Chapter 2

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PATRIOTIC ADORATION.

A TALE OF PHILADELPHIA.

People of the Quaker City, How the world must stand aghast At your wondrous veneration For those relics of the past, Kept in such precise condition, Fostered with such tender care-- Don't, oh! don't the Philadelphians Love old Independence Square?

Splendid are its walks and grass-plots Where the bootblacks base-ball play, And its seats resembling toad-stools, On which loafers lounge all day, Waiting for their luck, or gazing At the office of the Mayor-- Don't, oh! don't the Philadelphians Love old Independence Square?

Then, behold the fine old State-house Cleanly kept inside and out, Where the faithful office-holders Squirt tobacco-juice about: Placards highly ornamental Decorate its outward wall-- Don't, oh! don't the Philadelphians Love old Independence Hall?

O! ye gods and little fishes! Could bill-sticker be so vile As to paste up nasty posters On the sacred classic pile? Greece and Rome yet have their relics, But what are they? very small. Never half so venerated As old Independence Hall.

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PERIODICAL LITERATURE.

PUNCHINELLO has hitherto refrained from criticising the periodicals of the day, from the mistaken idea that superlative excellence was not expected in every number of every daily or weekly journal in the land. He did not know that, if every such journal was not edited so as to suit the comprehension of all classes of cursory critics, it should be unqualifiedly condemned. Supposing that a painter should not condemn a paper for publishing a musical article beyond his comprehension, and that an architect ought not to get in a rage because he finds in his favorite journal a paper on beavers which makes him feel insignificant, PUNCHINELLO has generally looked around upon his fellow-journalists, and thought them very good fellows, who generally published very good papers. He did not find superlative excellence in any of their issues, but then he did not look for it. He might as well pretend to look for that in the journalists themselves, or in society at large. But he has lately learned, from the critics of the period, that he ought to look for it, and that it is the proper thing nowadays to pitch into every journal which does not, in every part, please every body, whether they be smart or dull; those quick of appreciation, or those slow gentlemen who always come in with their congratulations upon the birth of a joke at the time its funeral is taking place. And so, PUNCHINELLO will do as others do, and will occasionally view, from the loop-hole in his curtain, the successes and failures of his neighbors, and will give his patrons the benefit of his observations.

The first thing he notices to-day is, that the _Evening Snail_ of last night is not so good as it was a fortnight ago; or, let us think a bit--it may have been a good number at the beginning of last month that he was thinking of; at all events, this last issue is inferior. The matter on the first page is not printed in nearly as good type as the original periodicals had it, and while the letters in the heading are quite fair, it is very noticeable that the I's are very defective, and there is no C in it. The "Gleanings" are excellent, and it would be advisable to have more of them--if indeed such a thing were possible in this case. The spider-work inside shows no acquaintance with the writings of BACH or GLIDDON, and there is nothing about the Spectrum Analysis in any part of the paper. Besides, the paper is too stiff and rattles too much, and PUNCHINELLO could never abide the color of the editor's pantaloons. Why will not people dress and write so that every body can admire and understand them. Especially in regard to witty things and breastpins They ought to be loud, overpowering, and so glaring that people could not help seeing them. And they ought to be a little cheap, too, or average people won't comprehend them. In both cases paste (and scissors) pays better than diamonds. The reports of private parties in the _Snail_ are, however, very good, and if it would confine its original matter to such subjects, it could not fail to succeed.

* * * * *

A Query for Physicians.

Are people's tastes apt to become Vichy-ated by the excessive use of certain mineral waters?

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"Behold, how Pleasant a Thing 't is," etc.

Boston has a couple of clergymen who have fallen out upon matters not precisely theological. In the summer, the Rev. Mr. MURRAY leaves his sheep, to shoot deer by torchlight in the Adirondacks. This the Rev. Mr. ALGER, in addressing the Suppression of Cruelty to Animals Society, denounces as extremely wicked. From all which Mr. PUNCHINELLO, taking up his discourse, infers,

_First_. That it is a great deal more wicked to shoot deer by torchlight than by daylight.

_Secondly_. That the Rev. MURRAY and the Rev. ALGER are of different religious persuasions.

_Thirdly and lastly_. That the Rev. Mr. ALGER doesn't love venison.

P. S. Persons desiring to present Mr. PUNCHINELLO with a fine haunch, (in the season,) may shoot it by daylight, moonlight, torchlight, or by a Drummond light, as most convenient.

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We are indebted to Mr. SARONY for a number of brilliant photographs of celebrities of the day. Lovely woman is well represented the batch, with all the characters of which PUNCHINELLO hopes to present his readers, from time to time.

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New-York.

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PUNCHINELLO understands that a performance is soon to take place at the Academy of Music, for the benefit of GEORGE HOLLAND, the well-known and ever-green "veteran" of "the stage." It pleases PUNCHINELLO to know that a combination of talent and beauty is to be brought together for so worthy a purpose. Seventy-four years ago, when GEORGE HOLLAND was a small child, PUNCHINELLO used to dandle him upon his knee. Hardly four years have passed since PUNCHINELLO was convulsed by the _Tony Lumpkin_ of HOLLAND. He distinctly remembers, too, administering hot whiskey punch to little boy HOLLAND with a tea-spoon, which may in some measure account for the Spirit subsequently infused by the capital comedian into the numerous bits of character presented by him. Considering these facts, it is manifestly an incumbent duty on the part of PUNCHINELLO to request the earnest attention of his readers to the subject of GEORGE HOLLAND'S benefit, all particulars concerning which will be given due time through the public press. It used to be said, long ago, that "the Dutch have taken Holland," Well, let our own modern Knickerbockers improve upon that notion, by taking HOLLAND'S tickets. Remember how, in the early settlement of the country, it was Holland that made New-York, and see that New-York now returns the compliment, and makes HOLLAND. Convivial songsters frequently remind us that--

--"a Hollander's draught should potent be, And deep as the rolling Zuyder Zee."

Mind this, all ye Hollanders who would give your support to our HOLLAND. Let your drafts be potent, your cheeks heavy, your attendance punctual. Make the affair complete; so that when, here-after, a comparison is sought for something that has been a sued people will say of it--"As big as that Bumper of HOLLAND'S."

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ASTRONOMICAL CONVERSATIONS.

(BY A FATHER AND DAUGHTER RESIDING ON THE PLANET VENUS.)

No. I.

FATHER (_to_ DAUGHTER, _who is looking through a telescope_.) Yes HELENE, that is the Planet Tellus, or Earth. The darker streaks are land; the bright spots, water. We begin with a low power, which shows only the masses; presently you will have the pleasure of discriminating not only rivers and chains of mountains, but cities--single houses--even Human Beings! Yes, you shall this very night read page of PUNCHINELLO, a paper so bright that every word appears surrounded by a halo!

DAUGHTER. O father! do that _now_. How delightful, to actually read the works of these singular creature's, and become familiar with their extraordinary ideas! Were the scintillations you spoke of the other night, that were seen all over the Western Continent, the result of the flashing of these radiant pages?

F. Undoubtedly, my child; they began with the first issue of the paper, and have since regularly increased in brightness, just as It has.

D. It really seems as though Earth would answer for a Moon, by and by, at this rate!

F. You are quite right, HELENE; it will. Or say, rather, a Sun. For you will observe that it is a _warm_ light; not cool, as reflected light always is. It is Original.

D. Well, this shows that PUNCHINELLO must have some Heart, as well as Head. Come, put on your highest power now, and let us seem to pay good old Tellus a visit!

[_The indulgent Father complies, and, is at some pains to adjust the focus_.]

F. Now, dear! take a good look.

D. (_Looking intently_.) Oh! how splendid--how splendid! _Do_ see the beautiful things in those Shop Windows! It must be the Spring Season there! _Do_ see those lovely lumps on the backs of those creatures' heads! What place is it, Father?

F. That? It's New-York; and the street is the famous Broadway.

D. O dear! how I _would_ like to go shopping there, this minute!--for I see it is afternoon in that quarter. Is there no way of getting there?(!!!)

F. (_Laughing heartily_.) Well, well, HELENE! That's pretty good, for the daughter of an astronomer! Do you know that at this precise moment you are Forty-five Million, Six Hundred and Fifty-four Thousand, Four Hundred and Ninety-one Miles and a half from those Muslins! I'll tell you, Sis, what _could_ be done: Drop a line to the Editor of PUNCHINELLO, and tell him what you want. He'll get it, some way.

D. That I will, instantly! [_Turns to her portfolio, while her father turns to the telescope_.]

"DEAR MR. EDITOR: Pardon the seeming _boldness_ of a _stranger:_ you are no _stranger to me!_ Long, _long_ have I deceived that _good man_, my father, by _pretending_ to know _nothing_ of the Earth, or of his _instrument!_ Many and _many_ a night, _unknown to him_, have I gone to the _Telescope_, to satisfy the _restless craving_ I feel to know more of _your Planet_, and of a _person of your sex_ whom I have _often_ beheld, and watched with _eagerness_ as he came and went. How _thrilling_ the thought, that he cannot even _know of my existence_, and that we are _forever separated!_ This, good and _dear_ Editor, is my one Thought, my one great Agony.

"It has occurred to me that, in this _dreadful_ situation--my Passion being sufficiently Hopeless, as any one may see--you might at least afford me some slight _alleviation_, by undertaking to let Him know of the _interest_ he excites in this far-off star! Let me describe my charmer, so that you will be able to identify him. He is of fair size, with a rolling gait and a smiling countenance, has light hair and complexion, wears often a White Hat, (on the back of his head--where Thoughtful men always place the hat, I've been told by observers,) and now and then carelessly leaves one leg of his trowsers at the top of his boot. I have often seen him, with a bundle of papers in his pocket, entering a large building with the words "_Tribune_ Office" over the door--and I _adore_ him! O excellent Editor! tell him this, I _implore_ you! Be kind to your distant and _love-lorn_ friend,

HELENE."

F. What did you say, Helene?

D. I was saying that I wished to look a little longer at the fashions in Broadway.

F. Well, well--I believe the Fashions are all that these women think of! There--look away! I presume they have changed considerably since you looked before! When do you wish to begin your lessons in Astronomy?

D. Next week. Father; let me see: we will say, next week--Thursday.

F. Very well; I shall remind you.

D. (_who is determined to have the last word, any way_.) Very well.

* * * * *

Beach's Soliloquy on entering his Pneumatic Chamber.

"TU-BE or not tu-be."

* * * * *

Reflection by a Tallow-chandler.

Though a man be the Mould of fashion, yet he cannot light himself to bed by the Dip in his back.

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PLAYS AND SHOWS.

_MEN AND ACRES,_ the new comedy at WALLACK'S, is one of the best of TAYLOR'S pieces, and a decided improvement upon the carpenter work of BOUCICAULT. It has been rechristened by Mr. WALLACK, and its former name--_Old Men and New Acres, or New Aches and Old Manors,_ or something else of that sort--has been conveniently shortened. If it does not convince us that the author has improved since he first began to write plays, it certainly reminds us that there is such a thing as _Progress_. In the latter play, Mr. J.W. WALLACK was a civil engineer. In the present drama, he is an uncivil tradesman. Both appeal to the levelling tendencies of the age; and in each, the author has done his "level best"--as Mr. GRANT WHITE would say--to flatter the Family Circle at the expense of the Boxes.

The cast includes a Vague Baronet and his Managing Wife, their Slangy Daughter, their Unpleasant Neighbor and his wife and daughter, an Unintelligible Dutchman, an Innocuous Youth, a Disagreeable Lawyer, and the Merchant Prince. This is the sort of way in which they conduct themselves,

_Act_ 1. _Disagreeable Lawyer to Vague Baronet:_ "You are ruined, and your estate is mortgaged to a Merchant Prince. What do you intend to do?"

_Vague Baronet._ "I will ask my wife what I think about it."

_Enter Managing Wife._ "Ruined, are we? Allow me to remark, Fiddlesticks! Get the Merchant to take our third-story hall-bedroom for a week, and I'll soon clear off the mortgage."

_Enter Slangy Daughter._ "O ma! there was such a precious guy at the ball last night, and I had no end of a lark with him. Good gracious! here comes the duffer himself."

_Enter Merchant Prince. (Aside.)_ "So here's the Vague Baronet and his wife. And there's the slangy girl I fell in love with. Nice lot they are!" (_To Managing Wife._) "Madam, there is nothing, so grand as the majesty of trade. Your rank and blood are all gammon. We Merchant Princes are the only people fit to live. However, I'll condescend to speak to you."

_Managing Wife. (Aside.)_ "How noble! What a gentlemanly person he really is!" _(To Merchant Prince.)_ "Sir, I bid you welcome. Here is my daughter, who was just praising your beauty and accomplishments. I leave you to entertain her." (_Exeunt Baronet, Wife, and Lawyer_.)

_Merchant Prince (placing his chair next to Slangy Daughter's, and leaning his elbow on her.)_ "There is nothing like trade. We tradesmen alone are great. We despise the whole lot of clean and idle aristocrats. I keep a Gin Palace in Liverpool. Does your bloated aristocracy do half as much for suffering humanity?"

_Slangy Daughter._ "Speak on, speak ever thus, O Noble Being! It's awfully jolly!"

_Curtain falls, and Baker wakes up to lead his orchestra through the mazes of "Shoo Fly."_

_Appreciative Lady._ "Isn't it nice? Miss HENRIQUES'S dress is perfectly beautiful, and it sounds so cunning to hear her talk slang."

_Second Appreciative Lady._ "How handsome ROCKWELL looks! Just like a real baronet, my dear!"

_Other Appreciative Ladies._ "The dresses at WALLACK'S are always perfectly exquisite. I mean to have my next dress made with a green silk fichu, a moire antique bertha, and little point lace peplums and gussets, just like Miss MESTAYER'S. Won't it be sweet?"

_All the Counter-Jumpers in the Theatre._ "JIM WALLACK'S the boy! Don't he talk up to those aristocratic snobs, though?"

_Act 2. Enter Unpleasant Neighbor and Unintelligible German. The former says,_ "You're sure there's an iron mine on the Baronet's land?"

_Unintelligible German._ "Ya! Das ist um-um-um."

_Enter Merchant Prince and Slangy Daughter. Exeunt the other fellows._

_Merchant Prince._ "There is nothing like the grandeur of trade; and yet we tradesmen are not proud. See! I offer to marry you."

_Slangy daughter._ "I love you wildly! _(Aside.)_ I do hope he won't rumple my hair."

_Merchant Prince._ "Come to my arrums! The majesty of trade is so infinitely above any thing else"--_and so forth._

_Enter Managing Wife._ "Take her, noble Merchant, and be happy _(Aside.)_ This settles the affair of the mortgage." _(To Daughter)_ "Come, darling, we'll go and tell your father." _(They go.)_

_Enter Unpleasant Neighbor._ "Here's a telegram for you. No bad news, I hope?"

_Merchant Prince._ "I am ruined unless you lend me £40,000. Do it, and I will assign to you the mortgage on the baronet's property. The majesty of trade is something which"--

_Unpleasant Neighbor._ "Here it is." _(Aside.)_ "Now I'll get possession of the estate and the iron-mine."

_Enter Managing Wife._ "Ruined, are you? Of course you can't have my daughter now."

_Merchant Prince._ "I resign her. We tradesmen are infinitely greater than you aristocrats."

_Curtain falls, Baker wakes up. "Shoo Fly" by the Orchestra, and remarks on dress by the ladies as before. Counter-jumpers go out to drink to the majesty of trade, having grown perceptibly taller since the play began._

_Act 3. Unprincipled Neighbor to Unintelligible Dutchman._ "Have you got the analysis of the iron ore?"

_Unintelligible Dutchman._ "Ya! Das its um-um-um."

_Unprincipled Neighbor._ "All right! Now I'll foreclose the mortgage, and will be richer than ever."

_Enter Vague Baronet, and Wife and Daughter, and Lawyer. To them collectively remarks the Unprincipled Neighbor,_ "The mortgage is due. As you can't pay, you've got to move out."

_Disagreeable Lawyer._ "Not much! Here's an analysis of iron ore found on our land. We raised money on the mine, and are ready to pay off the mortgage."

_Enter Merchant Prince._ "Here's an analysis of the iron ore. I told them all about it. We tradesmen are great, but we will sometimes help even a wretched aristocrat."

_Slangy Daughter._ "Here's an analysis of the iron ore. Now I will marry my noble Merchant, and make him rich again; for there's dead loads of iron on the Governor's land, you bet!"

_They all produce analyses of the ore, and the play itself being o'er, the curtain falls._

_Exasperated critic, who has sent for twelve seats, and has been politely refused._ "I'd like to abuse it, if there was a chance; but there isn't. The play is really good, and I can't find much fault with the acting. However, I'll pitch into STODDARD for swearing, which his 'Unprincipled Neighbor' does to an unnecessary extent, and I'll say that JIM WALLACK is too old and gouty to play the 'Merchant Prince,' and doesn't quite forget that he used to play in the Bowery."

_Every body else._ "Did you ever see a play better acted? And did you ever see actresses better dressed?"

And PUNCHINELLO is constrained to answer the latter question with an emphatic No! As to the acting, it might be improved were Mr. STODDARD to play the character for which he is cast, instead of insisting upon playing nothing but STODDARD. But to all the rest of the actors, not forgetting Mr. RINGGOLD, who plays the insignificant part of the "Innocuous Youth," PUNCHINELLO is pleased to accord his gracious approval.

MATADOR.

* * * * *

A Balmy Idea.

According to Miss ANTHONY, the crying evil with women is that they will blubber; but it must be remembered that out of this blubber they make oil to pour into our conjugal wounds.

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A Suit for Damages.

Any clothes in a storm.

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* * * * *

HINTS UPON HIGH ART.

Observant visitors to the National Academy of Design will allow that a tendency to greatness is beginning to develop itself in certain directions among our artists. In landscape some of them are almost immense. The works of PORPHYRO warm the walls with rays of splendor, or cool the lampooned sight-line with pearly gradations, as the case may be. MANDRAKE renders feelingly the summer uplands and groves, and SILVERBARK the melancholy autumnal woods. BYTHESEA infuses with sentiment even the blue wreaths of smoke that curl up from the distant ridge against which loom the concentrated lovers that he selects for his idyllic romances. Gushingly he does his work, but thoroughly; and there are other flowers than lackadaisies to be discerned in his herbage. GUSTIBUS blows gently the foliage aside, and gives us glimpses through it of rural contentment in connection with a mill, or some other interesting object beyond. The pencil of SAGEGREEN imbues canvases, both large and small, with infinite variety and force; and it is to SKETCHMORE that the great lakes owe their remarkable reputation as pieces of water with poems growing out of their broad lily-pads. Very tender are the pastoral banks and brooksides of LEAFHOPPER. ELFINLOCKS takes up his pencil, and lo! a hazy, mazy, lazy, dreamy vista where it has touched. But hold! Our critical Incubus has taken the bit between her teeth, and is beginning to run away with us. Stop that; and let our readers enumerate the other first American landscape painters for themselves.

Not so strong are our artists in domestic incidents and compositions of life and character. We have STUNNINGTON, to be sure, whose traits of American expression, whether white or colored, are most true to the life; and there's BARLEYMOW, who will twist you an eclogue from the tail of his foreground pig. Others there be; but space has its limits, and we forbear.

As for our portrait limners, their name is Legion, and that comprehensive name must go for all. Like BENVENUTO CELLINI they shall be known for their jugs; and their transmission to posterity on the heads of families is a thing to be reckoned on as sure.

For the higher flights of art the American painter is by no manner of means endowed with the wings of his native eagle--wings that agitate the cerulean vault, spattering it with splashes of creamy cloud-spray, and churning into butter the stretches of the Milky Way. History has indeed been illustrated by American art, but has it been enriched? The WASHINGTONS and the WEBSTERS, the CLAYS and the LINCOLNS, have had their memories dreadfully lampooned on canvas. Allegory does not inspire the great American pencil. Tall art there is, and enough of it "at that;" but of high art we have none to speak of, except the canvases that are placed over doorways in the galleries of the Academy, and, in the sense of elevation, may consequently be spoken of as high. All this is wrong. Alas! that we should write it. Would that we could right it! And to think of the musty subjects that our historical and allegorical men select. Ho! young men--away with your CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS; relegate your METAMORA to his proper limbo; let WASHINGTON alone; and LINCOLN; and OSCEOLA the Savage; and POCAHONTAS, and all the rest. Leave them alone; and, taking fresh subjects, dip your brushes in brains, as old OPIE or somebody else said, and go to work with a will. No fresh subjects to be had, you say? Bosh! absurd interlocutor that you are. Here's a bundle of 'em ready cut to hand. We charge you no money for them, and you may take your choice.

SUBJECTS FOR WORKS OF HIGH ART.

PROVIDENCE tempering the wind to the shorn lamb.

ABSENCE OF MIND marking a box of paper shirt-collars with indelible ink.

MILTON "going it blind."