Chapter 3

Hours of dialogue succeed to the previous hours of soliloquy. At intervals of fifteen minutes the curtain is dropped to enable the actors to discuss mugs of beer and the audience to discuss the actors. During these intervals we hear such remarks as these:

1ST GERMAN. "Subjectively considered, _Faust_ is a tragedy. Objectively, we might regard it as a comedy. To the subjective-objective view, it is certainly a ballet pantomime. Ach! he was many-sided, our GOETHE. Here in this drama he has accomplished everything. There is food for our laughter and our tears. It excites us and calms us."

1ST AMERICAN. "I should think it did calm us. That's why the old fellow went to sleep and snored all through the last twelve acts. I think it's the heaviest and stupidest play that was ever put on the stage. Of course it's the greatest thing ever written, but then I prefer DALY'S _Gaslight_, myself."

2ND GERMAN. "Ah, my friend, how this sublime creation stirs the inner depths of our spiritual natures. Ach, Himmel! it is the poem of Humanity. Let us go out for beer."

2D AMERICAN. "When are we going to see SEEBACH?"

USHER. "She don't appear until the twenty-third act, sir. That will be on about three hours from now."

2D AMERICAN. "Come, TOM, let's go and have supper. I am getting exhausted."

USHER. "Step this way, sir. Mr. GRAU has some refreshments at your service."

And they go in search of the cold ham and beer which the beneficent GRAU has kindly provided. Refreshed by much beer, and enlivened by the cheery influence of the genial sandwich, they return for a few more hours of soliloquy and dialogue.

Time passes slowly, but surely. At last we reach an act in which SEEBACH walks quietly across the stage. The curtain instantly drops amid the sobs of the excited audience.

1ST GERMAN. "Lend me your handkerchief, my friend, that I may wipe away my tears. I have a sausage wrapped up in mine, but what are sausages compared with art! How divinely SEEBACH walks. To me, she seems like an incarnation of Pure Reason, an Avatar of the spirit of transcendental philosophy. Come, we will pledge her in beer."

1ST AMERICAN. "What are they making all that row about--just because SEEBACH walked across the stage? Why, she never said a word."

2D AMERICAN. "Let's go round to the hotel and take a quiet sleep till she comes on again. I've got my night-clothes with me. Always bring 'em when I go to see German tragedy."

Then ensue other hours of dialogue, interspersed with soliloquies of half an hour each. Interspersed also with perpetual dropping of the curtain, whereby the play is made to last some eight or ten hours longer than would otherwise be the case. Most of the German music that has been written during the last three centuries is played by the orchestra during these intermissions. But in course of time SEEBACH gives us the Garden scene, winning our frantic admiration by her inimitable tenderness and grace, and finally we reach that grandest scene ever written by dramatist, that most pathetic poem ever conceived by poet--the meeting of "FAUST" and "MARGARET" in prison. At last we are more than repaid for the dreary hours that have gone before. We have seen SEEBACH'S "MARGARET"--the most powerful, the most pathetic, the most beautiful, the most perfect creation of the stage.

And as we pass slowly up the tortuous, steep stairways of the theatre, while the Germans, all talking at once, burden the air with unintelligible gutturals, you say to me--if you are the intelligent person that you ought to be--"SEEBACH is the greatest actress of this century--greater than RISTORI, subtler and more tender than RACHEL."

With which opinion the undersigned concurs with all the emphasis of conviction; and over our late breakfast, to which we immediately sit down, we discuss the question, Which is the greatest--the poet who drew "MARGARET," or the actress who made the poet's picture warm with passionate life?

MATADOR.

* * * * *

Absolutely True.

For the last fifty years or so the metaphysical thinkers of Germany have been engaged in seeking for the Absolute. From present indications it would seem as though they are about to find it--where perhaps they least expected it--in the imperial reign of King WILLIAM, aided and abetted by Count VON BISMARCK.

* * * * *

"THE RIGHT PARTY."

A few days ago PUNCHINELLO officially announced his adhesion to the Right Party.

PUNCHINELLO hadn't the slightest idea which party was the right one, but thought that, as some party must be right, he could not go very for wrong. But mark the _denouement_. Every party imagines itself the right party, and welcomes him joyfully to its bosom. Republicans love him, Independents worship him, while Democrats would endure even the Fifteenth Amendment for his sake. In order to reciprocate their sentiments Mr. P. would have to resolve himself into a kind of Demo-Independent-Republican, which he has no idea of doing. Here's what some of the "organs" say of him:

_The Sun_.

"We hail with joy the accession of PUNCHINELLO to the ranks of independent journalism as embodied in the _Sun_, with a circulation of over 100,000, CHAS. B. DANA Editor, price two cents. Reinforced by this powerful journal, we shall continue with renewed vigor to demand of HORACE GREELEY his reasons why J.C. BANCROFT DAVIS should not be removed from the Assistant Secretaryship of State. We shall persevere in our attempts to make Gen. GRANT understand that to move four and a half inches from the White House is an infraction of the Constitution. Regardless of the tears of the thousands of advertisers who carry their announcements to our office, we shall devote our entire space to the vilifying of BORIE, FISH, the _Disreputable Times and False Reporting Tribune_. Those elaborate attacks upon moral corruption and the Erie Ring, for which we have become famous, will remain specialties with us. All this by PUNCHINELLO'S aid. Bully for PUNCHINELLO."

_The Tribune_.

"The moral influence of this paper, which retains the only correspondent at the seat of war, and whose dispatches, procured at a cost of over $2,000,000, are copied by the _Herald_, _Sun_ and _World_,--(and whoever denies it lies damnably, with intent to malign, etc.,)--the moral influence of this paper is rapidly extending itself throughout the country. As a late instance, we note that PUNCHINELLO has given in its adhesion to the only true and pure republican agricultural party, which it appropriately names the "Right Party." PUNCHINELLO was once a frivolous, good-for-nothing sheet, devoted to low jokes and witticisms. The conversion of its editor to the temperance cause is the reason of the recent change in its tenets. We bid it God speed."

_The World_.

"As the irrefutable and all-enduring truths of Democracy receive exemplification in contemporaneous events, the reflecting and refined masses of this city purchase the _World_ in preference to that decrepit and fast decaying sheet, the _Herald_. PUNCHINELLO, recognizing with ethereal foresight the exigencies of the situation, proclaims itself for the "Right Party"--our party. We welcome with acclamation this valuable addition to the Democratic ranks."

_The Star_.

"PUNCHINELLO has joined the Right Party, by which he obviously means the _Star_, whose circulation last Sunday exceeded 375,005 copies.

"But this has nothing to do with the domestic policy of the Peruvians, as expounded by the first CAESAR.

"PUNCHINELLO will prove a pillar of strength to Tammany Hall, unless the siege of Paris should prove disastrous to the consumption of lager-bier, as set forth in 'Boiled for her Bones' and other tales by the best authors."

But Personals, my dear _Star_, Personals are the things that pay. If thus, why not? As thus:

"EDITOR OF PUNCHINELLO. The Editor of PUNCHINELLO has an income of about $500,000. He usually dines at the Hoffman House when out of State's Prison. He owns some fine lots somewhere underneath the East River, besides a brown stone front in Alaska."

"PUBLISHER OF PUNCHINELLO. This gentleman's income does not exceed $350,000 per annum. He expends it principally in beautifying his delightful summer residence in Mackerelville. It has been his misfortune to pass many years of his life in a lunatic asylum, the unhappy result of organizing plans for American Comic Papers. All is joy and peace with him now, however; he looks hopefully forward to the time when PUNCHINELLO shall have attained to his legitimate rank of the Foremost Journal in the Nation. Meanwhile he lunches daily at a leading restaurant on thirteen oysters, (a dozen and one over) with vinegar, pepper and a bottle of Bass."

* * * * *

"ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE."

MR. PUNCHINELLO: I fancy myself a victim of imposition, and I wish to place my case before you. Having, for a period of six months, "honorably and persistently," (to use the language of my friends,) held the office of third Deputy-Assistant Register of Caramels, in and for the city and county of New York, my associates in office and my friends in general have determined to present me with a testimonial of their distinguished regards. Accordingly, they have ordered a massive and handsomely engraved pair of silver tongs, and a splendid silver fire-shovel. This is all very well, so far, but the committee informed me yesterday that the shovel and tongs would cost four hundred and twenty-five dollars, and that, as only eight dollars and a half had been collected, it was considered highly important that I should immediately hand over the balance of the price, in order that the presentation and banquet, (to take place at my house on next Saturday evening,) might not be postponed, to the great disappointment of my associates in office and my friends in general.

Now, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, is not this a little hard on me? I know very well that it is customary for the recipients of testimonials to pay three-quarters of the cost of the present, and I am perfectly willing to abide by this custom; but forty-nine fiftieths is, I think, rather too heavy, especially as my house is heated by a furnace in the cellar and I have no use for a shovel and tongs--particularly silver ones.

Yours perturbedly, A. DOANE KNEA.

* * * * *

Roaming Troops.

The Italians in this country are very jubilant over the occupation of Rome by the army of Italy. But people of other nations hereabouts are not so much elated about the occupation of Roam in which the numerous troops of Italian organ-grinders are engaged.

* * * * *

Subject for a Debating Society.

Can a couple who have contracted a clandestine marriage be properly said to be carrying out their clandestiny?

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* * * * *

* * * * *

AN AGRICULTURAL RHYME.

NOT BY H. G.

Plough deep--two feet, at least--for corn or rye. You can't, in stony land? Sir, that's a lie; A sub-soil plough will do it; then manure, And put on plenty; if the land is poor, Get muck and plaster; buy them by the heap, No matter what they cost, you'll find them cheap. I've tried them often, and I think I know, Then plough again two feet before you sow.

Potatoes get on best in sandy soil, I'm sure of _that_--but plant before you boil; Then put in strawberries; that's what I do-- Confound you for a blockhead! Why don't you Get modern works and read them? No, you'd rather Go creeping on just like your stupid father. That patch is good for melons. Why the deuce Don't you convert those swamps to better use?

Beets are a paying crop, and don't cost much To raise; so's cabbage, pumpkins, squash, and such; They'll always sell and bring you back your money-- No bees? The mischief! What d'ye do for honey? Sir, let me tell you plainly you're an ass-- Just look at those ten acres gone to grass! Put turnips in 'em. Timothy don't pay-- Can't cattle feed on anything but hay?

I don't consider hogs a first-class crop; Give me my own free choice, sir, and I'd swap The best of 'em for strawberries or sheep-- But let me say again, you must plough deep; The trouble with our farmers is, that they Can't be induced to look beyond to-day; Let them get sub-soil ploughs and turn up sand And hang it, sir! let them manure their land.

* * * * *

SALVATION FOR EUROPE.

Some hope that the great Powers of Europe may yet be saved from a fate similar to that of the Kilkenny Cats, is to be found in the fact that General BURNSIDE, favorably known in Rhode Island, is making arrangements for bringing about peace between France and Germany. It has already been said by journalists of mark, that, unless Providence interfered, and that soon, all Europe would shortly be deluged with the blood of her peoples. General BURNSIDE is the direct representative of Providence, and he has gone specially to Europe to interfere. He was born in Providence, (R.I.); he believes in Providence; his portrait is the special pride of Providence; and there is a "Providence that shapes his ends." Thus it will be seen that BURNSIDE is the very man for the situation. It may be asked, (there are cavillers who ask impertinent questions about everything,) what business BURNSIDE has to meddle with European affairs? Pshaw!--one might as well ask what business Colorado JEWETT has to meddle with everybody's affairs, or GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN, or PAUL PRY, or WIKOFF. BURNSIDE against BISMARCK for diplomacy any time. Probably he aims at the throne of France for himself, and having Providence (R.I.,) to back him, he may sit on it yet.

* * * * *

What bad habit does a man contract when he falls into a way of praising everything and everybody?

He takes to laud'n'm.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HIRAM GREEN AT THE BOSTON WOMAN'S CONVENTION.

Old Time Agitators again on their Muscle.--Thanks to Henry Wilson.--Advice to Charles Sumner.--Left-Handers to Wendell Phillips.

Oho! ye gods and little fishes, Beggars 'd ride, if hosses was wishes; Wimmen would have a millenium day, And all through the land the "deuce be to pay."

The Masserchewsetts Woman's _Suffering_ Society pulled off their cote and vest and struck a beligerent attitood, at Bosting, a few days since.

Yes, sir! I was there, and I still live to tell my tale.

E-x-z-a-ckt-ly!

As usual, on all such occasions, the women wore the bre-b-bifurcated garments, while the _softer_ sex shone transparently, in silk, satins, and black and bloo spots.

Like jumpin' jacks, they danced when the _strong-minded_ pulled the strings, while their ears were pinned back and greased, ready to be swallered at a minnit's warnin'.

JEWLEIR WARD HOW was chosen President, and S.E. Sewell, ABBI KELLY FOSTIR, MARY E. SARGINT, the Rev. J. Freman Klark, LIDIA MARIAR CHILDE and Frank B. Sanborne, Vice Presidents.

THE REV. HON. JUDGE AGUSTY J. CHAPIN, ESQ., L.L.D., opened the dance with a prologue.

Mrs. How then rose and got up, and said:

"Feller citizens: We've got together, as usual, without any plan of operation, except to howl and make faces at the critter man, ontil he is ready to give up his liberties and endow us _angelic_ beeins with the privilege of fillin' up with benzine on eleckshun day; to vote and rool the destinies of the land." (Cheers.)

"No woman who desires the ballit, shall desist from hen-peckin her husband, ontil, in his agony, he cries: 'Peace! be still! there's my harness, get into it.'"

Mrs. LIVERMOOR, H.B. Blackwell, MARGARET CAMBELL, M. Fiske, and SARY E. WILKINS, committee on resolutions, reported the follerin:

_Whereas:_ When our anshient relative, Adam, had the monopoly of the ballit box, it was diskivered that it was not ment for man to vote alone, and enjoy too much of a good thing. Consekently EVE was sent to stir him up.

_Whereas:_ When Mother EVE got there, she made it slightly warm for Adam, by assertin' her rites. Like many of our members, she made Adam "walk chalk." On eleckshun day she took him by the ear and walked him to the poles, and for the first time in his life he voted the woman's rites ticket, and Mr. SATIN was elected by a unanimous vote.

Therefore, we recognize in EVE the pioneer of woman's rites, with ST. NICKOLAS as our patron saint. (Great applause, with "3 cheers for OLD NICK, the first candidate elected by femail suffrage.")

It was then resolved to send committees to the Democratic and Republican conventions, to see if any LOONATICS had been nominated, who were in favor of femail soopremiosity.

If any such persons were found, they should be requested to announce it through the columns of the _Woman's Journal_, and let the world know the fools wasent all dead yet.

Should the candidates be opposed to our cause, it was recommended that when the Woman's Convention Committee meet, on the 18th of October, that ten talented talkers be appointed to surround the candidates and talk them to death as a warnin to futer candidates.

Congratulatory speeches, endorsin' these last resolutions, was made by the wimmen, and I gess they would have kept talkin' ontil doomsday, if the chokin-off committee hadn't been sent around with copies of _Harper's Bazaar_, full of pictures of the new fall fashions. (Between you and I, Mister PUNCHINELLO, the only thing which our wives goes heavier on than their rites, so called, is fashions.) The convention then thanked Hon. Hank Wilson for blowin' their trumpet, and voted to present him with a new hoop skirt and a pound of spruce gum as a token of their appreciation.

Charles Sumner was then trotted, out, viz.:

_Whereas:_ Charles Sumner has, somehow or other, got one foot kerslop on our platform;

_Whereas:_ He must go the hul hog or none;

_Be it resolved:_ We can't take any stock in Charly, ontil he wears his hair parted in the middle and done up in a waterfall, pledgin' himself to go his entire length, next winter, for the 16th Commendment. (Enthusiastic applause. Cries of "them's um!" "Kor-rect!" "Selah!'" etc.; "Bully boy with the glass eye!" etc., etc.)

Mrs. How then got up and said thusly: "My friends: I'me down onto colleges like a 1000 of brick. They are the mad puddles of artificial ignorance. If a red-headed woman was alowed to shed her lite, the proffessors would be throwed into the shades rite lively. The result would be, the blind would lead the near-sited by the nose. Them's my sentiments."

Stephen L. Fostir got up and said:

"He woulden't go to the poles on eleckshun without his wife as his ekal a hangin' on his arm."

Mrs. LIVERMORE sprung quickly to her feet and said: "She'd bet $4.00 if she was Steve's wife, he'd go to the poles under diffikilties, then, for she wasen't the woman who thought the man lived that was the ekal of any woman; and that hain't all," said she. "When we get hold of the ballit, man has got to get up early in the mornin' to fool _us_ much. All the koketting with the Democrats, Republicans, Prohibitionists, and Labor Reformers in the offis of the _Woman's Journal_, last summer, don't amount to shucks. Prominent politicians had entreeted her to go slow and not mash things. I can only say," said Mrs. L., "as John Bunyan once said:

'When woman will, she will. And you can jest bet on't; When she won't, she won't, And there's an end on't.'"

An aged individual named Jenking, from Andover, said: "When he was in his first childhood, he was drest in peticotes. He was now over 75 years old, and believed an old man would feel better in caliker than satinett. Hereafter they could count on him to wear out their old dresses."

A few left-handed compliments were paid to Wendil Fillips, and altho' Wendil had allers went heavy on Wimmen's Rites, his bein' endossed by his own sex was a squelcher on him. He wasen't endossed, but, like Jonah, went overboard, to be hove up agin onto dry land in a few days, for a whale has got to have a pretty good stomack to keep Mister Fillips down a great while. That's so.

A few more resolutions were then voted, but as the Mayor of Bosting had sent lots of perlicemen there, I didn't heer of any men gettin' killed outrite, altho' a few innercent husbands got slitely bruised by bein' whacked over their heads with their wive's umbrellers. Then they adjerned.

The critters then got in their vests And then got in their cotes, Then got in a dredful pes- Piration about their votes.

(Let 'em sweat.)

Ewers, a Non-Resistanter,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustise of the Peece._

* * * * *

FALLEN ON THE MARCH.

You see that hoss, don't you, there, sir, ahead? Well, that's JAKE. An hour ago, The last trip up, he fell--stone dead: Drop't right flat in his harness, you know. He'd fell down, too, pooty often before, And--I guess he won't do it, though, any more.

I allas pitied the poor old cuss; He was mighty hard driv and terrible thin, And many a time when he quit the 'bus I've led the mis'rable creetur in And giv him a reg'lar bang-up feed That the Company thought he didn't need.

And now, to see him lyin' there All by himself, a feast for the flies,-- Why, it kinder makes a feller's hair Creep all over, first, then straighten and rise. Maybe you'll say to yourself: "That's all stuff." But I tell you what--_I_ think it's blamed rough.

It makes me feel, too, a little bit glum, To see how everything goes on the same; Some day, I s'pose, _my_ turn 'll come, When I'll have to try on poor JAKE'S little game, And they won't mind me any more, I'll bet. Than they do him.--Off, here, sir?--G'long, JEANETTE!

* * * * *

* * * * *

AUTUMN SONG.

Leaves are falling (though, coal is not,) And pumpkins are yellow, and maids are blue; Potatoes and apples begin to rot; There's many a liver congested, too.

The dews stay late on the cabbage-leaf, And the red, red beet forsakes the ground; And lovers' wanderings grow more brief, And fewer loafers are loafing around.

The celery rivals the turnip fair; There's new delight in the tender steak; And boys go munching the chestnut rare, Without one thought of the stomach-ache.

The last of the cattle-shows is seen; The monster squash to the cows is fed; Everything's brown that once was green, Except tomatoes, and they are red.

The drowsy citizen hates to rise; The hash may be cold, but so is the air: 'Tis heaven to slumber, for now the flies Are less affectionate, and more rare.

And who is the busiest man we see? 'Tis the Doctor, dashing by in his chaise; And well may he hurry, you will agree, For it isn't every patient that pays.