Chapter 2

"I do not, cannot believe that MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON is guilty," said Mr. SIMPSON, firmly. "Having his full confidence, and thoroughly knowing his nature, I am sure of his innocence, let appearances be what they may. Consequently, it is my determination to befriend him."

"And you will not have your life insured?"

"I will not, sir. Please stop bothering me."

"And you call yourself a clergyman!" cried Mr. SCHENCK, with intense scorn. "You pretend to be a Ritualistic spiritual guide; you champion people who slay the innocent and steal devout men's umbrellas; and yet you do not scruple to leave your own high-church Mother entirely without provision at your death.--In such a case," continued the speaker, rising, while his manner grew ferocious with determination--"in such a case, all other arguments having failed, my duty is plain. Yon shall not leave this room, sir, until you have promised to take out a Boreal Policy."

He started, as he spoke, for the door of the private-office, intending to lock it and remove the key; but the unhappy Ritualist, fathoming his design, was there before him, and tore open the door for his own speedy egress.

"Mr. SCHENCK," observed the Gospeler, turning and pausing in the doorway, "you allow your business-energy to violate all the most delicate amenities of private life, and will yet drive some maddened mortal to such resentful use of pistol, knife, or poker, as your mourning family shall sincerely deplore. The articles on Free Trade and Protection in the daily papers have hitherto been regarded as the climax of all that utterly wearies the long-suffering human soul; but I tell you, as a candid friend, that they are but little more depressing and jading to the vital powers than your unceasing mention of life-insurance."

"These are strong words, sir," answered Mr. SCHENCK, incredulously. "The editorial articles to which you refer are considered the very drought of journalism; those by Mr. GREELEY, especially, being so dry that they are positively dangerous reading without a tumbler of water."

"Yon brought the comparison upon yourself, Mr. SCHENCK. Good day."

Thus speaking, the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON hurried nervously from the Boreal temple; not fairly satisfied that he had escaped a Policy until he found himself safely emerged on Broadway and turning a corner toward Nassau Street. Beaching the latter bye-way, after a brief interval of sharp walking, he entered a building nearly opposite that in which was the office of Mr. DIBBLE; and, having ascended numerous flights of twilight stairs to the lofty floor immediately over the saddened rooms occupied by a great American Comic Paper, came into a spidery garret where lurked MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,

"Hard at it?" he asked, approaching a ricketty table at which sat the persecuted Southerner, reading a volume of HOYLE'S Games.

"My only friend!" ejaculated the lonely reader, hurriedly covering the book with an arm. "I am, as you see, studying law here, all alone with these silent friends."

He waved his thin hand toward a rude shelf on which were several well-worn City Directories of remote dates, volumes of Patent Office Reports for the years '57 and '59, a copy of Mr. GREELEY'S Essays on Political Economy, an edition of the Corporation Manual, the Coast Survey for 1850, and other inflaming statistical works, which had been sent to him in his exile by thoughtful friends who had no place to keep them.

"Cheer up, brother!" exhorted the good Gospeler, "I'll send you some nice theological volumes to add to your library, which will then be complete. Be not despondent. All will come right yet."

"I reckon it will, in time," returned the youth, moodily. "I suppose you know that my sister is determined to come here and stay with me?"

"Yes, MONTGOMERY, I have heard of her noble resolution. May her conversation prove sustaining to you."

"There will be enough of it, I reckon, to sustain half a dozen people," was the despondent answer. "This is a gloomy place for her, Mr. SIMPSON, situated, as it is, immediately over the offices of a Comic Paper."

"And do you think she would care for cheerful accessories while you are in sorrow?" asked the Gospeler, reproachfully.

"But it is so mournful--that floor below," persisted the brother, doubtfully. "If there were only something the least bit more lively down there--say an Undertaker's."

"A Sister's Love can lessen the most crushing gloom, MONTGOMERY."

A silent pressure of the hand rewarded this encouraging reminder of sanguine friendship; and, after the depressed law-student had promised the Reverend OCTAVIUS to walk with him as far as the ferry in a few moments, the said Reverend departed for a hasty call upon the old lawyer across the street.

Benignant Mr. DIBBLE sat near a front window of his office, and received the visitor with legal serenity.

"And how does our young friend enjoy himself, Mr. SIMPSON, in the retreat which I had the honor of commending to you for him?"

The visitor replied, that his young friend's retreat, by its very loftiness, was calculated to inspire any occupant with a room-attic affection.

"And how, and when, and where did you leave Mr. BUMSTEAD?" inquired Mr. DIBBLE.

"As well as could be expected; this morning, at Bumsteadville," said the Gospeler, with answer as terse and comprehensive as the question.

"--Because," added the lawyer, quickly, "there he is, now, coming out of a refreshment saloon immediately under the building in which our young friend takes refuge."

"So he is!" exclaimed the surprised Mr. SIMPSON, staring through the window.

There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic organist; apparently eating cloves from the palm of his right hand as he emerged from the place of refreshment, and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat of such vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance. While the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable fascination, Mr. BUMSTEAD suddenly made a wild dart at a passing elderly man with a dark sun-umbrella, ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and passionately tapped him on the head with it. Then, before the astounded elderly man could recover from his amazement, or regain the gold spectacles which had been knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an instant of keen examination, was restored to him with a humble, almost abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. BUMSTEAD hurried back, evidently crushed, into the refreshment saloon.

"His brain must be turned by the loss of his relative," murmured the Gospeler, pitifully.

"His umbrellative, you mean," said Mr. DIBBLE.

When these two gentlemen had parted, and the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON had been escorted to the ferry, as promised, by MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON, the latter, after a long, insane walk about the city, with the thermometer at 98 degrees, returned to his attic in time to surprise a stranger climbing in through one of the back windows.

"Who are you?" exclaimed the Southern youth, much struck by the funereal aspect, sexton-like dress, and inordinately long countenance of the pallid, light-haired intruder.

"Pardon! pardon!" answered he at the window, with much solemnity. "I am a proprietor of the Comic Paper down below, and am eluding the man who comes every day to tell me how such a paper _should_ be conducted. He is now talking to the young man writing the mail-wrappers, who, being of iron constitution and unmarried, can bear more than I. There was just time for me to glide out of the window at sound of that fearful voice, and I climbed the iron shutter and found myself at your casement.--Hark! Do you hear the buzz down there? He's now telling the young man writing the mail-wrappers what kind of Cartoons should be got-up for _this_ country.--Hark, again! and the young man writing the mail-wrappers have clinched and are rolling about the floor.--Hark, once more! The young man writing the mail-wrappers has put him out."

"Won't you come in?" asked MONTGOMERY, sincerely sorry for the agitated being.

"Alas, no!" responded the fugitive, in the tone of a cathedral bell.

"I must go back to my lower deep once more. My name is JEREMY BENTHAM; I am very unhappy in my mind; and, with your permission, will often escape this way from him who is the bane of my existence."

Being assured of welcome on all occasions, he of the long countenance went clanging down the iron shutter again; and the lonely law-student, burying his face in his hands, prayed Providence to forgive him for having esteemed his own lot so hopelessly gloomy when there were Comic Paper men on the very next floor.

That night, before going home to Gowanus, the old lawyer across the way glanced up toward MONTGOMERY'S retreat, and shook his head as though he couldn't make something out. Whether he had a difficult idea in his brain, or only a fly on his nose, was for the observer to discover for himself.

(_To be Continued_.)

* * * * *

UNIVERSOCKDOLOGY.

Mr. PUNCHINELLO: It afflicts me, one of your most assiduous readers, to notice that you cast not even so much as a lack-lustre glance at the brilliant gems that STEPHEN PEARL ANDREWS scatters periodically through the columns of the _Evening Mail_ and WOODHULL & CLAFLIN'S _Weekly_. Are the times out of joint; or is it your Italian nose? Do you fear to quote the sublimated utterances of the perspicacious, although pleonastic philosopher? Does he lead you in thought, or the expression thereof? Then, wherefore? And if not, wherever may the just reason be found for your indifference?

The science of Universology, as so delightfully unfolded by Mr. ANDREWS, is one that must ere long overtop and engulf all others, seeing that it is, of itself, the science which embodies and contains all. It teaches that the universe exists in time and space--a fact never discovered till now--or that, rather, it exists in space and time, as the two negative containers of its _statism_ or existence, and of its _motism_ or eventuation, (its chain of events.) It shows that statism, or world-existence-at-rest, in space, is analogous with the cardinal series of numeration; and motism or world-existence-in-motion, in time, analogous with the ordinal series of numbers; and that, finally, statism and cardinism, (as of the four cardinal points in the orientation of space,) are analogous with spiritualities and the spirit world; and that motism and ordinism (succession by steps) are analogous with temporalities, (transitory things) and so with the mundane or transitory sphere.

Now this is the whole subject in a nutshell--a subject it behooves you and all other deep thinkers to grapple withal. Through your efforts to spread the glorious truths thus ingeniously set forth, how much good might be done! Think of the unravelling of the complications surrounding the Germano-Gallic war; the light that might be thrown upon the sources of HORACE GREELEY'S agricultural information; the settlement of the Coolie question. Then, see what effect a clear and candid discussion of the topic would have on the public morality, security, and peace! How often it appears that, in spite of the normal equanimity observable in circumstantial evidence, hereditary disciplinarisms are totally devoid of potential abstemiousness. This may be owing to the fact that at ebb and neap tides the obliquity of vision (duism) remarked by most invalid veterans in their occasional _adversaria_, is unconscious of their parental dignity, and by no means to be confounded with the referees in astronomical or pharmaceutical cases, or with ordinary omphalopsychites. Whatever be or not be the result of these investigations and calculations, it is consolatory to the student of proportional hemispheres to remark that, whichever way the sophist may turn, he _must_ invariably rely on the softer impeachments of a hireling crowd, with

"Water, water, everywhere, And not a drop to drink,"

and give up all personal interest in the homogeneous relations arising from too precipitate a ratiocination of events, urging, at the same time, the positive proportions exercised in the administration of a not over particular dormitory, and the replication of chameleonizing--constantly chameleonizing, odoriferosities.

Yours, PATHIST.

* * * * *

About Face!

Recent London advices briefly state that EDMUND ABOUT, the missing correspondent of the _Soir_, has turned up somewhere. Our Cockney informant imagines that M. ABOUT, like his distinguished ancestor, (ABOU, B.A.,) found his "sweet dream of peace" too rudely disturbed by the howlings of the Prussian dogs of war, and decided to 'ead About for Paris, simply in order to avoid being 'eaded off by the enemy.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SUMMER AT SANDY POINT.

_Sandy Point, August 18, 1870_.

PRELIMINARY FLOURISHES.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:[1] Nature demands a change of air. Man needs rest. Invigoration is necessary to health. The throbbing brain must shut down on its throbbing.

Hence second-class hotels, with first-class prices; hence hard beds, no gas, and many flies. I say--"Hence--flies," but as a general thing I notice they will not hence.

WHERE TO GO.

Those who are fond of flees may flee to the mountains. I know when I've got enough, and I prefer to surf it on the sea shore. Take the 3-1/2 A.M. train, and come to

SANDY POINT.

Everything here is sand as far as the eye can reach, or a horse and wagon, with a profane driver, can travel. The ocean laves the beach. The sea also is here. The tide comes in twice a day. This alone gives Sandy Point a great advantage over all other points on the coast.

I rode up in the regular conveyance, and soon after my arrival found myself standing on the spacious and elegant piazza of

THE CHARNEL HOUSE,

a palatial structure erected by the late Mr. CHARNEL, who is said to have lavished an immense fortune upon it. Strictly speaking, he didn't lavish quite so much paint on the front as an advanced civilization had a right to expect; but within, everything, (including the clerk,) appears to have been furnished with an eye to

LUXURIOUS COMFORT,

Mr. SOAPINGTON, the genial landlord, Mr. RICHARD SOAPINGTON, Jr., the gentlemanly clerk, Mrs. SOAPINGTON, the accomplished hostess, and the lovely Miss CLARA SOAPINGTON, all greeted me with that hearty welcome, so dear to the traveller. SOAPINGTON said he was glad to see me, and, seeing that it was me, he would be willing to infringe on his inflexible rule, and would allow me to pay

CASH IN ADVANCE.

Madame S. was sorry she couldn't set me up a cot in the wash-room, but would be compelled to let me have a double front-room over the bar. I told her if the apartment had a practicable trap door I thought I could get along.

RICHARD S., Jr., was sure he had met me before; and, as a friend, he would say the establishment was not responsible for valuables unless deposited in the safe. He would take my watch and jewelry to wear while I was there, inasmuch as

HE WAS THE SAFE HIMSELF.

The charming Miss S. didn't say anything, but she smiled, and looked such unutterable things from behind the blinds, that I expect to find it all in the bill.

Everybody that can get a railroad pass should come to Sandy Point

WHAT TO DO.

Sit in the reading-room and look over the torn files of two daily papers a week and a half old; or study a hotel advertiser.

THE SURF BATHING

is magnificent. The prevalence of an unmitigated undertow renders it quite exhilarating for old ladies and invalids. Any one who is drowned will have every attention paid to his remains,--by the sharks.

BOATING.

Everybody boats. The ROWE Brothers are here, and sing on the water by moonlight. You can blister your bands at an oar, or bale out the boat, just as your taste inclines. As the life-preserver is a little out of repair, I stay on shore.

FISHING.

Everybody fishes. There are all varieties, from speckled trout and mackerel, up to conger eels, horse mackerel, and porpoises. Parties frequently come back with all the fishing they want. If absent a week on a trip, they can make arrangements to have their board run on just the same.

DRIVING.

Everybody drives. The roads are of unsurpassing loveliness. They drive every day. If the waiters would drive a few flies out of the dining-room, we wouldn't sit down quite so many at table.

WHO ARE HERE.

Sandy Point, with all its native attractions, would be nothing were it not for the beauty and fashion that throng its halls. There are men here who can draw their note for any amount. Here is an ex-member of Congress; there a double X brewer, both immensely wealthy. Diamonds abound. There is a hop in the parlor every evening and preaching on Sundays.

I should not forget a paralytic washwoman in my section of the house, who has a prevailing idea, when she brings home my clothes, that eleven pieces make a dozen.

Reader, if you seek

THE FLUSH OF HEALTH,

come down here! I wasn't very flush when I got here, but I don't intend to go away till I've put myself into thorough repair.

Yours, SARSFIELD YOUNG.

[Footnote 1: SOAPINGTON, of the hotel here, and I, have been skirmishing over a board bill for a couple of weeks, and he has finally outflanked me to the amount of about $40. I think if you will insert this correspondence it will be all right. S. will succumb.]

* * * * *

A War Conundrum.

When are soldiers like writers for the press? When they charge by the column.

* * * * *

A well-tilled Soil.

The article on DICKENS, in the August number of the _Atlantic Monthly_, is certainly suggestive of fresh Fields, if not of pastures new.

* * * * *

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello's Vacations.

Sometimes Mr. PUNCHINELLO is very busy. Not only has he upon his shoulders the ordinary labors of conductor of a great journal, but he has much to do for other people. His editors, his printers, his binders, his artists, his engravers, his corps of clerks, his office and errand boys, and all connected with his extensive establishment, come to him from time to time for advice in regard to the investment of their surplus earnings, and between assisting in the purchase of a farm for this one, a house for the other, and all sorts of stocks and bonds for the rest, he is often terribly pressed for time.

No one who is not looked up to by a crowd of grateful dependents, all fattening in the shadow of his prosperity, as it were, can understand Mr. P's. feelings of responsibility at such times.

Such an unusual demand upon his time occurred last week, and Mr. P. found that he would not be able to spend a few days as usual at some fashionable watering place. But be must have some recreation, so he determined to have a day's fishing among the celebrated Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence. He put some luncheon in a basket, and set off quite early in the morning. Finding that some twenty hours were consumed in the transit, Mr. P. thought that, considering his hurry, he had better, perhaps, have gone to Newark for a day's fishing off the piers. But he was at the St. Lawrence now, and it would not do to complain. He hired a boat, lines, bait and two navigators, and set out bravely.

He sailed among a crowd of islands where either the bowsprit or the boom was continually getting caught in the shrubbery and rocks, until he came to island No. 18. Here was a picnic party.

For reasons which the accompanying view may render obvious, Mr. P. and his men declined the invitation of the picnickers to stop and join them. The boat continued on until it reached the channel between islands No. 87 and No. 88, and there Mr. P. got out his lines and commenced to fish, trolling his bait behind as the boat slowly sailed, under the hot sun, among those lovely isles, where, to be sure, burning's half o' the sport, but where "burning SAPPHO" would have lost herself utterly, and probably have tumbled into some of the watery intricacies and have put herself out.

Mr. P. did not have much luck at first. He caught one muskallonge, after a period of patient waiting which he feels he also must call long, and once, when he thought he was hauling in a fine bass, he turned very red when the boatmen laughed at seeing him "cotch an eel." But after a while he got a royal bite. He hauled in manfully, and although, owing to the intricacies of the channel, he could not see what he had caught, he knew it was a fine fellow from its weight. At last, after tremendous tugging, he got it in over the stem.

It was one of the thousand islands!

What could be done now?

The steersman, who had slipped under a seat when he saw the great mass above him, and the man who managed the sails, were both Canadians, and after a great deal of excited talk, they agreed if Mr. P. would make it worth their while, they would endeavor to put the island back in its place and make no remarks in public which would tend to produce a misunderstanding between the governments of Great Britain and the United States, on the ground of undue acquisition of territory. By the payment of a sum, which it will require a club of thirty subscribers to make good to him, Mr. P. concluded the arrangement, and they sailed back to replace the island. But what was the horror of the party, when they perceived on the unfortunate bit of British territory, a plate, which had stuck fast by reason of a covering of the juice of plum-pie, and a fork which was rammed firmly into the earth!

It needed but few collateral evidences to convince Mr. P. and his men that this was the island where they had seen the picnic.

And where were the picnickers?

If any of Mr. P's. subscribers in Prince EDWARD Island, Costa Rica, the Gallipagoes, or other outstanding places, receive their paper rather late this week, they are informed that, in consequence of his having spent three entire days exploring the labyrinth of these islands in order to find the bodies of the unfortunate party of pleasure, (which bodies he did not find,) Mr. P. was very much delayed in his office business. His near patrons received their papers in due time, but those at a distance will excuse him, he feels sure, when they consider what his feelings must have been, while grappling for an entire picnic.

The island was dumped down anywhere, without reference to its former place. When the Alabama claims are settled, Mr. P. will go back and adjust it properly.

Mr. P. gained nothing by this trip but the knowledge that there are but 980 of these islands, which an unscrupulous monarchy imposes upon a credulous people as a full thousand, and the gloom which would naturally pervade a man, after an occurrence of the kind just narrated.

On his way home, he stopped for supper at Albany, and there he met CYRUS W. FIELD and Commodore VANDERBILT. One of these gentlemen was looking very happy and the other very doleful.

(Illustration: The tall gentleman in the picture is Mr. FIELD--not that he is really so very tall--but he is elevated. The short one is the Commodore--so drawn, not because he is short, but because he is depressed.)

After the compliments of the season, (warm ones,) Mr. P. asked his friends how the war in Europe affected them.

"Gloriously!" cried Mr. FIELD. "Nothing could be better. The messages fly over our cables like--like--like lightning. Why, sir, I wish they would keep up the war for ten years."

"And you, sir?" said Mr. P. to the Commodore.

"Oh, I hate it!" said VANDERBILT. "They send neither men nor munitions by our road. It is an absolute dead loss of hundreds of thousands of dollars to me that my railroad is on this side of the ocean. I shall never cease to deplore it."