Chapter 4

Captain EYRE has returned to England, and asks, on the above grounds, that he be reinstated in command of his ship. It would be absurd to refuse so just a request. His defence could not well be more full unless he were to strengthen it with an alibi. If Mr. SOLOMON PELL still pursues the practice of the law, Captain EYRE should at once employ that eminent barrister to prove an alibi for him. His justification would then be too conclusive to admit of question.

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CRITICISM OF THE PERIOD.

[AFTER THE MANNER OF THE "NATION."]

Milton's Paradise Lost.--The demand for a new edition of this cumbrous piece of blank verse, proves what we have often said, that the want, in CROMWELLS time, of a literary journal of the character of the Nation has had a permanent effect upon literature. Had we been in existence when that obstinate and pedantic old Puritan wrote, we might have suppressed him. Still, there is no knowing what women and children will not read. While MILTON'S lines certainly measure generally about the same length, it is preposterous to call by the name of poetry what could be written in prose with so little modification. It is true that the same objection might be applied to HOMER and SHAKSPEARE. The former has the advantage of being written in Greek, so that very few people can read it. SHAKSPEARE has a popularity that is partly accounted for by the low taste of the people who have gone to the theatre to hear SIDDONS rave and GARRICK declaim, or who will persist in admiring MACREADY and BOOTH.

As to MILTON, we have detected, with the aid of foot-notes to an old edition, a multitude of the most absolute plagiarisms from various authors. From the Bible mainly, and also from the Greek and Latin poets, he has taken nearly all his ideas; and every one of the words he uses are to be found in the dictionary. Talk of originality, after that! His conceptions also are sometimes absurd; for instance, the Address to Light. No one, who has not been stultified by theological nebulosities, ought to fail to know, as we knew when we first began to go to school, that a blind man cannot see anything at all. Therefore it is an insult to the understanding, and paltering with all the rational inductions of modern science, for an educated writer, stone blind, to say a word about light.

In fact, the whole plot of the poem flies in the face of the cultivation of the Nineteenth Century. Such ideas as Paradise, Adam and Eve, and angels, are getting obsolete. While it is not to be expected that ordinary persons should have the intelligence or learning of the Editor and contributors of the Nation, we yet wonder that they are not always ready to abide by the instruction we are prepared to give them, at the small price of five dollars a year. Subscriptions received at this office.

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INTERIOR ILLUMINATION.

It gives us joy to state that the celebrated Dr. MILIO (of whom we have never heard before) has invented a means of illuminating men's interiors. The doctor lives in Russia; and he takes you and throws inside of you "a concentrated beam of electric light;" and then he sees exactly what particular pill you want, and he gives it to you, and you go away (after paying him) exultant! This quite does away with the necessity of a bow-window in the bosom, so much desired by a certain ancient philosopher.

Mr. PUNCHINELLO begs leave most respectfully to announce that he has determined to import, at any expense whatever, one of Dr. MILIO'S Concentrated Electric Beamers. With this Dr. PUNCHINELLO does not intend to engage in private practice. His purpose is to throw the light directly into the Body Politic, whether the B.P. requests him to do it or not. Dr. P. confidently expects to make some most extraordinary discoveries of various diseases--of greed, foolish ambition, ossification of the heart, moral leprosy, chronic stupidity, latent idiocy, and that very common and often unsuspected complaint usually known as Humbug. (Humbugna Communis.) His fee in no case will exceed ten cents per week; and patients WILL BE illuminated by the year.

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THE DREADFUL STATE OF THINGS OUT WEST.

A dispatch received at this office from the office of the Chicago Tribune states that the utmost public distress is prevailing in St. Louis. A frightful pestilence is raging, complete anarchy prevails, most of the merchants have gone into insolvency, and ruin stares St. Louis in the face in the most aggravating way.

A dispatch from the St. Louis Democrat states that the utmost public distress is prevailing in Chicago. A frightful pestilence is raging, complete anarchy prevails, most of the merchants have gone into insolvency, etc., etc.

A dispatch, from the _Cincinnati Gazette_ states that the utmost public distress is prevailing in both, St. Louis and Chicago. A frightful pestilence is raging, complete anarchy prevails, most of the merchants have gone into insolvency, etc., etc., etc.

The most painful part of the matter, in Mr. PUNCHINELLO'S benevolent eyes, is that each city appears to be perfectly delighted with the misfortunes and miseries of both the others. Instead of getting up subscriptions for each other, they chuckle and crow in a perfectly fiendish manner. Until they can behave better, we shall postpone the subscription which we propose to open in their behalf.

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A Capital Letter.

The property-holder who Lets his houses at reduced rents.

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COLONEL FISK'S SOLILOQUY.

THE NINTH TEMPTATION.

Would I were young enough, to go to school, Or could but pitch upon some golden rule For knowing what I am, and what to do, When to the public gaze I am on view. I'm Colonel, Admiral, and President, A theatre manager, and resident Director of the Opera House, and mine Are Erie and the Boston steamboat line. Of merchant, banker, broker, every shade Am I; in fact, a Jack of every trade. More varied than the hues of the Chameleon; Far heavier than Ossa piled on Pelion Are all my duties! Really it's confusing, At times, to a degree that's quite amusing. When am I this, when that, when which, when what? And am I always FISK, or am I not? Thus, constantly I get into a fix, And one thing with another sadly mix; Many a time absurd mistakes I've made In giving orders. When I'm on Parade, And ought to say, "Fours Right," by Jove! I'm certain To holloa out, "Come, hurry up that curtain!" Going to Providence the other night, I ordered all the hands, "Dress to the Right!" I saw my error, and called out again, "Hold on! I meant to say, The Ladies' Chain." At Matinee the other afternoon, When all the violins seemed well in tune, I sang out to the Bell Boy, "What's the hitch? If the Express is due, you'd better switch!" My order seemed the boy to overwhelm-- "Lubber!" I cried, "why don't you port your helm?" I made a speech the other night at mess, And what my toast was, nobody will guess; It should have been, "The Union"--'twas, "Be cheery, Boys! the toast we have to drink is--Erie." The boys laughed loudly, being the right, sort, And said, "Why, Admiral! you're hard a _port_." One time, when GOULD and I were on the cars, I thought th' officials of the train were tars; Told them to "Coil that rope and clean the scuppers, And then go down below and get your suppers." This must be changed, or my good name will suffer, And folks will say, JIM FISK is but a duffer. To feel myself a fool and lose my head, Too, takes the gilding off the gingerbread; And makes me ask myself the reason why On earth I have so many fish to fry? The fact is, what I touch must have a risk Of failure, or it wouldn't suit JIM FISK, I'll conquer this, too--keep a secretary To help me out when I'm in a quandary. I will not budge! My banner is unfurled, Proclaiming FISK the Problem of the world.

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Query for Lawyers.

If a man throws a huge stone at his wife's head, would he escape punishment on the plea that he only meant to Rock her to sleep?

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A Spring Blossom.

Blossom Rock, in San Francisco Harbor, has just been blown up with gunpowder. Of course Blossom Rock went "up as a Flower".

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Justice in the New Territory.

Whatever lack of law there may be in Alaska, PUNCHINELLO is quite sure that there is Just-ice enough in that domain to satisfy all demands.

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A Rumor.

It is rumored that the Fenian Organization have offered Mr. FECHTER the position of Head Centre, in recognition of the merciless manner in which he mangles the Queen's English.

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* * * * *

NOW WE SHALL HAVE IT.

It has always been one of the sorrows of our life that we were prevented (by business) from being present at the building of the Tower of Babel. To say nothing of the great knowledge which we should have acquired of the ancient languages, it would have been jolly to have marked the foreman of the works swearing at the laborers in Syriac, while they answered him in Hebrew, Chaldee, and the Chinese tongue. However, as a next best thing, we shall attend the meeting of the American Woman Suffrage Association, which will be held in Washington during the next session of Congress. We have as much regard as any body for the drums of our ears; but for the sake of a new sensation, we shall be willing to risk them. We can imagine at this moment, the astounding effect of the Grand Double Palaver! All the Senators and Representatives are either barking, or bawling, or screaming, or shouting, or yelling in the Capitol, while, to complete the elocutionary duet, all the American women are simultaneously indulging the unruly and unbridled member. What the precise effect will be we don't profess to say; but we confidently predict some valuable discovery in the science of acoustics.

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FORTY-FOUR TO FOURTEEN.

[IN WHICH THE YOUNG MEN OF THE PERIOD ARE TAKEN IN HAND.]

Forty-four is going to talk (with a pen) to Fourteen. I am a female; and forty-four, as just hinted, is my age. Fourteen is also a female--just the age I was once. How I recollect that day! I was full of romance and hope; now I've no romance, little hope, and some wrinkles. It is a fine thing to be fourteen. I should like to go back there, and make a long visit. But that can't be. How much I wish it could! If only there were life-renewers as well as hair-renewers! They called me pretty at fourteen--said I had pretty ways, (one of them was one hundred and thirty-five avoirdupois,) and would certainly be a belle. But I proved too much for that. One hundred and seventy-five cut off all hope. I sighed, ate nothing, studied poetry, did a good deal of melancholy by moonlight and otherwise, but nothing came of it. I made myself as agreeable as possible; but it was the old story--I was too much for 'em--I mean the young men of the period. I dressed and gave parties. I took lessons in singing of Sig. Folderol, and in dancing of Mons. Pigeonwing, and could sing cavatinas and galop galops with the best of them. Ma said I was an angel, and Pa declared I was perfect. But none of the young men said so. My dear Fourteen, it may be just so with you. Your ma and pa may say you are angelic and perfect; but where's the use of it, if nobody else can be made to see it? I tried my best to catch the young men in my net. But, provoking things, they wouldn't be caught. Between ourselves--mind, don't blab it out--young men are the greatest noodles that were ever put upon the face of the earth. I never yet saw one that could be depended upon to stand by. I am sure, as you know, no one ever stood by me--when there was a parson at hand. At fourteen I didn't much care where they stood, if it wasn't on my corns. Twenty years later I shouldn't have been so particular. But I don't much mind now, bless you! _You_ wont at forty-four. There's nothing to these young men. All talk, pretence, audacity, and paper collar, I assure you. I've studied all of them. They are the same now as then. Human nature, you know, my dear Fourteen, is the same yesterday, to-day, and week after next. I used to think it wasn't; now I know it is. These young men--monsters that they are--will pour the nectar of compliments over your face, and the acid and canker of abuse down your back; and all in the same breath, if they get a chance. Pray have an eye and an ear out for them. If you go to Long Branch, or Newport, or Saratoga, or the White Mountains this summer, just look out for them. They are dreadful creatures at home in the cities, but doubly dreadful at these resorts. You are young, simple, unsophisticated. I was at your age. But I soon got over such weaknesses. You must very soon, or be a ninny. "Simple," "artless," "unsophisticated," and such terms mean simply softness. Whatever else you are, or are not, don't be soft. The mistake of my fruitless life has been that I believed, in other years, all that was told me by the other sex. They said to my face that I was a beauty; at Mr. Jones's, they said I was a fright. They said I sang like a Patti; at Brown's, I screeched like an owl. They said I danced like Terpsichore; at Smith's, they declared I wabbled round like any other lame duck. They said my taste in dress was the pink of perfection; at the Duzenbury's, I was scandalously deficient in every thing of the sort. It's a way the young men of that day had with all the girls; and they go the same vile way now. Pray don't have any thing to do with them. I don't, and I wouldn't for the world. Folks say I'm prejudiced against em; but it isn't so--I hate 'em. It is healthy to hate what is hateful. It is healthy to hate a bundle of broadcloth, kerseymere, buttons, and brass, and it's my delight by day and dream by night. I'm forty-four--you're fourteen. I've seen the world--you haven't. You look through rosy glasses; I through the clear, naked eye. My advice to you on the young men question is this: Discount nine words in every ten spoken to you as absolute trash--the gush of mere evaporative sentiment. If you are called pretty, graceful, accomplished, neat in dress, comely in person, that your eyes sparkle like diamonds, and your lips are poetic, with whole volumes of such, just make up your mind that there are plenty of fools around trying to make a sillier one than themselves. It may seem very fine for the moment, but it will realize something very different afterward. Suppose you are _not_ caught up? All the better. I'm forty-four, independent, free, a slave to no man nor monkey. Better live, to write your own tale than be the abject one to another. Better be forty-four and yourself, than a cipher belonging to some body else. Far better beware of the young men than be worn by them. At least so thinks and says

FORTY-FOUR.

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A NEW RAILWAY PROJECT.

While every one agrees that a railway running through the city of New-York, and transporting passengers with rapidity from one end of the island to the other, is an absolute necessity, no one has yet hit upon a plan which satisfies the public. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals objects to the Elevated Road, on the ground (though it is in the air) that the cars will continually run off the track, and, falling on the horses and dogs in the street below, crush them to a fatal jelly. The Arcade plan is objectionable to the shop-keepers, inasmuch as it will change the great thoroughfare into a street consisting exclusively of cellars, thereby driving the buyers elsewhere. Conservative people, who like old things, naturally dislike the Pneumatic Railway, and vehemently assert that "they'll be blowed if they travel over it," which will undoubtedly prove to be true. Evidently a new plan must be devised if every body is to be satisfied. That plan PUNCHINELLO rather flatters himself that he has invented.

It does not seem to have yet occurred to any one that we are not necessarily shut up to the single plan of fitting a railway to the city. Why can we not fit the city to the railway? Every body remembers that when the Mountain wouldn't come to MOHAMED, that eminent preacher went to the mountain. Here we have a precedent worth following, To build any sort of railway in New-York will take time and money. Why, then, should we do it when there are plenty of nice railways already built in every part of the country? There is a very nice railway completed and in running order from Pokertown, in Montana territory, to Euchrebend, just across the line in Idaho. All we have to do is to box up our buildings, together with the Central Park, the sewers, the docks, and the Tammany Hall General Committee, and express them through to Pokertown. The city can then be set up on each side of the Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and then we shall have the desired state of things--a railway running through the heart of our city. This plan is both novel and easy. At all events it is easy of execution in comparison with the Arcade plan, and it presents no features to which any one can reasonably object. Drawings of the city as it will appear when this plan has been carried out are now in process of publication, and will soon be for sale at this office. (N. B.--Shares in the Pokertown and Euchrebend Railway, and lost along the route of that admirable road, also for sale on application to the gentleman whose able pen presents this scheme to our readers.)

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"Curses Come Home," etc.

The gay young men of New-York are said to be terribly addicted to the use of _absinthe_. They pick up the vice in Paris, and hence arises the singular paradox that, even after they return home, they still continue to be Absinthees.

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A Logical Sequence.

Paper made from wood cannot be claimed as a modern invention, for Log books, as every body knows, have been used by mariners since ever so long ago.

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ABOUT A BLOCK.

A "COUNTRYMAN" writes to us, asking whether the extension of "Murderer's Block" is among the current city improvements, He says that, on recently visiting this city, he had great difficulty in determining the exact locality of the sanctuary in question. Some said it was in the Eighth Ward; others located it in the Seventeenth. A policeman in East Houston street, in reply to the query, "Which is Murderer's Block?" waved his hand with a gesture indicative of unlimited space, and said, "You are on it." Not pleased with the impeaching tone of this reply, our informant made his way to another ward, where he put the same question to the first policeman who came along. Without giving him a direct reply, the officer winked, shifted his quid of tobacco so as to display his Check to full advantage, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at indefinite city "slums" behind him. Let the "Countryman" understand that, as things are at present, he may stand almost any where in the city and be within a marble-shot of "Murderer's Block." Perhaps Superintendent JOURDAN is quite aware of this.

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Neptunian.

Is it correct to speak of the waters of the Black Sea as the colored element?

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SONG OF THE RETURNED SOLDIER.

[WITH REMARKS BY PUNCHINELLO.]

I'll hang my harp on the willow-tree,

_(And that's a very sensible thing for him to do. A hand-organ is what he wants now.)_

And I'll off to the wars again;

_(Not much. A fellow with only one leg, and perhaps but half the regulation number of arms, is not wanted in the ranks.)_

My peaceful home has no charms for me,

_(Of course not. He gave up his home and business to go to the wars, and he can't expect to have all these things when he comes back again, you know.)_

The battle-field no pain.

_(A great many other fellows besides him found the battle-field no payin' place.)_

The country I love stands up in her pride,

_(That's so. He's right this time.)_

With a diadem on her brow;

_(Referring probably to what SUMNER calls the "dire Democracy.")_

Oh! why did she flatter my boyish pride?

_(Because she wanted men; that's all.)_

She is going to leave me now!

_(By no means. He can play his organ on the corner as long as he wants to.)_

She took me away from my child and wife,

_(That was all right enough. He couldn't take his wife and child into camp.)_

And gave me a shoddy suit;

_(Entirely the fault of the contractors.)_

I quite forgot my good old life,

_(That was perfectly proper. People in camp have to forget that sort of thing.)_

While they taught me to march and shoot.

_(Good lessons; worth learning.)_

She seemed to think me above the men

_(Made him corporal, most probably.)_

Who staid at their homes, you see;

_(And if he fought on principle he was above most of them.)_

Oh, had I jumped the bounty then,

_(Horrible idea!)_

It would have been better for me.

_(That's not so certain. To be sure, in that case he might have got a good office in some of the Departments, or been made a Consul, but why should he complain? He has a first-rate organ, and nobody hinders him from sitting on the corner and grinding it the livelong day, if it pleases him. And then there's the honor! His country may not think about it, nor the people who give him pennies, but if he feels it himself, what more need he want? How ridiculous it is for some persons to insinuate that a rich and powerful people, who can grant hundreds of thousands of dollars to railroad companies, and North Pole expeditions, ought to be ashamed to see their disabled soldiers begging on the corners! Absurd beyond comparison!)_

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NO GHOST AFTER ALL.

MR. PUNCHINELLO, having been often scared out of his senses (which are usually very good and trustworthy senses,) by double tattoos on his library table, and also by the eccentric movements of the table itself, is happy to announce that, after all, there is nothing in it. There is a Dr. HAMMOND who has sent all necessary explanations to the _North American Review_. We do not understand them at all, but they are highly soothing and satisfactory. It seems that Mr. P. (in common with less distinguished characters) has "a gray tissue." This does not refer to his coat, but to something inside of him which renders him the nervous creature that he is. Well, not to make too scientific a matter of it, it appears that our "gray tissue" operates upon our "spinal cord," and raises the old boy (if we may be allowed the expression) with our brains; and this, in some way, but really we do not exactly see how, produces the raps, and leads us to suppose that we are hearing (dear old lady!) from our grandmother. It is astonishing how simple these mysterious matters appear after a scientific explanation.

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