Chapter 2

Three more acts follow. ULRIC makes a dozen wishes, all of which are gratified, and all of which have the inevitable effect of transporting him into scenes pervaded by the female leg to an extent that easily reconciles him to the successive loss of five years of his life. He finally becomes King of Egypt, and, after having fought against the Crusaders in defence of those well-known Mohammedan gods, ISIS and OSIRIS, is carried down a trap by exulting demons. An Intolerable Comic Man opens up hitherto unknown wastes of dreariness, and sings a comic song that is positively more tedious than an article from the _Nation_. The Demoniac Servant is continually shot up through spring traps, in order to remark, "Ha! ha!" and to immediately disappear again. The Aged Mother travels from Flanders to Egypt without changing her dress or combing her back hair, for the vain purpose of begging "ULLERIC" to repent. Consumptive Knights fight terrific broad-sword duels with a thirst for combat that beer alone is subsequently able to allay. The Virtuous HEROINE displays a very neat pair of ankles, but without winning "ULLERIC" from the devil of his ways. Half a dozen ballets are successively introduced, in which the skirts of the dancers are seen to decrease as rapidly and steadily as the stripes on ULRIC'S magic collar.

Finally, a grand Transformation Scene, which has nothing whatever to do with the play, exhibits the best legs of the company in the most favorable attitudes, and the green baize curtain falls upon the great spectacle of the day.

_Virtuous Matron._ "Well, I never! It's positively indecent. I'd like to take a whip to those shameless hussies."

_Sceptical Husband._ "PAGE offered me a proscenium box the other day. Suppose we take it to-morrow night?"

_Virtuous Matron._ "I'll go to please you, my dear. And really the scenery is pretty."

_Wretched Man, who is shameless enough to admit that he likes it._ "I like it. The ballet's good, the scenery is splendid, and the music might be worse. Why don't these ladies, who come here and sit it through, have the honesty to admit that they come because they like it? But no; they go away, and at the next party, where they wear dresses lower in the neck than any I've seen on the stage to night, they'll abuse the poor girls who have danced here for their amusement. Their malignant modesty does not deserve the respect of an intelligent _figurante_. If they are sincere, why do they come here?"

Which question still puzzles the perturbed mind of _MATADOR_.

Give 'em Rope.

We clip the following from the _Express_:

"There seem to be more legal loopholes for convicted murderers to escape through than for any other class of criminals."

That is too true, by a great deal. There should be but one "legal loophole" for a convicted murderer, and the authorities should not let him escape through the loop of it—they should Knot.

THE "TOBACCO PARLIAMENT" OF OHIO.

For genial law-making in America commend us to the Ohio House of Representatives. While we haven't learned that the legislation of this august body has been particularly hazy of late, we think it must have been wholesome, for we are assured that much of it has been thoroughly "fumigated" through the exertions of the majority of its members, who perform their functions with pipes in their mouths, while drawn up in semi-circle around a couple of fire-places built expressly for their accommodation—"one on each side of the speaker's desk," Who _wouldn't_ legislate, (and early, too,) if he could do it with his feet on the fender, his well-flavored Havana or best Virginia leaf in his mouth, and the privilege of cracking jokes and telling naughty stories _ad interim?_ Go it, ye Buckeye lawmakers! Shall we hear of any sympathy for Cuba in that quarter?

A "Woman's Physic."

(MRS. C—N TO MRS. MCF—D.)

"My Darling, I have found a panacea for all woes, In Man:

_When one man will not suit or stay,__

Then get another, right away."_

CABLE NEWS.

[EXCLUSIVELY FOR PUNCHINELLO.]

GREAT BRITAIN.

The Great PUNCHINELLO dinner has come off! JENKINS was there, and was to have telegraphed an account. But he was not so well as usual the next day, the Thames water having got into his head. JENKINS never _could_ take much water. So your correspondent is obliged to trust to his memory—unaffected by the water, which he did not take.

Old London Tavern was the scene of this banquet, given by the _literati_ of England in honor of the long-wished-for coming of PUNCHINELLO. The dining-hall was decorated for the occasion with appropriate portraits. There were HOGARTH, CERVANTES, ADDISON, MOLIÈRE, SWIFT, STERNE, GOLDSMITH, TOM HOOD, IRVING, THACKERAY, DICKENS, and ARTEMUS WARD. A number of the waiters were costumed in character. From my seat, I recognized SAM WELLER, (right behind me;) the Fat Boy of _Pickwick;_ SANCHO PANZA, and JEAMES YELLOWPLUSH.

Mr. PUNCH was represented at the head of the table so well that you could know him at once from his weekly frontispiece. On one side of him sat CHARLES DICKENS; on the other, your humble ambassador. It would be rather invidious to name the other hundred guests; not to be there was to be nowhere in literature. Near me there sat Lord LYTTON, TOM HUGHES, PRÉVOST PARADOL, EDMOND ABOUT, CHARLES KINGSLEY, PAUL FÉVAL, and the Rev. JOHN CUMMING.

Asking, in a whisper, of Mr. PUNCH how the latter very staid individual came to be there, I understood that, of all the absurd men of this century, he was selected as the most representatively preposterous. The PRINCE OF WALES was not asked, lest his morals might be hurt by something that was said. And it is so important, you know, for the British nation—(for the rest, see the _Saturday Review_.) And then Madame GEORGE SAND was to be there, who sometimes wears trowsers.

MATTHEW ARNOLD was spoken to about it; but he replied gruffly,

"PUNCHINELLO is Goliath of the Philistines!" and declined.

JOHN STUART MILL was too busy over his next book, which is to be "On the Subjection of Horses." But every body else was there, so we did not miss these grave and reverend seigniors.

How the twenty-five courses came on and went off, from the ox-tail soup and salmon to the dessert, it would need the tongue or pen of SOYER or PIERRE BLOT to narrate; as it needed the capacity of a FALSTAFF to do justice to them. And then, when the cover was removed, came the time of trial to your correspondent. "The Queen" and "the President" were drunk with all the honors. Then Mr. PUNCH called out, through his magnificent old nose, so that you might have heard him across the Channel, "Health and long life to PUNCHINELLO!"

Now, your correspondent had remembered Mr. HAWTHORNE'S experience at a Lord Mayor's dinner, and had begged Mr. PUNCH by all means to let him off without a speech. But, more worldly-wise than HAWTHORNE, he didn't believe that Mr. PUNCH would keep his promise; so he had prepared a speech, beginning, "Not anticipating any occasion to open my lips in this illustrious company, you must allow me to speak altogether on the impulse of the moment." (Hear, hear.) So this had to be delivered; but for the rest of it, and of the dinner, you must wait for my next telegram. Mr. PUNCH is going to have the speech published in pamphlet form, for distribution among his numerous constituents. So, now for the rest of my _news_.

FRANCE.

The PRINCE OF MONACO has declared war against France. OLLIVIER proposes to send the PRINCE IMPERIAL to extinguish him with a corps of infantry, armed with popguns; no one to be admitted to the corps who is more than four years old. MONACO aspires to be a sort of LOPEZ.

TURKEY.

Sultan ABDUL AZIZ has just had a visit from a friend of JOHN BRIGHT'S. To the surprise of every body, even his most intimate friends, the Sultan immediately made up his mind to turn Quaker! He came down stairs, and went into mosque, the other day, with a broad-brimmed hat, straight coat, and drab trowsers; and insisted on all the ladies of his _hareem_ putting on plain bonnets, and holding a "silent meeting" in the Seraglio! How it bothered them to do that last thing you may well suppose! More anon, from PRIME.

A Bit of Fish.

SECRETARY FISH is said to preserve a decidedly spruce appearance at the State Dinners. Fish is nothing if not Fin-ical.

FISH SAUCE.

The sight of a thick, four-pound steak, just cut from a halibut that must have weighed, (the idea of a fish wading!) some two hundred pounds, reminds us that trout-fishing is just now in full operation. What a strange, weird mystery there is about mental associations! Long, long ago, we possessed a favorite trout-rod fitted with a Hollow Butt, and so it is that whenever we see a Halibut, trouting comes to our mind.

Yesterday, frogs were croaking, and insects all in green livery, with gilt buttons, contributed to Nature's Great Boston Jubilee of music with their hum. How ridiculous it seems that insects should have a hum!—and yet the Bee has its Hum in its hive.

It is at this season that enthusiastic anglers always get water on the brain. Their dreams are of gurgling brooks. They have visions of mill-ponds, with beautiful little cascades sluicing into them over dams. They stand, in imagination, on bridges, in the eddies beneath which they discern the wagging of silvery tails and rosy fins; and a very common form of nightmare with them is to fancy that the reel of the fishing-rod won't work, just as they are going to wind up a four-pound trout.

Now, also, is the time when friend gives much advice to friend on the subject of the "gentle art." (A trout's opinion on this branch of art, by the by, would be worth having. Perhaps he might not consider it so gentle.)

One student of the angle will say to another, "Always fish up the stream. Fish lie with their heads to the current and their tails in the opposite direction: therefore, by casting up-stream, you run the less chance of being seen by them."

Another says, "Be sure you make your casts down-stream; your bob-flies like it better, as you can see by the way they dance on the ripples."

Quoth another, "Always soak your casting-lines with water before you start for the river-side;" while a fourth instructs you never to straighten your lines with water, but by passing them through a piece of India rubber doubled between the finger and thumb.

_Our_ advice is, Never cast against the wind. In fact, you can't do it; and if you try it, you run the risk of getting _strabismus_—that is, the Cast in your eye. Artificial flies, like artificial flowers, never should follow nature. Manufacturers of both articles perfectly understand this; and hence the superiority of their productions to the mere realities that flutter and bloom for their brief hour, and then die. There is nothing in entomology so beautiful as a well-busked trout or salmon fly. And then it is comparatively indestructible. Take a natural May Fly and squeeze it in your hand. It is reduced to a pulp. Try the same experiment with an artificial one, and its plumage remains unruffled—which is more than you do, since the chance is that you will have to employ a surgeon to extract the hook from the ball of your thumb.

We are assured by a broker, who, in Spring-time, always becomes a brooker, that by far the surest lure for a large trout is the Greenback Fly. He is acquainted with a man who, whenever he goes a-fishing, always has a four-pound trout to pack in ice and send up to a friend in the city. By post, a letter is dispatched to the same quarter, containing a warm description of the playing and landing of that noble fish. The sender usually states that he captured it with the famous fly known to anglers as the Green Drake. Facts are against him, though; and it is well understood by his friends that the fish was first taken by some poaching rascal with a scoop-net, and subsequently hooked by the angler with a five-dollar Greenback Fly.

Nothing in life is more beautiful than a five-dollar Greenback Fly—except, of course, a ten-dollar one, or one of indefinitely larger denomination.

Provided with this most charming and effective of lures, the angler is always sure to fill his creel. He incurs no fatigue in doing so, either, for all the boys of the village become his humble servants to command; and if there be a four-pound trout in the miller's pond, he is sure to hook it with the Greenback Fly, while the boys generally "hook it" also, lest the miller should catch them at their tricks.

_How to make the Greenback Fly_—Give it to your wife. Much has been said concerning the efficacy of the Water Fly as a lure. For our own part, we have not tried it. We know rather less about it than we do about the Water Cure; but we cheerfully print the following directions on the subject, taken from the fly-leaf of an old book.

_How to make the Water Fly_: Fall into it.

HALL AND HAYES.

The friends of Dr. HAYKS and those of Captain HALL are engaged in a heated discussion as to which of the two ought to be sent by Congress in search of the North Pole. As the public does not know who is right and who is wrong, we present our readers with the arguments of each party; so that they can decide which explorer is the man for the post—we should say, pole.

WHAT THE HAYES PARTY SAYS.

1. The Pole being surrounded by water, must be reached by boats. HAYES is a sailor and HALL is not. Therefore HAYES is the man to sail to the Pole.

2. HAYES is a Bostonian; HALL is a Western man. Bostonians are famed for their skill in prying into every thing; while Western men stupidly mind their own business. Therefore HAYES is naturally fitted to become an explorer.

3. HALL spent his time while in the Arctic Region in the society of Esquimaux. HAYES attended to his ship, and lived on pork and beef like a Christian. Therefore HAYES is the better man.

4. HAYES understands the use of instruments, and can take observations of the temperature of hot springs, if any are found. HALL knows nothing about instruments, and could not tell the time by a barometer if his life depended upon it. Therefore HAYES should be the Congressional favorite.

5. HALL is hot-tempered and once killed one of his crew. HAYES is a cool man and never killed any body, except as a medical practitioner. Cool men are at home in the Arctic Region. Therefore send HAYES.

WHAT THE HALL PARTY SAYS.

1. If the Pole is surrounded by water, it must be a visible point of land. HALL is a landsman, and therefore the proper man to send in search of land. To send a sailor like HAYES in quest of land would be absurd. Therefore HALL is the right man.

2. HALL is a steady, hardworking, energetic Western man. HAYES is a meddling Yankee. Of course HALL is the better man for carrying out a difficult enterprise.

3. HALL has lived in the Arctic land as the Arctic people do; while HAYES knows nothing of the people of that region. Therefore HALL is by far the best man to send.

4. HAYES can have no use for his instruments in a place where there is nothing but ice. HAYES would, therefore, only add to the cost of the expedition. HALL can take all necessary observations with his eyes, which cost Congress nothing and are easily carried. Therefore HALL is by all odds the man for the expedition.

5. If HALL is hot-tempered, so much the better. He will keep warm with less consumption of fuel. That he killed a mutineer is proof of his resolute adherence to discipline. HAYES would never enforce discipline if he dared to inflict no more punishment for mutiny than a draught of Epsom salts. Therefore HALL is plainly the man to command an exploring party.

Here we have the arguments which both sides advance, and our readers can easily make up their minds. As for ourselves, the true course for Congress to pursue seems so plainly evident that if we were asked which is the best man, the Doctor or the Captain, we should unhesitatingly answer in the negative.

CINCINNATUS SWEENY

(Adapted from AUTHOR'S Classical Dictionary, p. 351.)

"CINCINNATUS had retired to his patrimony, aloof from popular tumults. The successes of the Equi, (young Democracy,) however, rendered the appointment of a Dictator necessary, and CINCINNATUS was chosen to that high office. He laid aside his rural habiliments, assumed the ensigns of absolute power, levied a new army, marched all night to bring the necessary succor to the Consul MINCIUS, (W. M. TWEED,) who was surrounded by the enemy and blockaded in his camp, (Albany,) and before morning surrounded the enemy's army, and reduced it to a condition exactly similar to that in which the Romans had been placed. The baffled Equi were glad to submit to the victor's terms, and CINCINNATUS, returning in, triumph to Rome, (New-York,) laid down his dictatorial power after having held it only fourteen days, and returned to his farm" (Central Park.)

SPRING FEVER,

In such a joyous way? If it were as you say, Wouldn't _I_ know it, who know every thing!

"Ethereal mildness!" Pshaw! what nonsense, man! Pooh! "Gentle spring," indeed! It makes my liver bleed To hear you talk as only idiots can.

But you're no idiot, THOMSON; _that_ I'll say! I'll yield another bit: I'm ready to admit The Seasons may have altered since your day.

At any rate, JAMES, in the windy West (Which wasn't in your eye— At least, not frequently) Your boasted Spring is _not_ a gentle guest.

My patience, no! She's the reverse of that! Ah! hear her savage roar; (So often heard before!) And there (confound it!) goes my new Spring hat.

Alas! what means this stupid somnolence? Why do my pulses go So "melancholy slow"? Why can't I think? why always "on the fence"?

O dews and fogs! O rain and snow and slush! O various other things! My soul! what need of wings: Yes, "Spring's delights" are coming with a rush!

But stay, friend THOMSON—what you say is true: Here _is_ a nice warm day! The breezes softly play— Then why, oh! _why_ then, do I feel so blue?

One "would not die in Spring-time," certainly— Nor any other season, For the same reason— But if one can't eat dinner, why _not_ die?

Is there no panacea for such ills? Oh! yes, a jolly one: I find it in the dun! In landlords', butchers', grocers', tailors' bills!

The Difference.

GOLDEN calves were worshipped by men of old. Modern men prefer to worship saw-dust calves.

Dramatic Query.

Is Canada to be the Theatre of a Fenian War? It seems that the Canadian Volunteers think so; and, to do justice to the performance, they have taken possession of the whole Front-tier.

The Original Bow. The EL-bow.

AN EXCELLENT OLD SONG MADE NEW.

BY A DEFAULTER.

Is there for his dishonesty Who hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by, And dare to steal for a' that. For a' that and a' that, Our grabs and games, and a' that, Our business is to make a pile And swindle SAM, and a' that.

What though the people curse and swear At losing gold, and a' that? Their fiercest wrath we'll proudly bear, And cash is cash for a' that. For a' that and a' that, Their lawyers, courts, and a' that. The lucky rogue who wins his pile Is king of men for a' that.

The President knows how to beat In battle, siege, and a' that; But we're the lads for swift retreat, Although he growl, and a' that. For a' that and a' that, Our bonds and oaths and a' that, A bouncing swag's the better thing For gentlemen, and a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it shall for a' that, That plundering gents may keep the sway, And help themselves, and a' that. For a' that and a' that. Leg bail's the thing, and a' that; For travelling improves the mind, The body saves, and a' that.

THE THIRTEENTH MAN IN THE OMNIBUS.

The New-York omnibus was constructed to seat and carry twelve persons; certainly not more. Indeed, when twelve men, of nominal size, sit squarely on the seats and do not clownishly cross their legs, one may ride in an omnibus with comfort. Nay, with these conditions, he _may_ generally escape having his toes crushed, his shins kicked, his shoes soiled, or his trowsers daubed with mud by his neighbor. But alas! how often is this paradisiacal state disturbed by the intrusion of "the thirteenth man in the omnibus."

Shall I attempt to portray the creature? He is pretty well known, and perhaps the picture will be recognized. Sometimes he may be seen standing at the corner of the street lying in wait for the "bus." He is never known to walk toward its starting-place, lest he might be confounded with the "twelve" by getting inside before the seats are filled. No; he is "nothing if not" odd. His very hat never sits squarely upon his head like the hat of a gentleman. It is either elevated in front like a sophomore's, or depressed on one side, as if he had just come from a cheap spree in the Bowery, or was troubled with some obtrusive "bump" that kept his hat awry. If by chance he gets a seat inside the omnibus, (as "accidents will happen," etc.,) he must cross his legs and wipe the mud from his ill-shod feet upon your trowsers or your wife's dress.

Indeed, methinks it was he who invented sitting cross-legged in a public vehicle. Do savages ever sit thus when in close company? I have never been able to imagine what special human sin this ingenious mode of annoyance was meant to punish. It has been suggested that it might be the man's pantomimic protest against sitting at all. But the saddest commentary upon this vice of our hero is, that by some mysterious magnetism of awkwardness and ill-breeding, he has betrayed into imitation of it men whose early education has been less neglected than his own.

Sometimes, as he gets into the "'bus," he carries in his hand or mouth the stump of a half-burned, extinct cigar, which fills the atmosphere with a rank and sickening odor. More frequently he is dressed in well-worn black, and his clothes reek with noisome exhalations of stale tobacco-smoke. Shall I finish his picture? I verily believe he is the original Loafer.

Methinks I see him in my mind's eye. I am riding in a Broadway ominibus. I have just handed up my fare, and, taking my seat, have surrendered myself to a sweet half-hour of reverie. I disdain to spoil my eyes or waste my time by newspaper-reading. I dream, and save my time for better things, as I conceive.

The stage is full. "Twelve inside." The driver does not seem to get along. He is constantly stopping or turning his horses to the sidewalk, right or left. You wonder what is the matter. You begin to think the whole town is striving to get a ride down with you in that particular "'bus." At every street-corner we linger or stop. Suddenly the door is pulled open with a jerk and our enemy leaps in. He sees the seats are filled, but he does not hesitate. There is always room for him. Indeed, his "spirit rises with the occasion." He becomes pertinacious as he is offensive. He tramples upon more than one pair of feet in his struggle to reach the middle of the omnibus. The passengers patiently submit to the intrusion with that quiet good nature with which Americans usually suffer imposition invasive of good manners, or petty social rights. They seem to feel they can "stand it" if he can.