Chapter 2

But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand preeminent. MOZART, BEETHOVEN, and a host of others excelled in this respect, but they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric which so distinguished this queen of literature. The beautiful creations of that fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant delight. Her style is singularly free from affectation, and, while we are at one moment rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description of the annoyances of a female in the autumn of life, training up a large family in the limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe, we cannot but feel a twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. HUBBARD and her lovely dog, who "had none," only to have those tears chased away by the arch and guileless portrayal of the eccentric JOHN HORNER.

That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her who welded such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret. It is a crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there does not exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman, but she will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or tender recollections of childhood to remember.

P.S.--I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old GRANNY GOOSE'S works. I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a kicking-mule. Send in your orders. Contributions to the old gal's statue will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.

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THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

JANAUSCHEK is a Bohemian, and with the Bohemian propensity for picking up things, has picked up the English language. The public is somewhat divided in its estimate of her skill in speaking English. One-half of her average audience insists that she speaks better English than nine-tenths of our native actresses: the other half asserts that she is at times nearly unintelligible. Neither of these statements necessarily contradicting the other, they might both be easily true. The fact is, however, that she speaks English like a foreigner. Mud itself--or a Sun editorial--could not be plainer than this definition of her exact proficiency in our unmelodious tongue.

If we go to see her play "Lady Macbeth," we meet evidences at every step of her want of familiarity with English, or at all events with American customs. We find her playing at the ACADEMY, and we at once remark that no one but an unnecessarily foreign actress would dare to awaken the sepulchral echoes of that dismal tomb. We find, too, that at the very threshold of the house she defies the one of the most time-honored institutions of our stage, by employing a pleasant and courteous door-keeper--instead of the snarling Cerberus who lies in wait at the doors of other theatres. We find again that she outrages the public by the presence of decent and civil ushers, who neither insult the male spectators by their surly impudence, nor annoy the lady visitor by coloring her train with tobacco juice. So that before the curtain rises we are prepared to lament over her unfamiliarity with American customs, and to predict her ignorance of the American, as well as the English language.

Divers well-meaning persons repeat the dialogue of the earlier scenes of the play. There is a good deal of dramatic force in the legs of Mr. MONTGOMERY, who plays "Macbeth," much animation in the feathers which Mr. STUDLEY'S "Macduff" wears in his hat, and a foreshadowing of ghostly peculiarities in the solemn stride of Mr. DE VERE'S "Banquo." We listen to these gentlemen with polite patience, waiting for the appearance of "Lady Macbeth." When at length that strong-minded female strides across the stage, we hail her with rapturous applause, and listen for the strident voice with which the average "Lady Macbeth" reads her husband's letter.

We don't hear it, however, for JANAUSCHEK reads in a tone as low as that which a sensible woman who was plotting treason and murder would be apt to use. Why "Lady Macbeth" should proclaim her deadly purpose at the top of her lungs is quite incomprehensible, except upon the theory that stage traditions have confounded the Scotch with the Irish, and that the "Macbeths" husband and wife--being the typical Fenians of the period, were accustomed to roar their secrets to the listening world.

Be that as it may, we are constrained to note the actress's unfamiliarity with the language, as evinced in the tone in which she reads the letter, and also in the way in which she urges her husband onward in the path of crime. The usual "Lady Macbeth" "goes for" her weakminded spouse, and drives him by threats and strong-language to consent to her little game. JANAUSCHEK, on the contrary, does not raise a broom-stick, or even her voice, at "Macbeth," but actually coaxes him to be so good as to kill the king, so that she can bring all her relations to court, and appoint them surveyors, and internal revenue collectors, and foreign ministers. This is not the tone of other actresses in the same part, and we therefore at once charge her departure from the common standard to her ignorance of English.

We listen with fortitude to the dismal singing of the witches and their friends in mask and domino. The music, we are told, is "LOCKE'S music." What is the proper key for LOCKE'S music, is a question which we have never attempted to solve, but we heartily wish that the key were lost forever, since by its aid the singers open vistas of musical dreariness which are disheartening to the last degree. But we sustain our spirits with the thought of the bloody murder that is coming. Talk as we ill, we all enjoy our murders, whether we read of them in the _Sun_ and the _Police Gazette_, or witness them upon the stage.

When JANAUSCHEK comes upon "Macbeth" with his bloody hands, and explains to him that it is now too late to repent, either of murder or matrimony, she furnishes us with more instances of her unfamiliarity with the language. Her night-dress is not at all the sort of thing which an English-speaking woman would be willing to sleep in. We are confident upon this point, and we have on our side the testimony of a married man who has lived four years in Chicago, and has been annually married with great regularity. If he doesn't know what the average female regards as the proper thing in night-dresses, it would be difficult to find a man who does. Then, too, her gross ignorance of English is shown in her back hair, which is a foot longer than the average hair of previous "Lady Macbeths," and is as thick and massive as a lion's mane. Wicked and punnish persons go so far as to call it her mane attraction. They are wrong, however. JANAUSCHEK does not draw by the force of capillary attraction. By the bye, did any one ever notice the fact that while a painter cannot be considered an artist unless he draws well, an actress may be the greatest of artists and not be able to draw a hundred people? But this is wandering.

Owing to the imperfections of her English, JANAUSCHEK does not indulge in drinking from the gilded pasteboard goblets which grace the banquet scene. She also shows her lingual weakness in the sleep-walking scene. For instance, when, after having reigned queen of Scotland for several months, the happy thought of washing her hands strikes her, she commits the absurdity of scrubbing them with her hair. On the other hand, she pronounces the words "damned spot" with a, perfection of accent that constrains us to believe that she must have taken at least a few lessons in pronunciation from some of the leading members of WALLACK'S company. Still, her way of walking blindly into the table, and falling over casual chairs, ought to convince the most skeptical person that her English accent is not yet what it should be. And in general, her walk and conversation in this scene demonstrate that even the most carefully simulated somnambulism may not resemble in all respects the most approved Oxford pronunciation.

But when we are freed from the depressing influences of the Academical Crypt, we forget all but our admiration of JANAUSCHEK'S superb acting, and the exceptional command which she has gained over a language so vexatious in its villanous consonants as our own. And we express to every available listener the earnest hope that SKEBACH and FECHTER will profit by her success, and at once begin the study of English, with the view of devoting their efforts hereafter to the American stage.

MATADOR.

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POISONING THE PLUGS.

A Rampant Virginia editor proposes to kill off the Yankees by putting poison in chewing-tobacco, so that we shall meet mortality in mastication, fate in fine-cut, and perdition in the soothing plug! In short, Virginia not having got the best of it in political quiddities, this pen-patriot is for trying the other kind. The short-sightedness of this policy will be evident, when we remember how many Republicans consider the weed to be the abomination of desolation. Virginia might poison chewing-tobacco till the crack of doom, but what effect would that have upon the eschewing (not chewing) GREELEY, who, even if he used it, has bitten T(he) WEED so many times that he can consider himself poison-proof. When, moreover, this LUCRETIA BORGIA in pantaloons remembers that his scheme might prove more fatal to his friends than his enemies, perhaps he will take rather a larger quid than usual, and grow benevolent under its bland influences.

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FIRM AS A ROCK.

All the newspapers are full of descriptions of the earthquake of the 20th of October, and of the panic thereby occasioned. We are proud to state, although massive buildings quivered and great cities were scared, that Mr. PUNCHINELLO was not in the least shaken. At the moment of the quake (11h. 26m. A.M.) he must have been seated upon his drum partaking of a lunch of sandwiches and small beer. He did not perceive the slightest reverberation, nor did the drum give the least vibratory sign. Mr. PUNCHINELLO has prepared a most elaborate and scientific paper, giving a full and elaborate and intensely scientific description of the various phenomena which he did not perceive, and which he proposes to read before any scientific associations which may invite him to do so. Terms, $50 and expenses.

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EDITOR'S DRAWER.

OH YES! PUNCHINELLO has an Editor's Drawer, and a very nice one, too. (As no allusion is here made to any of the artists of the paper, you needn't be getting ready to laugh.) This Drawer--and no periodical in the country possesses a better one--is chock full of the most splendid anecdotes, and as it is impossible to keep them shut up any longer (for some of them are getting very old and musty), a few of the bottom ones will now be given to the public.

A GENTLEMAN just returned from a tour in Western Asia sends to the Drawer the following account of a little bit of pleasantry which took place in the gala town of South Amboy:--

A young doctor, clever, rich, pure-minded, and just, but of somewhat ambigufied principles, was strenuously married to a sweet young creature, delicate as a daffodil, and altogether loveliacious. One night, having been entreated by a select party of his most aged patients to go with them on a horniferous bendation, he gradually dropped, by dramific degrees, in a state of absolute tipsidity, and four clergymen, who happened to be passing, carried him home on a shutter, and thus ushered him in all his drunkosity, into the presence of his little better-half, who was drawing in crayons in the back parlor. "My dear," said she, looking up with an angelic smile, "why did you come home in that odd manner, upon a shutter?" "Because, _mon ange_," said he, "you see that these worthy gentlemen, all good men and true, _mon_ only _ange_, brought me home upon a shutter because they were not able to get any of the doors off of their hinges. (Hic.)"

This is almost _too_ funny.

The descendant of the Hamnisticorious sojourner in the ark knows what is good for him. For pungent proof, hear this: A young lady, a daughter of the venerable and hospitable General G-----, of Upper Guilford, Conn., was once catechizing a black camp-meeting, and when the exercises were over, a colored brother approached her and said:

"Look-a-yar now, 's MARY, jist gib dis nigger one obdem catekidgeble books."

"But what would you do with it, CUDJO, if I gave it to you?"

"Oh, _dis chile 'ud take it_!"

Ha! ha! ha! Our colored brother will have his wild hilarity.

Two septennialated youngsters of Boston. Mass, (so writes their gifted mother), thus recently dialogued:

"PERSEUS," said the younger, "why was the noble WASHINGTON buried at Mount Vernon?"

"Because he was dead," boldly answered his brother.

Oh! the tender-aged! How their sub-corrected longings curb our much maturer yearnings.

Here is an anecdote of a "four-year old," which we give in the exact words of our correspondent, an aged and respected resident of Oswego county, in this State:

"Well, now, ye see, I couldn't do nothing at all with this 'ere four-year old 'o mine, fur he was jist as wild an onruly as anything ye ever see; and so I jist knocked him in the head, and kep the hide and the taller, and got thirteen cents a pound for the beef, which wasn't so bad, ye see."

Strange, practical man! We could not do thus with all our little tid-toddlers of but four bright summers.

A correspondent in San Francisco sends the Drawer these epitaphs, which are entirely too good to be lost.

The first is from the grave of a farmer, much notorified for his "forehandidification," and who, it is needless to say, was buried on his own farm:--

"Here lies JOHN SIMMS, who always did Good farming understand; E'en now he's gratified to think He benefits his land."

Here is one upon a gambler, who died of some sort of sickness, superinduced by some description of disease:--

"His hand was so bad that he laid him down here; But up he will certainly jump, And quick follow suit for the rest of the game When Gabriel plays his last trump."

Here is one on a truly unfortunate member of the human race:--

"Here lies CORNELIUS COX, who, on account of a series of unhappy occurrences, the principal of which were a greatly increased rent and consumption of the lungs, Got himself into a tight box."

The ladies must not be neglected. Sweet creatures! even on tombstones we sing their praises. This is to the memory of a fashionable and lovely siren of society:--

"She always moved with distinguished grace, And never was known to make slips. At last she sank down into this grave With the neatest of Boston dips."

An old lady in Bangor, Maine, sends the following entertaining anecdote of one of our most distinguished fellow-citizens:--

The late Senator R-----, who, by the way, was a very portly man, was in the habit of riding over the fields to consult Judge B-----, his wife's cousin, on points of extra-judicial import. One morning, just as he was about to get down from his horse.--(NOTE BY ED.--The middle of this anecdote is so long, so dull, and has so little connection with either the head or the tail, that it is necessarily omitted.)

"Well," said the Judge, "what would you do then?"

"_I don't know_," said the Senator. "Do you?"

If our public men were, at all times, as thoughtful as these two, the country would be better for it.

NECESSARY NOTE.--Persons sending anecdotes to this Drawer (or those reading them), need not expect to make anything by the operation.

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PRUSSIAN PRACTICE AND PROFESSION.

KING WILLIAM of Prussia thinks he has a mission to perform, and goes on his present raid in France as a missionary. To an unprejudiced sceptic, however, needle-guns, rifle-cannons, requisitions on the country, devastations of crops, bombarding of cities, and the rest of the accompaniments of his progress are, if possible, even worse in their effects upon the unhappy people subjected to his missionary efforts than the New England rum which accompanied the real missionaries in their descent upon the now depopulated islands of the Pacific. Private people with missions are nuisances, but public people with such ideas are simply unbearable.

In the case of kings, if we may trust the democratic movement which this war in Europe is aiding so greatly, the only mission the people will soon allow to kings is dis-mission.

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Prussian Cruelty.

"A PASS for THIERS," the telegrams state, has been promised by the King of Prussia. There is a sound of mockery in this. Prussia's obstinacy in pushing the war has made so many widows and orphans that all France is a PASS for TEARS.

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OUR PORTFOLIO.

"Up in a balloon, boys!"--_Macbeth_.

TOURS, FIFTH WEEK Of THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: To all men of lofty ambition I would recommend a balloon excursion. The higher you get, the smaller and more insignificant do earthly things appear. A balloon is the best pulpit imaginable from which to preach a sermon upon the littleness of mundane realities, first--because no one can hear you, and your congregation cannot therefore be held responsible for indifference to your teaching; and second--because at that height you are fully impressed with the truth of what you say.

Aspirations of whatever kind, all longings and emotions of the "Excelsior" order, all appeals to "look aloft," come handier when you can "do" them in an aerial car.

You will pardon this philosophic digression in respect to the peculiar feelings of a man who has just been "up in a balloon." Our air-ship had been anchored in the _Champ de Mars_ two days, waiting for a fair wind. An hour before we started, a Yorkshireman, who had evidently never seen such a creation before, annoyed me with incessant questions as to what it was. His large, wondering, stupid eyes never ceased gazing at the monster as it tugged heavily at the stake which held it. "Na' wha' maun _that_ be?" he exclaimed, starting back as it gave a very violent jerk. I could stand it no longer, and thus broke forth:--

"See here, my good fellow, you've got plenty of cheek to be bothering me with your confounded ridiculous questions; and so I'll answer you once for all. What you see tied fast there is called a balloon, and it's only a French method of drawing Englishmen's teeth." He left me--I trust not in anger; but that was the last I saw of the Yorkshireman.

We got off, (M. GODARD and I) about four o'clock P.M., and ascended steadily till Paris, with its rim of fortifications, looked more like the crater of a volcano than anything else. I brought out my opera-glass as we moved in the direction of Versailles, and reconnoitred the situation. In a field adjoining the palace I saw an object that looked like a post driven into the ground, and capped with a large-sized clam-shell. GODARD levelled his glass and examined it. His lip curled proudly with scorn as he said:--

"That is the butcher himself, WILLIAM of Prussia. The clam-like appearance you notice is due to the baldness of his head."

I only said: "Can it be possible?" and we moved on. How my blood throbbed as we cavorted through the blue depths of heaven! I was far from feeling blue myself, and GODARD said that if anything I was green. The bearings of the remark did not strike me at the time, as a cannon-ball from the direction of Versailles whirled within twenty feet of the balloon and lifted the right flank (a military expression) of my moustache into your subscriber's eye, notwithstanding it was waxed with LOUVET'S best, warranted to keep each hair _en règle_, even in the worst gales. From that moment I renounced LOUVET. Following the cannon-shot came a miscellaneous assortment of small projectiles, which had the effect of creating some excitement among the atmospheric _animalculae_, but failed to disturb the serenity of M. GODARD or myself. When about ten miles from Blois I detected what I supposed was a large vein of chalk-pits. It was very white, and apparently motionless. My companion expressed his surprise at the difficulty I had in distinguishing objects correctly, and seemed to lose patience.

"_Bigarre_, you no know zat? It ees ze dirty Proosien linen vashed out, and hoong zere to dry!"

I told him in Arabic that he needn't get his back up; but he understood me not, and continued playing with the cats which we were transporting to Tours to protect the Commissary stores from the ravages of the rats that the Prussians had despatched to eat up the provisions of the garrison. Towards night I began to have a queer sensation in the stomach. It wasn't like sea-sickness, nor like the feeling produced by swinging. If a man just recovering from the effects of his first cigar were offered a bowl of hot goose-grease for supper, I suppose he would have felt as I felt. At the moment a queer twinge took me; I ejaculated: "Oh! Lord!"

"Vat ees de matter?" inquired GODARD. If the man had had any other nationality, I might have talked sense to him; but he was a Frenchman, so I said:--

"Do you love me?"

"Do I loves you?"

"Yes!" I roared frantically, "do you love me?"

"_Begaire_ I dunno, but I zinks so."

"Then," said I, dimly discerning a chance of relief from my suffering, "throw me out as ballast."

"Oh, _horrible! horrible! Mon Dieu!_ vat a man!"

I turned my sickly gaze upon him and saw that he was deadly pale, and that the perspiration stood out in great drops upon his forehead. The explanation was plain enough--he took me for a maniac. I would have protested and moved the previous question, but taking a small phial from his pocket he broke off the head and threw the contents in my face. Ten seconds later I was totally oblivious, and upon recovering found myself in this place, where such strange things are going on that my fingers prick to write them.

DICK TINTO.

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AN EX-MONSTER.

It is a bad day for monarchs. Boston has, for several weeks, had upon Exhibition His Marine Majesty the Whale. The captive was shown for the ridiculously small sum of two shillings, and great was the gathering to gaze upon the spouter, who would have come just in time to attend the political caucuses, only he happens to be dead, and cannot spout any more, albeit his jaw is still tremendous. His defunct condition renders it unnecessary to feed him upon JONAHS, which is lucky for a good many superfluous voyagers upon the Ship of State. If the King of All the Fishes can draw such crowds at a quarter a head, what a chance is there for our friend LOUIS NAPOLEON! If he will but make an Exhibition of himself in this country, we promise him full houses, and a greater fortune than that which he has lost.

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THE MICROSCOPIC MAN.

Bumps have a great deal to answer for. Of course we refer to phrenological bumps, from which, possibly, the powerful adjective "bumptious" is derived, it being applicable to a person whose conflicting bumps keep him continually on the rampage.