Four white feet and a whitenose,
"Take off his shoes and givehim to the crows."

But the advent of DEXTER has changed the sinister rhyme to:—

Onewhite foot, spy him,
Two white feet, try him,
Three white feet, buy him,
Four white feet and a white nose,
And a mile in 2-17 he goes.

RIGHT TO THE SPOT.

Additional spots on the disk of the sun are reported. Aningenious writer, who candidly states that he is not an astronomer,accounts for them by suggesting that they are caused by stray shotsfrom the Prussian sharpshooters who tried to bring down GAMBETTA'Sballoon.

A QUERY FOR STEEPLE-CHASERS.

We hear a great deal about "featherweights" in connection withracing. If there are such things as feather weights, why onearth don't the managers of Jerome Park races stuff the steeple-chasejockeys with them, to prevent them from being injured by such accidentsas happened there on the opening day of the Autumn meeting?

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VIII.

JACKSPRAT could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
And so between them both,
They licked the platter clean.

JACK SPRAT was a near neighbor to the Poet. He was aremarkably delicate man, cadaverous and thin. A dyspeptic, alwaysailing, he was a subject of pity for his friends, and of wonder to hisacquaintances. But behold the eternal fitness of things. Providenceblessed him with a wife, his opposite in every respect. When extremesmeet, a perfect whole is the result; and in this case it was a perfectmarriage, fit to be sung by poets and embalmed in verse.

When JACK SPRAT met SALLY STUBBS, at a husking party, she tookhis eye, and kept it. She filled his heart completely. A rosy-cheeked,buxom lass, healthy and hearty, dimples and dumplings combined, shecaptivated and carried, by sheer force of weight, the delicate soul ofpoor JACK.

It was a case of latitude against longitude; strength againstweakness, smiles against tears, laughter against groans. And so thepoor fellow, feeling an unacknowledged desire to find some one able tosupport and protect him, yielded to the advice of his friends and hisown inclinations, and laid his attenuated hand, with his poor littleheart in it, at the fat feet of fair SALLY STUBBS.

He was smiled upon, broad-grinned upon, and accepted; andthereby rendered for the nonce the happiest of men. Tradition has itthat the next day he actually ate a hearty dinner, and did not complainof his digestion immediately after. But this is considered doubtful bymany.

Fair SALLY, overflowing with the milk of human kindness, andyearning in her soul to bestow her attentions and corporosity uponJACK'S attenuosity, urged matters onward, and the wedding day wasfixed, the ring bought, and delicate Mr. SPRAT was led to the altarlike a sheep to the slaughter.

Tremblingly he advanced up the aisle of the village church,leading his blushing and waddling bride, and took his place, lookinglike an exclamation point alongside a parenthesis, before theblack-robed Priest, who speedily put an end to Miss STUBBS, andpresented JACK with a female SPRAT.

Mrs. SPRAT blushed like a full-blown peony as JACK manfullyand courageously saluted her upon one rosy cheek, in the presence ofthe assembled guests, and then, to cover her confusion, she giggled andshook hands energetically with the company, telling JACK to "hold uphis head and do the same, for it was com eel fut, and he musttry to be fashionable at his own wedding."

The Bride carried off the honors manfully, and after the firstfew moments recovered from her embarrassment, and appeared as much atease as if getting married was an every-day affair, not worth minding.JACK couldn't get over it so readily, and his teeth chattered till latein the night. But they stopped after a while; so I am told.

We pass over the first few days devoted to honey-mooning, andlook in upon them as they sit at dinner. He with his greyhound and shewith her cat, both animals attentively watching each morsel thatdisappears from their longing gaze into the capacious mouth of masteror mistress. Notice with what dexterity and generosity Mr. SPRATselects the fattest parts and skilfully conveys them to Madam's plate,reserving the lean for himself; occasionally throwing a bone to hisdog, while the lady now and then bestows a fat bit upon Puss, whoslowly licks her lips and winks for more. It is a cozy scene of quietdomestic bliss, and so continues till the platter is empty; when, bothfeeling satisfied for the time, they lean back in their respectivechairs, and gaze complacently upon their pets, each other, and theempty dishes.

Their wonderful congeniality and quiet happiness became thesubject of wonder to their friends, and of comment and speculation tothe village gossips. Her oleaginous and feather-bed-like dispositioncompelled peace, as oil upon the waves, and shed trouble as a ducksheds water. JACK and his complainings never troubled her; she merelylaughed when he groaned, and offered to rub his back. But he, fearingthe ponderosity of her hand, rarely submitted; his spinal column beingdelicate, he dared not risk it.

Village gossips tell many little incidents connected with themarried life of the twain, which would be invidious to mention here.Suffice it to say that they were considered fit subjects for theever-ready pen of the Poet to seize upon and perpetuate in never-dyingverse, for the benefit of posterity. That the Poet was right in hissurmises, we have only to look around and ascertain how many learnedpeople of all grades have treasured up in their memory, from infancy,the history of JACK SPRAT and his wife.

AN OBVIOUS ILLUSTRATION

Scene. A Lunch Counter.

Customer. "Waiter, do you call this a milk toast?—why,there's no milk to be seen."

Waiter. "Milk all gone into the toast, sir."

Customer. "But there's no toast to speak of."

Waiter. "Toast all gone into the milk, sir."

Customer. "Ah, ha!—there's an idea in that, by Jove.I'll go straight home and write a pamphlet upon the new theory ofmutual absorption."

Waiter. "Yes, sir. Don't forget to mention the KilkennyCats, sir!"

ENCOURAGING HOME MANUFACTURES.

Young Patriot. "GIMME THREE CENTS WORTH O' CHESTNUTS."

Female Broker. "D' YER WANT EYETALIAN ONES?"

Y. P. "NO, DARN YER—GIMME AMERICAN ONES."

COUNT BISMARCK'S ACCOUNT.

BISMARCK'S insolence is really becoming dangerous. He can denyand contradict the statements made by other Counts, Ambassadors, Kings,or by himself, without its becoming a matter of sufficient importanceto interest us. Such giving and taking the lie is a part of thebusiness of persons of this kidney. But he has actually had theaudacity to deny the truthfulness of the report by RUSSELL to the Timesof a conversation held between them. If this thing is not checked inthe bud, he will next be denying—his conversation! with the Tribune"special," as reported by that ubiquitous observer. What will there befor the world to believe, if it loses faith in the truthfulness of thepapers?

A Con. for the Vatican.

Why is VICTOR EMMANUEL like a tomahawk? Because he is now saidto be "a tool in the hands of the Reds."

THE "LOUDEST" OF SUNDAYS "SWELLS." The Swell of theChurch organ.

THE PRIZE CALF "S. L. WOODFORD," FATTENED UP BY MESSRS. GREELYAND CURTIS FOR THE SPECIAL PURPOSE OF BEING CUT UP ON TUESDAY, NOVEMBER8TH.

"DOST KNOW ME?"

Composed by our Special Dangerous Lunatic in one of his LucidIntervals.

Dost know me? dost know me? was all themaiden said,
As she streamed her goldentresses through the half-unkneaden bread,
While the sunset light camesheening athwart the oaken floor,
And the Headsman chanted hisroundelay at the soul-beshriven door.

Dost know me? dost know me?rang o'er the heather wild,
While the dew-drop lifted itsgolden head, and the hoary bull-frog
smiled;
Yet every eye was dim withtears, as the shadow of Time replied,
And the echo from over themoorland drear,
In cloistered glory and voiceof cheer,
Silently welcomed the Bride.

"Dost know me? dost know me?"and a soul from out the gloom
Welcomed the rippling brookletflowing past the tomb,
Gilding the steeples, near andfar, with a dusk and dimsome spleen,
Tipping with crest of goldenfire
Each mighty CAESAR'S funeralpyre
In its wealth of golden sheen.

"Dost know me? dost knowme?"—eftsoones the answer came
From the lips of the lady withblonden hair like a wreath of golden
flame,
As she lifted the light of herbeauteous eyes to the questioning
lips of the knight,
And muttered those words ofimport dire,
And flashed her eyes with abaleful fire—
Alas! did he hear aright?

"I know thee! I know thee! forthou art the Khouli Khan,
And I am the Empress ofAllahabad, or any other man,
Then turtle soup may lift itscrest o'er the stars in the twilight dim,
Ere I, an Empress of regionsfair,
With a halo of succulentblonden hair,
Elope with a Khouli grim."

Ah me! 'twas sad, and agruesome night, when the maiden fair said, "No!"
And gave response to theKnight's demand in accents sweetly low.

THE END.

Gems more clear than this, no doubt, haveoftentimes been seen,
Yet methinks, at least, 'tis apoem clear
As poems which every week appear
In the Waverley Magazine.

"WELL SAID, OLD MOLE!"

In a newspaper description of Mr. GREELEY, published someyears since, it was stated that he was born with a mole upon his leftarm. This may or may not be the case; but, judging from the persistencewith which the great agriculturist advocates sub-soil ploughing, therecan be no doubt whatever that he has mole on the brain.

BLOOD AND THUNDER!

PUNCHINELLO learns, without the least surprise, that Mr.YOUNGBLOOD has retired in disgust from the management of the New York FreePress. It is further announced that the estimable publicationreferred to will henceforth be under the charge of Mr. OLDBLOOD, ablood relative of all the BADBLOODS belonging to the JOHN REALDemocracy.

"FALL" WEATHER.

The subject of bringing down rain by the firing of artilleryhas again been revived, owing to the long droughts that have latelyprevailed. What gives a color of feasibility to it, at present, is thefact that the Reign of LOUIS NAPOLEON has lately been brought down byPrussian guns.

A SIGHT TOO BAD!

Struggling Cuba. "YOU MUST BE AWFULLY NEAR-SIGHTED, MR.PRESIDENT, NOT TO RECOGNIZE ME."

U. S. G. "NO: I AM FAR-SIGHTED; FOR I CAN RECOGNIZEFRANCE."

HIRAM GREEN'S POLITICAL SENTIMENTS.

His Reason for Leaving his Party.—A Catechism for Candidates.

I hain't gilty of any stated polertix, as Ime aware of.

For an old man, Ime helthy and sound as a nut on all publicquestions. I use to be an old line Whig, and was a pooty activethimble-rigger as long as it paid. But when that party refoosed torenominate me for the offis of Gustese of the Peece, like a thurar bredpolertician, I shook 'em. Said I, standin' ontop a sugar hogshead, at aprimary meetin, which was bein held in SIMMINSES grocery store:—

"Feller sitizens of the Whig party, Refoose to renominate goodmen for offisses, and you can pack your duds and git your carpet bagscheckt for the next steamer goin up Salt River.

Leave my name off'n your ticket for another term of offis, andthere won't be enuff left in your old politikle carciss to grease aflap-jack griddle with. In the words of Mister—Mister—Somebody, "A wordto the wise is—is—enuff to make a—hoss laff."

And here I say it, Mister PUNCHINELLO, I wasent nominated.

Dident I smash things? Gess not! I norgarated a bolt whichspread like pourin keroseen ile over a marble floor, and the next fall,SCOTT & GRAHAM was nockt hire'n the Himmely mountins, while the oldWhig party shoveled off its mortil quarrel.

Thus, as HORRIS GREELY, in his remarks on politikle Economy,says: "Vengents, like a 2 tined pitchfork in the hands of Old Nick,will bust up any party which goes back onto its trusted leaders.'Vengents is mine,' says the disappinted offis seeker, and on Electionday he peddles split tickets ontil the poles close."

Standin as I do on nootral ground, I wish like JOHN BULL Icould make my nootrality pay as well as J. B. does, by sellin stores tothe Prooshians and the French.

In castin my suferage this fall, I shall go Principals notmen. A principal which is good for its little 7 per cent. intrestpayable semi-annually, is what ales me.

High-toned(?) principals, and not men,
Is what's the matter in thisere breast,
The Lait Gustise his influencewill lend
To him whose principalpays the best.
(Campane poickry.)

I have prepared a serious of questions, which I propose to askcandydates who come sneakin around for my sufferage.

Skedyule of Interogertories.

What's your principals, and is the interest payable ingold or greenbax?

If elected to offis, will you squander all your salary andretire poorer than a church mouse? or will you give such strictattention to your dooties as will enable you to salt down$100,000.00 per yeer from the enormous salary of $1500.00 ($ fifteenhundred)?

Do you think, takin an iron clad oath has got anythingto do with a sertin commandment which says, "Thou shalt not steel"?

Are you a beleiver in E. CADY STANTON'S revoolushinary idees,that woman is the "coming man," and if so, how do you like it as fur asyoo've got?

Do you think THEODORE TILTON, ED STUDWELL, STEVE GRISWOLD,FRED DUGLIS, and SOOSAN B. ANTHONY would make as good Presidents of theU.S. as a man would?

Is your wife one of them strong-minded critters, who believesthat husbands had orter stay home and nuss the baby while she goes outand plays baseball?

Will you fall onto a voter's sholders, who eats garlix andonions, and shed tears as freely the day arter eleckshun as you willthe nite before?

Could you sing the "Battle-cry of freedom" so luvly, if itwasent for Unkle Sam's Notes?

Would you have any objections, if our National and CommonCounsels, like that of Rome, should organize EconomikleCounsels?

In the war on tother side of the pond, is your sympathies forLager or Pea soup?

If you want the German vote, don't you think it would be yourpolitikle bier to get at lager-heads with the Prushians?

Did you ever think before, that yourself and family, way back15 or 20 generations in the grave, were such a lot of low-livedvillyians as the opposition papers say you be? and haint it a misteryto you that you are allowed to go unhung?

Did you commit the NATHAN murder? if so, why dident you calloff your "dorg"?

Do you know as much about farmin as HORRIS GREELY does? if so,who told you?

Are you a Fenian, Know-nothin, Mason, Anti-mason, LaborReformer, Anti-labor Reformer, a Chineese cooler, Anti-Chineese cooler,and the "wickedest man in N.Y."? Are you in favor of free trade, hightariff, free whiskey, whiskey tax, JIM FISK, MARETZEK, Tammany, theYoung Democracy, Grand Army of the Republicans, GEO. F. TRAIN, MRS.CUNNINGHAM, and the D—l?

In fact, like JOSEFF, have you got a cote of many cullers?

Any candydate who can give affirmative ansers to the foregoinCatekism, and is willin to show his principals by bleedinfreely, can get my vote, sure popp.

Ewers trooly, & I haint afrade To jine the bread &butter brigade.

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peese.

LAST WORDS OF EMINENT MEN.

Selected by Sarsfield Young.

A FREE TRADER.

Nowgentlemen, of every kind,
Just step into my shop,
And, as I'm hard to pacify,
You'd better bring a sop;
I'll dress you up in any style
For which you choose to call,
But then, you must bring readycash,
Because I shines for all.

I'm always ready for a trade,
No matter what its kind;
I'll dress you up so very neat,
If your bid suits my mind.
If, when I ask the custom house,
He says, "Give it I sha'n't,"
DAVIS and FISH I strike, because
I does not shine for GRANT.

Sometimes I send a little bill
For goods they have not had,
And if they do not pay at once
Then I gets awful mad.
Of public pap I'm very fond,
I'd like to get it all,
But, if they block my little game,
I does not shine for HALL.

I've lampooned every decent man,
Who with me would not trade;
I keep a little book account
Of those who have not paid:
So, if you don't enjoy free trade,
Don't listen to my call;
I'll give you good names for goodpay,
Because I shines for all.

When you go to the theater, it is pleasant to have the littleboy of a rustic couple persist in feeding you with gingerbread andorange-peel, and, if you request the little wretch to keep still, to betold by his parents that you are "putting on airs."

THE MEDICAL CONFIDENCE GAME.

Mr. Punchinello has lately received a medical publication, inwhich there are some editorial remarks concerning the relations betweenphysicians and their patients. The latter are exhorted to place allconfidence in their medical advisers, for, otherwise, there can be noharmonious action between them. This is all very well, and Mr.PUNCHINELLO thinks that if anything in this world should be the subjectof sacred confidences, it should be the revelations of the sick-room.But, after reading the reports of the various cases which are detailedin this publication, his faith in the advisability of confiding inone's doctor was somewhat shaken. For instance, when he read that "MissANNA P-----, aged 25, of blonde complexion and apparent good health,residing near Jefferson avenue and Sixty-eighth street, had beensubject for years to convolutions of the cerebral hemispheres, and hadbeen obliged at various times to submit to partial amputations ofhorn-like excrescences on the divisions of her manual extremities," Mr.PUNCHINELLO was of opinion that this young lady, who could be easilyrecognized from the hints (?) of her name and residence, might possiblyobject to the announcement, to all her friends and acquaintances, thatshe had cerebral hemispheres, and still more to the fact that they wereconvoluted. But this dreadful truth is published, under the merest filmof concealment of her identity, to the whole world, and her physicalcondition and subsequent surgical treatment may be town-talk for therest of her life. Where is the "sacred confidence" here?

There are dozens of similar cases in the publication referredto, and medical journals are, in general, full of them.

Will it therefore be wondered at if we don't want all theworld to know, every time we call in a doctor, that we may have a"parenchyma of the lung," or a "sub-conjunctival cellular tissue," thatwe will begin some day to insist as much upon medical honor as medicalability? Mr. PUNCHINELLO thinks not.

"FIAT LUX."

We learn that our Third Assistant Postmaster-General has beenindisposed for some days, owing to his excessive labor in breakingenvelope contracts. Why does the Postmaster-General allow hissubordinates thus to overwork themselves? We wish he would shed a REAYof light on the subject.

SCIENCE AND ENDURANCE.

When people undertake any thing in the cause of Science, orindeed in any other cause, they might as well do their best while theyhave a chance. This is an axiom of social economy which is presented,gratis, to the world.

Now, the three scientific men who intend passing the winter onthe top of Mount Washington, might certainly find some other manner ofspending the cold months in the interests of science which would bemuch more difficult and disagreeable. They expect to be snowed up atthe Tip-top House, from December until March, and will spend their timein a room lined with felt, where they will burn twenty tons of coalduring their sojourn.

Almost any one could do all this. If the scientific gentlemenin question desire to undergo some really notable hardships there areplenty of deep lakes in New York, at the bottom of which they mightspend the winter in a diving-bell. They would probably be frozen inuntil March, and they would find it much more difficult to use theirinstruments, and everything far more disagreeable, generally, than in alarge room in the Tip-top House. Still if they would prefer somethingstill more arduous, let them ride day and night, from December untilMarch, in the Third Avenue cars of this city. If they were to do this,and confine their scientific labors to observations of the decidedlymean altitude of the Sun, they would probably suffer more, in a giventime, than any previous party of learned men, and thus accomplish theirobject much better than by deliberately allowing themselves to besnowed up on Mount Washington.

A SURPRISING PROPHECY.

Years ago Mr. PUNCHINELLO had a very old grandfather, and hewell remembers that on the inside of the lid of a certainhorse-hair trunk, the property of that estimable old man, was pasted abit of poetical prophecy, the words of which embedded themselves, likethe hot letters of a branding-iron, on the tender skin of Mr.PUNCHINELLO'S mind. The following is the prophecy:

"Addseventy-four and 62,
And forty and 900 too;
Then, if to this sum you place
Seven hundred and an ace,
You will surely find the year
When they ought to disappear—
Both a Certain Holy 'un
And the last NAPOLEON.
And darkness will come wholly on
The Sun. Day, natheless, will glow
Down in the regions far below."

Now this is certainly a very astounding prophecy. If thenumbers mentioned at the beginning of the oracular ditty be addedtogether without using the ace, they make the year 1776. Now the valueof an ace in Seven-up (and seven is the uppermost word in the line inwhich our ace occurs) is four. So four, added to the former sum, makesthe year 1780. But even the first NAPOLEON had not made his appearancein this year, and so it would seem there must be a mistake somewhere.But such is not the case. If, after the manner of the regularprophecy-makers, we treat this sum according to the rule ofprobabilities, we shall see that, if "seventeen-eighty" will not workprophecy, we must reverse the year and call it "eighteen-seventy." Thishits the mark exactly, and makes us tremble at the prophetic power ofsome of those old delvers in the mines of dark prediction.

For now we see plainly that not only the Pope and theex-Emperor of France will probably disappear this year from the scenesof their glory, but that the Sun, over which a certain dirty mistinesshas been stealing for some time past, will be entirely shrouded in theblackness of ruin. The lines

"----Day,natheless, will glow
Down in the regions far below,"

doubtless refer to DANA the less, who, when his sheet isutterly overwhelmed in its self-made oblivion, will deserve, andprobably obtain, all the brightness and warmth to which the verserefers.

Placing this astounding prediction by the side of the amazingevents of the present year, it is impossible for Mr. PUNCHINELLO torepress his feelings of wonder and awe!

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

here is an oldconundrum song that begins—"Why do summer roses fade?" The late ARTEMUSWARD thought they did it as a matter of business. Why do the "TwoRoses" bloom? That is WALLACK'S business. Also just now it happens tobe mine.

The modern English comedy is divided into two kinds. Everybodywill consider this statement a conundrum, and answer,—"Bad and good."Wrong, my little dears. All your lexicographers agree that "kind"means a "race," which is absurd, because a horse-race, for instance, isanything but kind. But they explain by saying that it means a genus.Good plays are not a genus. They are freaks of nature, like the woollyhorse and the sacred cow; only, when they are produced, so many peoplewill not pay money to see them as to see the w.h. and the s.c.

The division of modern plays, as JONATHAN EDWARDS saidwittily, in his sparkling treatise on "The Will," is into the tame andthe wild. For the latter the recipe is simple. Take some black falsebeads, hatchets, pistols, a "dog"—not a quadruped, but the articlewhich was left in Mr. NATHAN'S hall—a woman in black hair and a whitegarment, suggestive of repose, strolling at midnight by the banks ofthe prattling East River, foot of Grand Street, and set a house afireat the end of the third act. That is the BOUCICAULT style, and as theflippant EDWARDS goes on to observe, it draws like a factory chimney inthe Bowery and at NIBLO's.

But this sort of thing will not do at all at WALLACK'S. Ofcourse not. STODDART is permitted to swear there, to be sure; but Iunderstand that he does it for fear people should call WALLACK'S thehall of the Old Men's Christian Association. With that exception thereis, as somebody said about something, absolutely nothing to offend themost fastidious. Any person who exhibits excitement upon the stage isdischarged at the end of the week with a pension. Miss MOORE ispermitted to weep, but she does it so quietly and nicely that it doesnot disturb anybody. And the ushers have received strict orders toeject anybody in the audience who manifests any marked interest in theperformance. A friend of mine from Peoria once went to WALLACK'S, andtook no pains whatever to conceal his admiration of the acting. On thecontrary, at a particularly nice point, he actually clapped his handstogether twice. Of course he was arrested for breach of the peace, andlocked up over night. But the management declined, to prosecute when itwas represented to them that the man had lately seen McKEAN BUCHANAN atthe Peoria Academy of Music, and that he could not help testifying hisgratification that LESTER WALLACK behaved so differently, and he wasdischarged. He went back to Peoria, and told his neighbors that therewas a place in New York where they got up a yawning match (this coarseperson called it a "gaping bee") every night between the stage and theaudience, and the stage always won.

Now we know, that is those of us who are in good society, thatwhat this uncouth rustic mistook for indifference is the air ofsociety. TALLEYRAND said, or somebody said he said, that the use oflanguage was to conceal thought. Go to WALLACK'S and you will see thatthe art of acting is to suppress emotions. Everything is belowconcert-pitch, except perhaps the orchestra, which insists upon playinglively and popular music, instead of doing the Dead March in Saul for afuneral procession while the audience files out dreamily to drink, andempties some dull opiate to the drains. The entire audience are makingheroic efforts all through the play to prevent each other from seeingthat they know they are listening to the most finished acting to beseen anywhere, and looking at the prettiest stage pictures ever set.All the actors are all the while trying to conceal the fact that theyare doing any good acting. The whole theatre is in a condition of sweetrepose, like the placid bosom of a mill-pond on a summer afternoon,when STODDART shoots the Dam.

Well, when you have society theatres, where they do this sortof thing, you must have society plays. The recipe for these isdifferent from the gallon of gore and the ton of thunder which make upthe other sort. You must have your actors representing people who arealways bored to death, if you wish to maintain the respect andpatronage of a society audience, whose ambition is to seem to be alwaysbored to death in real life. You must have what the sweet but-notexemplary SWINBURNE calls "the lilies and languors of virtue" atWALLACK'S, to balance "the raptures and roses of vice" which you get atthe sensational shops. People may fall in love, in a mild way, as theydo in society, but they must not undergo the ravages of that passion,as it is exhibited out of society. They are, so to speak, vaccinatedfor love, and they are safe from the virulent confluent or even thevarioloid type of the original malady. They may also transact business,of a high-toned sort, and sometimes they get out of temper. But theirmain employment is to wander about and yawn, or to sit down and sneer.

There is a laborious lunatic who makes ice at the fair of theAmerican Institute, with the thermometer at 80° or so in the shade.(Note to Editor.—I don't know the man from ADAM, and have received noconsideration from him whatever for this allusion,) I believe his icecosts this ingenious individual about four dollars per pound tomake—but no matter. Well, this is exactly the trick by which you makesociety plays. ROBERTSON does it to perfection. He is the patentrefrigerator. And the man who did "The Two Roses" has plagiarized hisprocess and reproduced his results. I don't know whether the idea is tointerest people in what is uninteresting, or to uninterest people inwhat is interesting. But he does both.

Perhaps, however, some absurd person would like to knowsomething about this play. There is a commercial traveller in it, whois taken, by-the-by, bodily and even to his checked trousers, out ofone of ROBERTSON'S plays. The only addition that has been made is thatthis one swears. But then STODDART personates him. This commercialtraveller has a wife. To whom, by-the-by, did it ever occur, before theauthor of this play, that commercial travellers could have wives? Thewife of this itinerant commercial person is a stationary commercialperson, who keeps a boarding-house which the youths, the heroes of theplay, have the misery to inhabit. All this is undeniably low forWALLACK'S, and the sales-ladies in the audience express their sense ofthat fact by intimating that EFFIE GERMON'S jewels are not real, andthe sales-gentlemen by confiding to one another at the bar, whitherthey wend after the second act to quaff the maddening sarsaparilla,that WALLACK'S is running down.

As I have abused several revered institutions in these fewlines. I will, in terror of public opinion and private wrath, execute asmall variation on my usual and familiar autograph, and sign myself

PICADOR.

VORACIOUS VEGETATION.

It appears that our ever-active Park Commissioners are makingvigorous efforts to establish a Zoological Garden in Central Park. Ithas been generally supposed that gardens were either horticultural oragricultural; but if the Commissioners can get up anything of the kindwhich shall be zoological, Mr. PUNCHINELLO has not the least objectionin the world. He supposes that in such a garden the principal plantswill be Tiger-lilies, Cock's-combs, Larkspurs, Ragged Robins,Coltsfoots, Horse-chestnuts, Goose-berries, Dandelions, Foxgloves, andDog-wood. If full crops are desired, a good many pigeons and chickensshould be kept on the grounds, and that portion of the gardens devotedto leg-uminous products will probably be occupied by storks andgiraffes.

Q.

Is it likely that a set of Chinese gardeners would be able tomind, at the same time, both their Peas and their Queues?

"ENGLISH GRAMMAR INCLUDED."

1st Young Gentleman. "I TELL YOU WHAT, IT'S AWFUL HARDTO GET ANYTHING TO DO, JUST NOW."

2d ditto. "THAT'S SO. I SEEN AN ADVERTISEMENT YESTERDAYFOR A TUTOR IN A FAMILY, AND I'VE JUST BIN AND WROTE AN ANSWER."

THE QUEUE-RIOUS FUTURE.

Of all the queues which any man or any nation ever gave toanother, the Chinese have supplied us with the most queue-rious. Thearrived man from that celestial part of the world, who is now soindustriously engaged washing for us in New Jersey, and again, makingour shoes in Massachusetts, and who proposes to be our dairymaid, ourchambermaid, our barmaid, and, if BARNUM will go into the humbugbusiness again, our mermaid, brought the queue on the back of his headwhen he crossed the Pacific Ocean, and landed on the coast ofCalifornia. Thence he conveyed it across the Plains, and now ourmothers are going back to two queues such as those they worewhen the roses which bloomed upon their cheeks were not produced byrouge, and to comprehend the lessons in the school-books which theycarried was the severest trial which they knew, except, indeed, therestrained desire to get married. And our fathers will wear one tail,as did their ancestors, who curled those appendages gracefully aroundthe limbs of the trees while they played base-ball with cocoanuts, orvisited in that nimble manner in which none other than monkeys arecapable of moving about. Our great American agriculturist, too, who hasploughed so deeply in the Tribune office, is going to look likea Chinese; and she, who has given us our Caudle lectures now for manyyears past, will exhibit ANNA DICKINSON as a convert to two tails.Next, he who serves up for us our religion every once a week in theform of sanctimonious speeches on the subject of political economy,will let his congregation go behind Plymouth Pulpit for the purpose ofgetting their queues for the next Sunday love-feast by observing his.The "long" and the "short" of the new vanity, however, will be found infullest perfection among the bully-bears in Wall street, who, of allother honest men, are best able to teach the rising generation thesignificance of "heads I win, tails you lose." Then, again, in the farfuture perhaps some industrious antiquary will exhume an awful tail ofthe present generation that was invented by Mrs. H.B. STOWE, when shelooked across the Atlantic Ocean, and interviewed the ghost of BYRON.The future is going to be glorious and queue-rious for all who wish toup-braid, and when our fathers pass us, and we see their heads, we willbe convinced that thereby hangs a tail; also, when our mothers' headsgo by, that thereby hang two tails.

AN ODE-IOUS SUGGESTION.

Swinburne has written an ode to the French Republic. Thislofty rhyme is built up of strophes, anti-strophes, and an epode. Inits construction, and grandiloquence are thrown about with the carelessdisregard for innocent passers-by which characterizes that poet'sfreedom of style. Most probably no sane English-speaking person hasread it through and preserved his sanity. The poet's idea in writing itwas to get the French engaged in trying to understand it, and theGermans to engage in translating it, and thus stop the war by pureexhaustion of the combatants. The idea was good, but hardly practical.

SOCIAL SCIENCE BY TELEGRAPH.

The right of an independent Briton to beat his wife withoutbeing liable to impertinent foreign interference is well known to beone of the most precious privileges inherited from Magna Charta. Thenational use of this privilege is now generally considered, by socialphilosophers, to be the foundation of the love of "fair play," souniversally characteristic of the English. It is only upon this groundthat we can account for the following item recently telegraphed fromLondon as a special to the N. Y. Times.

"It is curious to see that, while the married men of the cityare against interference, all military and naval men are loud inexpressions of indignation because no effort is made by England to saveFrance from ruin."

As we see it, this is not curious at all. To the comprehensiveEnglish mind, the war in Europe is a mere family quarrel, on a largescale. But what is really curious the special does not tell us. Whatposition do the military and naval men take who happen to be married?

A GROWL FROM A BRITON.

Mr. Punchinello:—One of the balloon reporters from Paris says:

"Great care is taken to save food from waste. There is muchhorse-flesh eaten."

For a Frenchman in a state of siege horse-flesh is allright—the French eat frogs, you know, and horses have frogs in theirfeet. What I like about the thing in Paris, though, is that they callit horse-flesh, and don't try to jerk it on a fellow for beef. Jerkedbeef is bad enough, but only think of jerked horse, by Jove, you know!

Now I want to say that here in New York, not being in a stateof siege, we are eating a lot more horse-flesh than we know of, all thesame—but they call it beef.

Look here, now.

I take my grub, sometimes (only for the sake of seeing life,you know), at a decent sort of a place enough, to which butchersresort. There is a man always to be seen there at grub time, acockish-looking fellow, somewhat, with a horse-shoe pin in his scarf,and he is as thick as thieves with the butchers. Yesterday, for thefirst time, I got an inkling of who and what he is. I saw himperforming an operation upon a horse, in the yard of a livery stable.He is a VETERINARY SURGEON! He consorts with BUTCHERS! Put that andthat together, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, and see what you can make of it. Andthe duffer always eats mutton, too, or fish. I never yet heard him callfor beef. He knows all about nag, and likes it alive, but he is not tobe nagged into eating it. Neigh! neigh!

Yours, irascibly,

YORKSHIRE-PUDDINGHEAD.

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The first number of this Illustrated Humorous and Satirical WeeklyPaper was issued under date of April 2, 1870. The Press and the Publicin every State and Territory of the Union endorse it as the best paperof the kind ever published in America.

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