University of Virginia Library

2. PART II.
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES.
From the “Cleveland Plaindealer.”

1. ESSAYS AND SKETCHES
I.
ABOUT EDITORS.

We hear a great deal, and something
too much about the poverty of editors. It
is common for editors to parade their poverty
and joke about it in their papers. We
see these witticisms almost every day of
our lives. Sometimes the editor does the
“vater vorks business,” as Mr. Samuel
Weller called weeping, and makes pathetic
appeals to his subscribers. Sometimes he
is in earnest when he makes these appeals,
but why “on airth” does he stick to
a business that will not support him decently?
We read of patriotic and lofty-minded

individuals who sacrifice health,
time, money, and perhaps life for the good
of humanity, the Union and that sort of
thing, but we don't see them very often. We
must say that we could count up all the
lofty patriots in this line that we have ever
seen, during our brief but checquered and
romantic career, in less than half a day.
A man who clings to a wretchedly paying
business, when he can make himself and
others near and dear to him fatter and happier
by doing something else, is about as
near an ass as possible and not hanker
after green grass and corn in the ear. The
truth is, editors as a class are very well fed,
groomed and harnessed. They have some
pains that other folk do not have, and
they also have some privileges which the
community in general can't possess. While
we would not advise the young reader to
“go for an editor,” we assure him he can
do much worse. He mustn't spoil a flourishing
blacksmith or popular victualer in
making an indifferent editor of himself,
however. He must be endowed with some
fancy and imagination to enchain the public
eye. It was Smith, we believe, or some
other man with an odd name, who thought
Shakspeare lacked the requisite fancy and
imagination for a successful editor.

To those persons who can't live by
printing papers we would say, in the language
of the profligate boarder when dunned
for his bill, being told at the same time
by the keeper of the house that he couldn't
board people for nothing, “sell out to
somebody who can.” In other words, fly
from a business which don't remunerate.
But as we intimated before, there is much
gammon in the popular editorial cry of
poverty.

Just now we see a touching paragraph
floating through the papers to the effect
that editors don't live out half their years
—that, poor souls! they wear themselves
out for the benefit of a cold and unappreciating
world. We don't believe it. Gentle
reader, don't swallow it. It is a footlight
trick to work on your feelings. For ourselves,
let us say, that unless we slip up
considerably on our calculations, it will be
a long time before our fellow-citizens will

have the melancholy pleasure of erecting
to our memory a towering monument of
Parian marble on the Public Square.

Items.—They are very “scarce.” Readers
may complain at the lack of local news
in our papers, but where can we get it?
We are in about as bad a fix as the French
leader of the orchestra in a theatre “Out
West” was. He was flourishing his baton
in the most frantic manner—the fiddles
were squeaking—the brass instruments
were braying—the cymbals were clashing,
and the orchestra was making all the noise
it possibly could. But a man in the pit
wasn't satisfied. “Louder! louder! louder!”
he yelled. The French leader dropped his
baton in despair, wiped the perspiration
from his brow, told the orchestra to cease
playing, and violently spoke as follows:—
“The gen'lman may cry loud-AR as much
as he please, but vere we get de wind, by
gar?” A few hours of active study will
show the reader that the comparison is a
good one.

2. II.
EDITING.

Before you go for an Editor, young man,
pause and take a big think! Do not rush
into the Editorial harness rashly. Look
around and see if there is not an omnibus
to drive—some soil somewhere to be tilled
—a clerkship on some meat cart to be filled—anything
that is reputable and healthy,
rather than going for an Editor, which is
hard business at best.

We are not a horse, and consequently
have never been called upon to furnish the
motive power for a threshing machine; but
we fancy that the life of the Editor, who is
forced to write, write, write, whether he feels
right or not, is much like that of the steed
in question. If the yeas and neighs could
be obtained we believe the intelligent horse
would decide that the threshing machine is
preferable to the sanctum Editorial.

The Editor's work is never done. He is
drained incessantly, and no wonder that he
dries up prematurely. Other people can
attend banquets, weddings, etc.; visit halls
of dazzling light, get inebriated, break
windows, lick a man occasionally, and enjoy
themselves in a variety of ways; but the
Editor cannot. He must stick tenaciously
to his quill. The press, like a sick baby,
mustn't be left alone for a minute. If the
press is left to run itself even for a day,
some absurd person indignantly orders the
carrier-boy to stop bringing “that infernal
paper. There's nothing in it. I won't
have it in the house!”

The elegant Mantalini, reduced to man-gleturning,
described his life as “a dem'd
horrid grind.” The life of the Editor is
all of that.

But there is a good time coming, we feel
confident, for the Editor. A time when
he will be appreciated. When he will
have a front seat. When he will have pie
every day, and wear store clothes continually.
When the harsh cry of “stop my
paper” will no more grate upon his ears.

Courage, Messieurs the Editors! Still,
sanguine as we are of the coming of this
jolly time, we advise the aspirant for Editorial
honors to pause ere he takes up the
quill as a means of obtaining his bread and
butter. Do not, at least, do so until you
have been jilted several dozen times by
a like number of girls; until you have been
knocked down stairs and soused in a horsepond;
until all the “gushing” feelings
within you have been thoroughly subdued;
until, in short, your hide is of rhinoceros
thickness. Then, O aspirants for the
bubble reputation at the press's mouth,
throw yourselves among the inkpots, dust,
and cobwebs of the printing office, if you
will.

* * * Good my lord, will you see the
Editors well bestowed? Do you hear, let
them be well used, for they are the abstract
and brief chronicles of the time. After
your death you had better have a bad epitaph
than their ill report while you live.

3. III.
MORALITY AND GENIUS.

We see it gravely stated in a popular
Metropolitan journal that “true genius
goes hand in hand, necessarily, with morality.”
The statement is not a startlingly
novel one. It has been made, probably,
about sixty thousand times before. But it
is untrue and foolish. We wish genius
and morality were affectionate companions,
but it is a fact that they are often bitter
enemies. They don't necessarily coalesce
any more than oil and water do. Innumerable
instances may be readily produced in
support of this proposition. Nobody doubts
that Sheridan had genius, yet he was a sad
dog. Mr. Byron, the author of Childe
Harold “and other poems,” was a man of
genius, we think, yet Mr. Byron was a fearfully
fast man. Edgar A. Poe wrote magnificent

poetry and majestic prose, but he
was in private life hardly the man for small
and select tea parties. We fancy Sir Richard
Steele was a man of genius, but he got
disreputably drunk, and didn't pay his debts.
Swift had genius—an immense lot of it—
yet Swift was a cold-blooded, pitiless, bad
man. The catalogue might be spun out to
any length, but it were useless to do it. We
don't mean to intimate that men of genius
must necessarily be sots and spendthrifts—
we merely speak of the fact that very many
of them have been both, and in some instances
much worse than both. Still we
can't well see (though some think they can)
how the pleasure and instruction people
derive from reading the productions of
these great lights is diminished because
their morals were “lavishly loose.” They
might have written better had their private
lives been purer, but of this nobody can
determine, for the pretty good reason that
nobody knows.

So with actors. We have seen people
stay away from the theater because Mrs.
Grundy said the star of the evening invariably

retired to his couch in a state of
extreme inebriety. If the star is afflicted
with a weakness of this kind, we may regret
it. We may pity or censure the star. But
we must still acknowledge the star's genius,
and applaud it. Hence we conclude that
the chronic weaknesses of actors no more
affect the question of the propriety of patronizing
theatrical representations, than the
profligacy of journeymen shoemakers affects
the question of the propriety of wearing
boots. All of which is respectfully submitted.

4. IV.
POPULARITY.

What a queer thing is popularity. Bill
Pug Nose of the “Plug-Uglies” acquires a
world-wide reputation by smashing up the
“champion of light weights,” sets up a Saloon
upon it, and realizes the first month;
while our Missionary, who collected two
hundred blankets last August, and at that
time saved a like number of little negroes
in the West Indies from freezing, has received
nothing but the yellow fever. The
Hon. Oracular M. Matterson becomes able
to withstand any quantity of late nights and
bad brandy, is elected to Congress, and lobbies
through contracts by which he realizes
some $50,000, while private individuals
lose $100,000 by the Atlantic Cable. Contracts
are popular—the cable isn't. Fiddlers,
Prima-Donnas, Horse Operas, learned

pigs, and five-legged calves travel through
the country, reaping “golden opinions,
while editors, inventors, professors and
humanitarians generally, are starving in
garrets. Revivals of religion, fashions,
summer resorts, and pleasure trips, are exceedingly
popular, while trade, commerce,
chloride of lime, and all the concomitants
necessary to render the inner life of denizens
of cities tolerable, are decidedly NON
EST. Even water, which was so popular
and populous a few weeks agone, comes to
us in such stinted sprinklings that it has
become popular to supply it only from
hydrants in sufficient quantities to raise
one hundred disgusting smells in a distance
of two blocks. Monsieur Revierre, with
nothing but a small name and a large
quantity of hair, makes himself exceedingly
popular with hotel-keepers and a numerous
progeny of female Flaunts and Blounts,
while Felix Smooth and Mr. Chink, who
persistently set forth their personal and
more substantial marital charms through
the columns of the New York Herald,
have only received one interview each—
one from a man in female attire, and the
other from the keeper of an unmentionable
house. Popularity is a queer thing, very.
If you don't believe us, try it!

Dull.—It is a scandalous fact that this
city is desperately and fearfully barren of
incident. No “dem'd, moist unpleasant
bodies” are fished up out of the river; no ambitious
young female runs off with her “feller;”
no stabbings, gougings, or fisticuffs
occur; no eminent merchant suspends; no
banker or railroad man defaults, and not
even a dog-fight disturbs the rigid and corpse-like
quiet of the city. We want a murder.
We insist upon having a murder. A manslaughter
won't do. It must be murder,
premeditated, foul, and unnatural. It must
be a luscious murder, abounding in soulharrowing
incidents. Some “man in human
shape” must chop the heads of his entire
family off with a meat-axe, or insert a
butcher-knife ingeniously under their fifth
ribs. Let murder be done. Bring on your
murderers. We want to be Rochestered!

5. V.
A LITTLE DIFFICULTY IN THE WAY.

An enterprising traveling agent for a
well-known Cleveland Tomb Stone Manufactory
lately made a business visit to a
small town in an adjoining county. Hearing,
in the village, that a man in a remote
part of the township had lost his wife, he
thought he would go and see him and offer
him consolation and a gravestone, on his
usual reasonable terms. He started. The
road was a frightful one, but the agent persevered,
and finally arrived at the bereaved
man's house. Bereaved man's hired girl
told the agent that the bereaved man was
splitting fence rails “over in the pastur,
about two milds.” The indefatigable agent
hitched his horse and started for the “pastur.”
After falling into all manner of
mudholes, scratching himself with briers,
and tumbling over decayed logs, the agent

at length found the bereaved man. In a
subdued voice he asked the man if he had
lost his wife. The man said he had. The
agent was very sorry to hear of it, and sympathized
with the man very deeply in his
great afflication; but death, he said, was an
insatiate archer, and shot down all, both of
high and low degree. Informed the man
that “what was his loss was her gain,” and
would be glad to sell him a gravestone
to mark the spot where the beloved one
slept—marble or common stone, as he
chose, at prices defying competition. The
bereaved man said there was “a little difficulty
in the way.” “Haven't you lost
your wife?” inquired the agent. “Why
yes, I have,” said the man, “but no grave
stun ain't necesary: you see the cussed
critter ain't dead. She's scooted with
another man!” The agent retired.

6. VI.
OTHELLO.

Everybody knows that this is one of
Mr. W. Shakespeare's best and most attractive
plays. The public is more familiar
with Othello than any other of “the great
Bard's” efforts. It is the most quoted from
by writers and orators, Hamlet perhaps
excepted, and provincial theaters seem to
take more delight in doing it than almost
any other play extant, legitimate or otherwise.
The scene is laid in Venice. Othello,
a warm-hearted, impetuous and rather
verdant Moorish gentleman, considerably
in the military line, falls in love and marries
Desdemona, daughter of the Hon. Mr.
Brabantio, who represents one of the
“back districts” in the Venetian Senate.
The Senator is quite vexed at this—rends
his linen and swears considerably—but
finally dries up, requesting the Moor to remember

that Desdemona has deceived her
Pa, and bidding him to look out that she
don't likewise come it over him, “or words
to that effect.” Mr. and Mrs. Othello get
along very pleasantly for awhile. She is
sweet-tempered and affectionate—a nice,
sensible woman, not at all inclined to pantaloons,
he-female conventions, pickled-beets
and other “strong-minded” arrangements.
He is a likely man and “a good
provider.” But a man named Iago, who
we believe wants to get Mr. O. out of
his snug government berth that he may
get into it, systematically and effectually
ruins the Othello household. Had there
been a Lecompton Constitution up, Iago
would have been an able and eloquent advocate
of it, and would thus have got
Othello's position, for the Moor would have
utterly repudiated that pet scheme of the
Devil and several other gentlemen, whose
names we omit out of regard for the feelings
of their parents. Lecompton wasn't
a “test,” however, and Iago took another
course to oust Othello. He fell in with a
brainless young man named Roderigo and
won all of his money at euchre. (Iago always
played foul.) We suppose he did
this to procure funds to help him carry out
his vile scheme. Michael Cassio, whose
first name would imply that he was of the
Irish persuasion, was the unfortunate individual
selected by Mr. I. as his principal
tool. This Cassio was a young officer of
considerable promise and high moral worth.
He yet unhappily had a weakness for drink,
and though this weakness Mr. I. determined
to “fetch him.” He accordingly
proposed a drinking bout with Michael.
Michael drank faithfully every time, but
Iago adroitly threw his whiskey on the
floor. While Cassio is pouring the liquor
down his throat Iago sings a popular bacchanalian
song, the first verse of which is
as follows:
And the infatuated young man does drink.
The “canakin is clinked” until Michael
gets as tight as a boiled owl. He has
about seven inches of whisky in him. He
says he is sober, and thinks he can walk a
crack with distinguished success. He then
grows religious and “hopes to be saved.”
He then wants to fight, and allows he can
lick a yard full of the Venetian fancy. He
falls in with Roderigo and proceeds to
smash him. Montano undertakes to stop
Cassio, when that intoxicated person stabs
him. Iago pretends to be very sorry to
see Michael conduct himself in this improper
manner, and undertakes to smooth
the thing over to Othello, who rushes in
with a drawn sword and wants to know
what's up. Iago cunningly gives his villanous
explanation, and Othello tells
Michael that he loves him but he can't
train in his regiment any more. Desdemona,
the gentle and good, sympathizes
with Cassio and intercedes for him with
the Moor. Iago gives the Moor to understand
that she does this because she
likes Michael better than she does his own
dark-faced self, and intimates that their
relations (Desdemona's and Michael's) are
of an entirely too friendly character. The
Moor believes the villain's yarn, and commences
making himself unhappy and disagreeable
generally. Iago tells Othello
what he heard Cassio say about “sweet
Desdemona” in his dreams, but of course
the story was a creation of Iago's fruitful
brain—in short, a lie. The poor Moor
swallows it, though, and storms terribly.
He grabs Iago by the throat and tells him
to give him the ocular proof. Iago becomes
virtuously indignant and is sorry he mentioned
the subject to the Moor. The Moor
relents and believes Iago. He then tortures
Desdemona with his foul suspicions,
and finally smothers her with a pillow
while she is in bed. Mrs. Iago, who is a
woman of spirit, comes in on the Moor
just as he has finished the murder. She
gives it to him right smartly, and shows
him he has been terribly deceived. Mr.
Iago enters. Mrs. Iago pitches into him
and he stabs her. Othello gives him
a piece of his mind and subsequently a
piece of his sword. Iago, with a sardonic
smile, says he bleeds but isn't hurt much.

[ILLUSTRATION]

Natural History—Sudden and unexpected Playfulness of the Bear—See page 70.

[Description: 484EAF. Image of Ward being grabbed from behind by a giant bear. Ward is looking backwards toward the bear, which is standing tall and baring his teeth.]

He then walks up to Othello, and with
another sardonic smile, points to the death-couch
of poor Desdemona. He then goes
off. Othello tells the assembled dignitaries
that he has done the State some service
and they know it; asks them to speak of
him as he is, and do as fair a thing as they
can under the circumstances; calls himself
a circumcised dog, and kills himself, which
is the most sensible thing he can do.

7. VII.
SCENES OUTSIDE THE FAIR GROUND.

There is some fun outside the Fair
Ground. Any number of mountebanks
have pitched their tents there, and are
exhibiting all sorts of monstrosities to large
and enthusiastic audiences. There are
some eloquent men among the showmen.
Some of them are Demosthenic. We
looked around among them during the
last day we honored the Fair with our
brilliant presence, and were rather pleased
at some things we heard and witnessed.

The man with the fat woman and the
little woman and the little man was there.
“ `Ere's a show now,” said he, “worth
seeing. `Ere's a entertainment that improves
the morals. P. T. Barnum—you've
all hearn o' him. What did he say to
me? Sez he to me, sez P. T. Barnum,
`Sir, you have the damdist best show

travelin'!'—and all to be seen for the
small sum of fifteen cents!”

The man with the blue hog was there.
Says he, “GentleMEN, this beast can't turn
round in a crockery grate ten feet square
and is of a bright indigo blue. Over five
hundred persons have seen this wonderful
BEING this mornin', and they said as they
come out, `What can these `ere things be?
Is it alive? Doth it breathe and have
a being? Ah yes, they say, it is true,
and we have saw a entertainment as we
never saw afore. `Tis nature's [only
fifteen cents—`ere's your change, Sir] own
sublime handiworks'—and walk right in.”

The man with the wild mare was there.
“Now, then, my friends, is your time to
see the gerratist queeriosity in the livin'
world—a wild mare without no hair—captered
on the roarin' wild prahayries of
the far distant West by sixteen Injuns.
Don't fail to see this gerrate exhibition.
Only fifteen cents. Don't go hum without
seein' the State Fair, an' you won't see the
State Fair without you see my show. Gerratist
exhibition in the known world, an' all

for the small sum of fifteen cents.” Two
gentlemen connected with the press here
walked up and asked the showman, in
a still small voice, if he extended the usual
courtesies to editors. He said he did, and
requested them to go in. While they
were in some sly dog told him their names.
When they came out the showman pretended
to talk with them, though he didn't
say a word. They were evidently in a
hurry. “There, gentleMEN, what do you
think them gentlemen say? They air
editors—editors, gentleMEN—Mr.—of
the Cleveland—, and Mr.—of the
Detroit—, and they say it is the gerratist
show they ever seed in their born
days!” [Nothing but the tip ends of the
editors' coat-tails could be seen when the
showman concluded this speech.]

A smart-looking chap was doing a brisk
business with a gambling contrivance. Seeing
two policemen approach, he rapidly
and ingeniously covered the dice up, mounted
his table, and shouted: “ `Ere's the
only great show on the grounds! The
highly trained and performing Mud Turtle

with nine heads and seventeen tails, captured
in a well-fortified hencoop, after a
desperate struggle, in the lowlands of
the Wabash!!” The facetious wretch escaped.

A grave, ministerial-looking and elderly
man in a white choker had a gift-enterprise
concern. “My friends,” he solemnly said,
“you will observe that this jewelry is elegant
indeed, but I can afford to give it
away, as I have a twin brother seven years
older than I am, in New York City, who
steals it a great deal faster than I can give
it away. No blanks, my friends—all prizes
—and only fifty cents a chance. I don't
make anything myself, my friends—all I get
goes to aid a sick woman—my aunt in the
country, gentlemen—and besides I like to
see folks enjoy themselves!” The old
scamp said all this with a perfectly grave
countenance.

The man with the “wonderful calf with
five legs and a huming head,” and “the philosophical
lung-tester,” were there. Then
there was the Flying Circus and any number
of other igenious contrivances to relieve

young ladies and gentlemen from the
rural districts of their spare change.

A young man was bitterly bewailing the
loss of his watch, which had been cut from
his pocket by some thief. “You ain't
smart,” said a middle-aged individual in a
dingy Kossuth hat with a feather in it, and
who had a very you-can't-fool-me look.
“I've been to the State Fair before, I want
yer to understan', and know my bizniss
aboard a propeller. Here's MY money,” he
exultingly cried, slapping his pantaloons'
pocket.” About half an hour after this we
saw this smart individual rushing frantically
around after a policeman. Somebody
had adroitly relieved him of HIS money. In
his search for a policeman he encountered
the young man who wasn't smart. “Haw,
haw, haw,” violently laughed the latter, “by
G—, I thought you was smart—I thought
you'd been to the State Fair before.” The
smart man looked sad for a moment, but a
knowing smile soon crossed his face, and
drawing the young man who wasn't smart
confidentially towards him, said: “There
wasn't only fifty cents in coppers in my

pocket—my MONEY is in my boot—they
can't fool me—I've been to the State
Fair before!!”

He Declined “Biling.”—The students
of the Conneaut Academy gave a theatrical
entertainment a few winters ago. They
“executed” Julius Cæsar. Everything went
off satisfactorily until Cæsar was killed in
the market-place. The stage accommodations
were limited, and Cæsar fell nearly
under the stove in which there was a roaring
fire. And when Brutus said—

he was amazed to see Cæsar rise upon his
feet and nervously examine his scorched
garments. “Lay down, you fool,” shouted
Brutus, wildly, “do you want to break up
the whole thing?” “No,” returned Cæsar,
in an excited manner, “I don't: I want to
act out Gineral Cæsar in good style, but I
ain't goin' to bile under that cussed old
stove for nobody!” This stopped the play,
and the students abandoned theatricals
forthwith.

8. VIII.
COLORED PEOPLE'S CHURCH.

There is a plain little meeting-house on
Barnwell street in which the colored people
—or a goodly portion of them—worship on
Sundays. The seats are cushionless and
have perpendicular backs. The pulpit is
plain white—trimmed with red, it is true,
but still a very unostentatious affair for
colored people, who are supposed to have
a decided weakness for gay hues. Should
you escort a lady to this church and seat
yourself beside her, you will infallibly be
touched on the shoulder, and politely requested
to move to the “gentlemen's side.”
Gentlemen and ladies are not allowed to
sit together in this church. They are
parted remorselessly. It is hard—we may
say it is terrible—to be torn asunder in
this way, but you have to submit, and of

course you had better do so gracefully and
pleasantly.

Meeting opens with an old fashioned
hymn, which is very well sung indeed, by
the congregation. Then the minister reads
a hymn, which is sung by the choir on the
front seats near the pulpit. Then the minister
prays. He hopes no one has been attracted
there by idle curiosity—to see or be
seen—and you naturally conclude that
he is gently hitting you. Another hymn
follows the prayer, and then we have the
discourse, which certainly has the merit of
peculiarity and boldness. The minister's
name is Jones. He don't mince matters at
all. He talks about the “flames of hell”
with a confident fierceness that must be
quite refreshing to sinners. “There's no
half-way about this,” says he, “no by-paths.
There are in Cleveland lots of men who
go to church regularly, who behave well in
meeting, and who pay their bills. They
ain't Christians, though. They're gentlemen
sinners. And whar d'ye spose theyll
fetch up? I'll tell ye—they'll fetch up in
hell, and they'll come up standing, too—

there's where they'll fetch up! Who's my
backer? Have I got a backer? Whar's
my backer? This is my backer (striking
the Bible before him)—the Bible will back
me to any amount!” To still further convince
his hearers that he was in earnest, he
exclaimed, “That's me—that's Jones!”

He alluded to Eve in terms of bitter
censure. It was natural that Adam should
have been mad at her. “I shouldn't want
a woman that wouldn't mind me, myself,”
said the speaker.

He directed his attention to dancing,
declaring it to be a great sin. “Whar
there's dancing there's fiddling—whar
there's fiddling there's unrighteousness,
and unrighteousness is wickedness, and
wickedness is sin! That's me—that's
Jones.”

Bosom, the speaker invariably called
“buzzim,” and devil “debil,” with a fearfully
strong accent on the “il.”

9. IX.
SPIRITS.

Mr. Davenport, who has been for some
time closely identified with the modern
spiritual movement, is in the City with his
daughter, who is quite celebrated as a
medium. They are accompanied by Mr.
Eighme and his daughter, and are holding
circles in Hoffman's Block every afternoon
and evening. We were present at the
circle last evening. Miss Davenport seated
herself at a table on which was a tin trumpet,
a tamborine, and a guitar. The audience
were seated around the room. The lights
were blown out, and the spirit of an eccentric
individual, well known to the Davenports,
and whom they call George, addressed
the audience through the trumpet. He
called several of those present by name in
a boisterous voice, and dealt several stunning
knocks on the table. George has

been in the spirit world some two hundred
years. He is a rather rough spirit, and probably
run with the machine and “killed for
Kyser” when in the flesh. He ordered
the seats in the room to be wheeled round
so the audience would face the table. He
said the people on the front seat must be
tied with a rope. The order was misunderstood,
the rope being merely drawn before
those on the front seat. He reprimanded
Mr. Davenport for not understanding the
instructions. What he meant was that
the rope should be passed once around
each person on the front seat and then
tightly drawn, a man at each end of the
seat to hold on to it. This was done and
George expressed himself satisfied. There
was no one near the table save the medium.
All the rest were behind the rope,
and those on the front seat were particularly
charged not to let any one pass by
them. George said he felt first-rate, and
commenced kissing the ladies present.
The smack could be distinctly heard, and
some of the ladies said the sensation was
very natural. For the first time in our
eventful life we sighed to be a spirit. We
envied George. We did not understand
whether the kissing was done through a
trumpet. After kissing considerably, and
indulging in some playful remarks with
a man whose Christian name was Napoleon
Bonaparte, and whom George called
“Boney,” he tied the hands and feet of
the medium. He played the guitar and
jingled the tamborine, and then dashed
them violently on the floor. The candles
were lit and Miss Davenport was securely
tied. She could not move her hands.
Her feet were bound, and the rope (which
was a long one) was fastened to the chair.
No person in the room had been near
her or had anything to do with tieing her.
Every person who was in the room will
take his or her oath of that. She could
hardly have tied herself. We never saw
such intricate and thorough tieing in our
life. The believers present were convinced
that George did it. The unbelievers
didn't exactly know what to think
about it. The candles were extinguished
again, and pretty soon Miss Davenport
told George to “don't.” She spoke in
an affrighted tone. The candles were lit,
and she was discovered sitting on the
table—hands and feet tied as before, and
herself tied to the chair withal. The lights
were again blown out, there were sounds
as if some one was lifting her from the
table; the candles were re-lit, and she was
seen sitting in the chair on the floor again.
No one had been near her from the audience.
Again the lights were extinguished,
and presently the medium said her feet
were wet. It appeared that the mischievous
spirit of one Biddie, an Irish Miss who died
when twelve years old, had kicked over the
water-pail. Miss Eighme took a seat at
the table, and the same mischievous Biddie
scissored off a liberal lock of her hair.
There was the hair, and it had indisputably
just been taken from Miss Eighme's head,
and her hands and feet, like those of Miss
D., were securely tied. Other things of a
staggering character to the skeptic were
done during the evening.

10. X.
MR. BLOWHARD.

The reader has probably met Mr. Blowhard.
He is usually round. You find him
in all public places. He is particularly
“numerous” at shows. Knows all the actors
intimately. Went to school with some of
'em. Knows how much they get a month
to a cent, and how much liquor they can
hold to a teaspoonful. He knows Ned
Forrest like a book. Has taken sundry
drinks with Ned. Ned likes him much.
Is well acquainted with a certain actress.
Could have married her just as easy as not
if he had wanted to. Didn't like her
“style,” and so concluded not to marry her.
Knows Dan Rice well. Knows all of his
men and horses. Is on terms of affectionate
intimacy with Dan's rhinoceros, and
is tolerably well acquainted with the performing
elephant. We encountered Mr.

Blowhard at the circus yesterday. He was
entertaining those near him with a full
account of the whole institution, men, boys,
horses, “muils” and all. He said, the rhinoceros
was perfectly harmless, as his teeth
had all been taken out in infancy. Besides,
the rhinoceros was under the influence of
opium, while he was in the ring, which entirely
prevented his injuring anybody. No
danger whatever. In due course of time the
amiable beast was led into the ring. When
the cord was taken from his nose, he turned
suddenly and manifested a slight desire to
run violently in among some boys who were
seated near the musicians. The keeper,
with the assistance of one of the Bedouin
Arabs, soon induced him to change his
mind, and got him in the middle of the
ring. The pleasant quadruped had no
sooner arrived here than he hastily started,
with a melodious bellow, towards the seats
on one of which sat Mr. Blowhard. Each
particular hair on Mr. Blowhard's head
stood up “like squills upon the speckled
porkupine” (Shakspeare or Artemus Ward,
we forget which), and he fell, with a small
shriek, down through the seats to the
ground. He remained there until the
agitated rhinoceros became calm, when he
crawled slowly back to his seat. “Keep
mum,” he said, with a very wise shake of
the head, “I only wanted to have some fun
with them folks above us. I swar, I'll bet
the whisky they thought I was scared!”
Great character, that Blowhard.

11. XI.
MARKET MORNING.

On market mornings there is a roar and
a crash all about the corner of Kinsman
and Pittsburgh streets. The market building,
so called we presume because it don't
in the least resemble a market building, is
crowded with beef and butchers, and almost
countless meat and vegetable wagons,
of all sorts, are confusedly huddled together
all around outside. These wagons
mostly come from a few miles out of town,
and are always on the spot at daybreak.
A little after sunrise the crash and jam
commences, and continues with little cessation
until 10 o'clock in the forenoon.
There is a babel of tongues, an excessively
cosmopolitan gathering of people, a roar of
wheels, and a lively smell of beef and vegetables.

The soap man, the head-ache
curative man, the razor man, and a variety
of other tolerable humbugs are in full blast.
We meet married men with baskets in
their hands. Those who have been fortunate
in their selections look happy, while
some who have been unlucky wear a dejected
air, for they are probably destined
to get pieces of their wives' minds on their
arrival home. It is true, that all married
men have their own way, but the trouble is
they don't all have their own way of having
it! We meet a newly married man. He
has recently set up house-keeping. He is
out to buy steak for breakfast. There are
only himself and wife and female domestic
in the family. He shows us his basket,
which contains steak enough for at least
ten able-bodied men. We tell him so, but
he says we don't know anything about war,
and passes on. Here comes a lady of high
degree, who has no end of servants to send
to the market, but she likes to come herself,
and it won't prevent her shining and
sparkling in her elegant drawing-room this
afternoon. And she is accumulating muscle
and freshness of face by these walks to
market.

And here is a charming picture. Standing
beside a vegetable cart is a maiden
beautiful, and sweeter far than any daisy in
the fields. Eyes of purest blue, lips of
cherry red, teeth like pearls, silken, golden
hair, and form of exquisite mold. We
wonder if she is a fairy, but instantly conclude
that she is not, for in measuring out
a peck of onions she spills some of them,
a small boy laughs at the mishap, and she
indignantly shies the measure at his head.
Fairies, you know, don't throw peck-measures
at small boys' heads. The spell was
broken. The golden chain which for a
moment bound us fell to pieces. We meet
an eccentric individual in corduroy pantaloons
and pepper-and-salt coat, who wants
to know if we didn't sail out of Nantucket
in 1852 in the whaling brig fasper Green.
We are compelled to confess that the only
nautical experience we ever had was to
once temporarily command a canal boat on
the dark-rolling Wabash, while the captain
went ashore to cave in the head of a miscreant

who had winked lasciviously at the
sylph who superintended the culinary department
on board that gallant craft. The
eccentric individual smiles in a ghastly
manner, says perhaps we won't lend him a
dollar till to-morrow; to which we courteously
reply that we certainly won't, and
he glides away.

We return to our hotel, reinvigorated
with the early, healthful jaunt, and bestow
an imaginary purse of gold upon our African
Brother, who brings us a hot and excellent
breakfast.

12. XII.
WE SEE TWO WITCHES.

Two female fortune-tellers recently came
hither, and spread “small bills” throughout
the city. Being slightly anxious, in
common with a wide circle of relatives
and friends, to know where we were
going to and what was to become of us,
we visited both of these eminently respectable
witches yesterday and had our fortune
told “twict.” Physicians sometimes disagree,
lawyers invariably do, editors occasionally
fall out, and we are pained to
say that even witches unfold different tales
to one individual. In describing our interviews
with these singularly gifted female women,
who are actually and positively here
in this city, we must speak considerably of
“we”—not because we flatter ourselves
that we are more interesting than people

in general, but because in the present case
it is really necessary. In the language of
Hamlet's Pa, “List, O list!”

We went to see “Madame B.” first. She
has rooms at the Burnett House. The
following is a copy of her bill:

MADAME B.

The celebrated Spanish Astrologist, Clairvoyant
and female Doctress, would respectfully
announce to the citizens that she has
just arrived in this city, and designs remaining
for a few days only. The Madame can
be consulted on all matters pertaining to life,
either past, present or future, tracing the
line of life from Infancy to Old Age, particularizing
each event, in regard to Business,
Love, Marriage, Courtship, Losses,
Law Matters, and Sickness of Relatives
and Friends at a distance.

The Madame will also show her visitors
a life-like representation of their Future
Husbands and Wives.

Lucky Numbers in Lotteries can also be
selected by her, and hundreds who have
consulted her have drawn capital prizes. The

Madame will furnish medicine for all diseases,
for grown persons, male or female,
and children.

Persons wishing to consult her concerning
this mysterious art and human destiny,
particularly with reference to their own individual
bearing in relation to a supposed
Providence, can be accommodated by calling
at Room No. 23, Burnett House, corner
of Prospect and Ontario streets, Cleveland.

The Madame has traveled extensively
for the last few years, both in the United
States and the West Indies, and the success
which has attended her in all places
has won for her the reputation of being the
most wonderful Astrologist of the present
age.

The Madame has a superior faculty for
this business, having been born with a Caul
on her Face, by virtue of which she can
more accurately read the past, present and
future; also enabling her to cure many diseases
without using drugs or medicines.
The Madame advertises nothing but what
she can do. Call on her if you would consult

the greatest Foreteller of events now
living.

Hours of Consultation, from 8 A. M. to
9 o'clock P. M.

We urbanely informed the lady with the
“Caul on her Face” that we had called to
have our fortune told, and she said “hand
out your money.” This preliminary being
settled, Madame B. (who is a tall, sharp-eyed,
dark-featured and angular woman, dressed
in painfully positive colors, and heavily
loaded with gold chain and mammoth jewelry
of various kinds) and Jupiter indicated
powerful that we were a slim constitution,
which came down on to us from our father's
side. Wherein our constitution was not
slim, so it came down on to us from our
mother's side. “Is this so?” and we said
it was. “Yes,” continued the witch, “I
know'd t'was. You can't deceive Jupiter,
me, nor any other planick. You may swim
over Hell's-Point same as Leander did, but
you can't deceive the planicks. Give me
yer hand! Times ain't so easy as they has
been. So—so—but 'tis temp'ry. T'wont

last long. Times will be easy soon. You
may be tramped on to onct or twict, but
you'll rekiver. You have talenk, me child.
You kin make a Congresser if sich you
likes to be. [We said we would be excused
if it was all the same to her.] You kin be
a lawyer. [We thanked her, but said we
would rather retain our present good moral
character.] You kin be a soldier. You
have courage enough to go to the Hostrian
wars and kill the French. [We informed
her that we had already murdered some
“English.”] You won't have much money
till you're thirty-three years of old. Then
you will have large sums—forty thousand
dollars perhaps. Look out for it! [We
promised we would.] You have traveled
some, and you will travel more, which will
make your travels more extensiver than they
has been. You will go to Californy by way
of Pike's Pick. [Same route taken by
Horace Greeley.] If nothin' happens on
to you you won't meet with no accidents
and will get through pleasant, which you
otherwise will not do under all circumstances
however which doth happens to all both
great and small likewise to the rich as also
the poor. Hearken to me! There has
been deaths in your family, and there will
be more! But Reserve your constitution
and you will live to be seventy years of old.
Me child, HER hair will be black—black as
the Raving's wing. Likewise black will
also be her eyes, and she'll be as different
from which you air as night and day. Look
out for the darkish man! He's yer rival!
Beware of the darkish man! [We promised
that we'd introduce a funeral into the
“darkish man's” family the moment we
encountered him.] Me child, there's more
sunshine than clouds for ye, and send all
your friends up here.

A word before you goes. Expose not
yourself. Your eyes is saller which is on
accounts of bile on your systim. Some
don't have bile on to their systims which
their eyes is not saller. This bile ascends
down on to you from many generations
which is in their graves and peace to their
ashes.

MADAME CROMPTON.

We then proceeded directly to Madame
Crompton, the other fortune-teller.

Below is her bill:

MADAME R. CROMPTON,

The world-renowned Fortune Teller and
Astrologist. Madame Crompton begs leave
to inform the citizens of Cleveland and vicinity,
that she has taken rooms at the Farmers'
St. Clair House, corner of St. Clair
and Water Streets, where she may be consulted
on all matters pertaining to Past and
Future Events. Also, giving information
of Absent Friends, whether living or
dead.

P.S.—Persons having lost or having property
stolen of any kind, will do well to give
her a call, as she will describe the person or
persons with such accuracy as will astonish
the most devout critic.

Terms Reasonable.

She has rooms at the Farmers' Hotel, as
stated in the bill above. She was driving an

extensive business, and we were forced to
wait half an hour or so for a chance to see
her. Madame Crompton is of the English
persuasion, and has evidently searched many
long years in vain for her H. She is small
in stature, but considerably inclined to corpulency,
and her red round face is continually
wreathed in smiles, reminding one of
a new tin pan basking in the noonday sun.
She took a greasy pack of common playingcards,
and requested us to “cut them in
three,” which we did. She spread them out
before her on the table, and said: “Sir to
you which I speaks. You'av been terrible
crossed in love, and your'art'as been much
panged. But you'll get all over it and marry
a light complected gale with rayther reddish
'air. Before some time you'll have a leggercy
fall down on to you, mostly in solick
Jold. There may be a lawsuit about it
and you may be sup-prisoned as a witnesses,
but you'll git it—mostly in solick Jold, which
you will keep in chists, and you must look
out for them. [We said we would keep a
skinned optic on “them chists.”] You 'as
a enemy and he's a lightish man. He wants
to defraud you out of your'onesty. He is
tellink lies about you now in the'opes of
crushin' yourself. [A weak invention of
“the opposition.”] You never did nothin'
bad. Your'art is right. You'ave a great
taste for hosses and like to stay with'em.
Mister to you I sez! Gard aginst the lightish
man and all will be well.” The supernatural
being then took an oval-shaped chunk of
glass (which she called a stone) and requested
us to “hang on to it.” She looked
into it and said: “If you're not keerful
when you git your money you'll lose it, but
which otherwise you will not, and fifty cents
is as cheap as I kin afford to tell anybody's
fortune and no great shakes made then as
the Lord in Heving knows.”

13. XIII.
ROUGH BEGINNING OF THE HONEYMOON.

On last Friday morning an athletic young
farmer in the town of Waynesburg took a
fair girl, “all bathed in blushes,” from her
parents, and started for the first town across
the Pennsylvania line to be married, where
the ceremony could be performed without
a license. The happy pair were accompanied
by a sister of the girl—a tall, gaunt,
and sharp-featured female of some thirtyseven
summers. The pair crossed the line,
were married, and returned to Wellsville to
pass the night. People at the hotel where
the wedding party stopped observed that
they conducted themselves in a rather singular
manner. The husband would take
his sister-in-law, the tall female aforesaid,
into one corner of the parlor and talk earnestly
to her, gesticulating wildly the while.

Then the tall female would “put her foot
down” and talk to him in an angry and
excited manner. Then the husband would
take his fair young bride into a corner, but
he could no sooner commence talking to
her than the gaunt sister would rush in between
them and angrily join in the conversation.
The people at the hotel ascertained
what all this meant about 9 o'clock that
evening. There was an uproar in the room
which had been assigned to the newly-married
couple. Female shrieks and masculine
“swears” startled the people at the hotel,
and they rushed to the spot. The gaunt
female was pressing and kicking against
the door of the room, and the newly-married
man, mostly undressed, was barring
her out with all his might. Occasionally
she would kick the door far enough open
to disclose the stalwart husband, in his Gentleman
Greek Slave apparel. It appeared
that the tall female insisted upon occupying
the same room with the newly-wedded pair;
that her sister was favorably disposed to the
arrangement, and that the husband had
agreed to it before the wedding took place,
and was now indignantly repudiating the
contract. “Won't you go away now, Susan,
peaceful?” said the newly-married man,
softening his voice.

“No,” said she, “I won't—so there!”

“Don't you budge an inch!” cried the
married sister within the room.

“Now—now, Maria,” said the young man
to his wife, in a piteous tone, “don't go for
to cuttin' up in this way: now don't!”

“I'll cut up 's much I wanter!” she sharply
replied.

“Well,” roared the desperate man, throwing
the door wide open and stalking out
among the crowd, “well, jest you two wimin
put on your duds and go right straight
home and bring back the old man and woman,
and your grandfather, who is nigh on
to a hundred; bring 'em all here, and I'll
marry the whole d—d caboodle of 'em, and
we'll all sleep together!”

The difficulty was finally adjusted by the
tall female taking a room alone. Wellsville
is enjoying itself over the “sensation.”

14. XIV.
FROM A HOMELY MAN.

Dear Plain Dealer,—I am a plain
man, and there is a melancholy fitness
in my unbosoming my sufferings to the
“Plain” Dealer. Plain as you may be
in your dealings, however, I am convinced
you never before had to deal with a
correspondent so hopelessly plain as I.
Yet plain don't half express my looks.
Indeed I doubt very much whether any
word in the English language could be
found to convey an adequate idea of my
absolute and utter homeliness. The dates
in the old family Bible show that I am
in the decline of life, but I cannot recall
a period in my existence when I felt really
young. My very infancy, those brief
months when babes prattle joyously and
know nothing of care, was darkened by

a shadowy presentiment of what I was
to endure through life, and my youth
was rendered dismal by continued repetitions
of a fact painfully evident “on the
face of it,” that the boy was growing
homelier and homelier every day. Memory,
that with other people recalls so
much that is sweet and pleasant to think
of in connection with their youth, with
me brings up nothing but mortification,
bitter tears, I had almost said curses, on
my solitary and homely lot. I have wished
—a thousand times wished—that Memory
had never consented to take a seat “in this
distracted globe.”

You have heard of a man so homely
that he couldn't sleep nights, his face
ached so. Mr. Editor, I am that melancholy
individual. Whoever perpetrated
the joke—for joke it was no doubt intended
to be—knew not how much truth
he was uttering, or how bitterly the idle
squib would rankle in the heart of one
suffering man. Many and many a night
have I in my childhood laid awake thinking
of my homeliness, and as the moonlight

has streamed in at the window and fell
upon the handsome and placid features
of my little brother slumbering at my
side, God forgive me for the wicked
thought, but I have felt an almost unconquerable
impulse to forever disfigure
and mar that sweet upturned innocent
face that smiled and looked so beautiful
in sleep, for it was ever reminding me of
the curse I was doomed to carry about me.
Many and many a night have I got up in
my night-dress, and lighting my little lamp,
sat for hours gazing at my terrible ugliness
of face reflected in the mirror, drawn to it
by a cruel fascination which it was impossible
for me to resist.

I need not tell you that I am a single
man, and yet I have had what men call
affairs of the heart. I have known what
it is to worship the heart's embodiment
of female loveliness, and purity, and truth,
but it was generally at a distance entirely
safe to the object of my adoration. Being
of a susceptible nature I was continually
falling in love, but never, save with one
single exception, did I venture to declare

my flame. I saw my heart's palpitator
walking in a grove. Moved by my consuming
love I rushed towards her, and
throwing myself at her feet began to
pour forth the long pent-up emotions of
my heart. She gave one look and then
at least you'd thought they replied if you
had seen me leave that grove with a speed
greatly accelerated by a shower of rocks
from the hands of an enraged brother, who
was at hand. That prepossessing young
lady is now slowly recovering her reason
in an institution for the insane.

Of my further troubles I may perhaps
inform you at some future time.

15. XV.
THE ELEPHANT.

Some two years since, on the strength of
what we regarded as reliable information,
we announced the death of the elephant
Hannibal at Canton, and accompanied the
announcement with a short biographical
sketch of that remarkable animal. We
happened to be familiar with several interesting
incidents in the private life of Hannibal,
and our sketch was copied by almost
every paper in America and by several European
journals. A few months ago a
“traveled” friend showed us the sketch in
a Parisian journal, and possibly it is “going
the rounds” of the Chinese papers by this
time. A few days after we had printed his
obituary Hannibal came to town with Van
Amburgh's Menagerie, and the same type

which killed the monster restored him to
life again.

About once a year Hannibal

to make a short quotation from a once popular
ballad. These sprees, in fact, “is what's
the matter with him.” The other day, in
Williamsburg, Long Island, he broke loose
in the canvas, emptied most of the cages,
and tore through the town like a mammoth
pestilence. An extensive crowd of athletic
men, by jabbing him with spears and pitchforks,
and coiling big ropes around his legs,
succeeded in capturing him. The animals
he had set free were caught and restored
to their cages without much difficulty. We
doubt if we shall ever forget our first view
of Hannibal—which was also our first view
of any elephant—of the elephant, in short.
It was at the close of a sultry day in June,
18—. The sun had spent its fury and was
going to rest among the clouds of gold and
crimson. A solitary horseman might have
been seen slowly ascending a long hill in a
New England town. That solitary horseman
was us, and we were mounted on the
old white mare. Two bags were strapped
to the foaming steed. That was before we
became wealthy, and of course we are not
ashamed to say that we had been to mill,
and consequently them bags contained flour
and middlin's. Presently a large object
appeared at the top of the hill. We had
heard of the devil and had been pretty often
told that he would have a clear deed and
title to us before long, but had never heard
him painted like the object which met our
gaze at the top of that hill, on the close of
that sultry day in June. Concluding (for
we were a mere youth) that it was an eccentric
whale, who had come ashore near North
Yarmouth and was making a tour through
the interior on wheels, we hastily turned
our steed and made for the mill at a rapid
rate. Once we threw over ballast, after the
manner of ballonists, and as the object
gained on us we cried aloud for our parents.
Fortunately we reached the mill in safety,
and the object passed at a furious rate, with
a portion of a woodshed on its back. It
was Hannibal, who had run away from a
neighboring town, taking a shed with him.

Drank Standin'.—Col. — is a big
“railroad man.” He attended a railroad
supper once. Champagne flowed freely,
and the Colonel got more than his share.
Speeches were made after the removal of
the cloth. Somebody arose and eulogized
the Colonel in the steepest possible manner
—called him great, good, patriotic, enterprising,
&c., &c. The speaker was here interrupted
by the illustrious Colonel himself,
who, arising with considerable difficulty,
and beaming benevolently around the table,
gravely said: “Let's (hic) drink that sedimunt
standin'!” It was done

16. XVI.
BUSTS.

There are in this city several Italian
gentlemen engaged in the bust business.
They have their peculiarities and eccentricities.
They are swarthy-faced, wear
slouched caps and drab pea-jackets, and
smoke bad cigars. They make busts of
Webster, Clay, Bonaparte, Douglas, and
other great men, living and dead. The
Italian buster comes upon you solemnly
and cautiously. “Buy Napo-leon?” he will
say, and you may probably answer “not a
buy.” “How much giv-ee?” he asks, and
perhaps you will ask him how much he
wants. “Nine dollar,” he will answer always.
We are sure of it. We have observed
this peculiarity in the busters frequently.
No matter how large or small the
bust may be, the first price is invariably
“nine dollar.” If you decline paying this
price, as you undoubtedly will if you are

right in your head, he again asks, “how
much giv-ee?” By way of a joke you say
“a dollar,” when the buster retreats indignantly
to the door, saying in a low, wild
voice, “O dam!” With his hand upon the
door-latch, he turns and once more asks,
“how much giv-ee?” You repeat the previous
offer, when he mutters, “O ha!” then
coming pleasantly towards you, he speaks
thus: “Say! how much giv-ee?” Again
you say a dollar, and he cries, “take 'um—
take 'um!”—thus falling eight dollars on
his original price.

Very eccentric is the Italian buster, and
sometimes he calls his busts by wrong
names. We bought Webster (he called him
Web-STAR) of him the other day, and were
astonished when he called upon us the next
day with another bust of Webster, exactly
like the one we had purchased of him, and
asked us if we didn't want to buy “Cole,
the wife-pizener!” We endeavored to rebuke
the depraved buster, but our utterance
was choked and we could only gaze upon
him in speechless astonishment and indignation.

17. XVII.
A COLORED MAN OF THE NAME OF JEFFRIES.

One beautiful day last August, Mr. Elmer,
of East Cleveland, sent his hired colored
man, of the name of Jeffries, to town
with a two-horse wagon to get a load of
lime. Mr. Elmer gave Jeffries $5 with
which to pay for the lime. The horses
were excellent ones, by the way, nicely
matched, and more than commonly fast.
The colored man of the name of Jeffries
came to town and drove to the Johnson
street Station, where he encountered a frail
young woman of the name of Jenkins, who
had just been released from Jail, where she
had been confined for naughtycal conduct
(drugging and robbing a sailor). “Will
you fly with me, adorable Jenkins?” he unto
her did say, “or words to that effect,” and
unto him in reply she did up and say: “My

African brother, I will. Spirit,” she continued,
alluding to a stone jug under the
seat in the wagon, “I follow!” Then into
the two-horse wagon this fair maiden got,
and knavely telling the “perlice” to embark
by the first packet for an unromantic land,
where the climate is intensely Tropical, and
where even Laplanders, who like fire, get
more of a good thing than they want—
doing and saying thus the woman of the
name of Jenkins mounted the seat with the
colored man of the name of Jeffries; and
so these two sweet, gushing children of
Nature rode gaily away. Away towards
the setting sun. Away towards Indiana—
bright land of cheap whiskey and corn
doin's!

18. XVIII.
HOW THE NAPOLEON OF SELLERS WAS
SOLD.

We have read a great many stories of
which Winchell, the great wit and mimic,
was the hero, showing alway show neatly
and entirely he sold somebody. Any one
who is familiar with Winchell's wonderful
powers of mimicry cannot doubt that these
stories are all substantially true. But there
is one instance which we will relate, or
perish in the attempt, where the jolly Winchell
was himself sold. The other evening,
while he was conversing with several
gentlemen at one of the hotels, a dilapidated
individual reeled into the room and halted
in front of the stove, where he made wild
and unsuccessful efforts to maintain a firm
position. He evidently had spent the evening
in marching torchlight processions of

forty-rod whiskey down his throat, and at this
particular time was decidedly and disreputably
drunk. With a sly wink to the crowd,
as much as to say, “we'll have some fun
with this individual,” Winchell assumed a
solemn face, and in a ghostly voice said to
one of the company:

“The poor fellow we were speaking of is
dead!”

“No?” said the individual addressed.

“Yes,” said Winchell; “you know both
of his eyes were gouged out, his nose was
chawed off, and both of his arms were torn
out at the roots. Of course he couldn't recover.”

This was all said for the benefit of the
drunken man, who was standing, or trying
to stand, within a few feet of Winchell, but
he took no sort of notice of it and was apparently
ignorant of the celebrated delineator's
presence. Again Winchell endeavored
to attract his affention, but utterly
failed as before. In a few moments the
drunken man staggered out of the room.

“I can generally have a little fun with a

drunken man,” said Winchell, “but it is no
go in this case.”

“I suppose you know what ails the man
who just went out?” said the “gentlemanly
host.”

“I perceive he is alarmingly inebriated,”
said Winchell; “does anything else ail
him?”

“Yes,” said the host, “HE'S DEAF AND
DUMB!”

This was true. There was a “larf,” and
Winchell, with the remark that he was
sorry to see a disposition in that assemblage
“to deceive an orphan,” called for a light
and went gravely to bed.

19. XIX.
ON AUTUMN.

Poets are wont to apostrophize the leafy
month of June, and there is no denying that
if Spring is “some” June is Summer. But
there is a gorgeous magnificence about the
habiliments of Nature, and a teeming fruitfulness
upon her lap during the autumnal
months, and we must confess we have
always felt genially inclined towards this
season. It is true, when we concentrate
our field of vision to the minute garniture
of earth, we no longer observe the beautiful
petals, nor inhale the fragrance of a gay parterre
of the “floral epistles” and “angel-like
collections” which Longfellow (we believe)
so graphically describes, and which
Shortfellows so fantastically carry about in
their button-holes; but we have all their
tints reproduced upon a higher and broader
canvas in the kaleidoscopic colors with

which the sky and the forest daily enchant
us, and the beautiful and luscious fruits
which Autumn spreads out before us, and

In another point of view Autumn is suggestive
of pleasant reflections. The wearying,
wasting heat of summer and the
deadly blasts with which her breath has for
some years been freighted, are past, and
the bracing north winds begin to bring
balm and healing on their wings. The
hurly-burly of travel, and most sorts of publicity
(except newspapers), are fast playing
out, and we can once more hope to see our
friends and relations in the happy sociality
of home and fireside enjoyments. Yielding,
as we do, the full force to which Autumn
is seriously entitled, or rather to the
serious reflections and admonitions which
the decay of Nature and the dying year
always inspire, and admitting the poet's
decade:

there is a brighter Autumn beyond, and
brighter opening years to those who choose
them rather than dead leaves and bitter
fruits. Thus we can conclude tranquilly
with Bryant as we began gaily with another,—

20. XX.
PAYING FOR HIS PROVENDER BY PRAYING.

We have no intention of making fun of
serious matters in telling the following
story; we merely relate a fact.

There is a rule at Oberlin College that
no student shall board at any house where
prayers are not regularly made each day.
A certain man fitted up a boarding-house
and filled it with boarders, but forgot, until
the eleventh hour, the prayer proviso. Not
being a praying man himself, he looked
around for one who was. At length he
found one—a meek young man from Trumbull
County—who agreed to pay for his
board in praying. For a while all went smoothly, but the boarding-master furnished
his table so poorly that the boarders began
to grumble and to leave, and the other
morning the praying boarder actually

“struck!” Something like the following
dialogue occurred at the table:

Landlord—Will you pray, Mr. Mild?

Mild—No, sir, I will not.

Landlord—Why not, Mr. Mild?

Mild—It don't pay, sir. I can't pray on
such victuals as these. And unless you
bind yourself in writing to set a better table
than you have for the last three weeks,
nary another prayer do you get out of me!

And that's the way the matter stood at
latest advices.

21. XXI.
NAMES.

Any name which is suggestive of a joke,
however poor the joke may be, is often a
nuisance. We were once “confined” in
a printing-office with a man named Snow.
Everybody who came in was bound to have
a joke about Snow. If it was Summer the
mad wags would say we ought to be cool,
for we had Snow there all the time—which
was a fact, though we sometimes wished
Snow was where he would speedily melt.
Not that we didn't like Snow. Far from it.
His name was what disgusted us. It was
also once our misfortune to daily mingle
with a man named Berry. We can't tell
how many million times we heard him
called Elderberry, Raspberry, Blueberry,
Huckleberry, Gooseberry, etc. The thing
nearly made him deranged. He joined the

filibusters and has made energetic efforts
to get shot, but had not succeeded at last
accounts, although we fear he has been
“slewd” numerously. There is a good
deal in a name, our usually correct friend
W. Shakespeare to the contrary notwithstanding.

Our own name is unfortunately one on
which jokes, such as they are, can be made.
We cannot present a tabular statement of
the times we have done things brown (in
the opinion of partial friends), or have been
asked if we were related to the eccentric
old slave and horse “liberator” whose recent
Virginia Reel has attracted so much
of the public's attention. Could we do so
the array of figures would be appalling.
And sometimes we think we will accept
the first good offer of marriage that is
made to us, for the purpose of changing
our unhappy name, setting other interesting
considerations entirely aside.

22. XXII.
HUNTING TROUBLE.

Hunting trouble is too fashionable in this
world. Contentment and jollity are not cultivated
as they should be. There are too
many prematurely-wrinkled, long and melancholy
faces among us. There is too
much swearing, sweating and slashing
fuming, foaming and fretting around and
about us all.

People rush out doors bareheaded and
barefooted, as it were, and dash blindly into
all sorts of dark alleys in quest of all sorts
of Trouble, when “Goodness knows,” if
they will only sit calmly and pleasantly by
their firesides, Trouble will knock soon
enough at their doors.

Hunting Trouble is bad business. If we

ever are induced to descend from our present
proud position to become a member
of the Legislature, or ever accumulate sufficient
muscle, impudence, and taste for bad
liquor to go to Congress, we shall introduce
a “william” for the suppression of Trouble-hunting.
We know Miss. Slinkins, who
incessantly frets because Miss Slurkins
is better harnessed than she is, won't like it;
and we presume the Simpkinses, who worry
so much because the Perkinses live in a
freestone-fronted house whilst theirs is only
plain brick, won't like it also. It is doubtful,
too, whether our long-haired friends,
the Reformers (who think the machinery of
the world is all out of joint, while we think
it only needs a little greasing to run in first-rate
style), will approve the measure. It is
probable, indeed, that very many societies,
of are formatory (and inflammatory) character,
would frown upon the measure.
But the measure would be a good one
nevertheless.

Never hunt trouble. However dead a
shot one may be, the gun he carries on
such expeditions is sure to kick or go off

half cocked. Trouble will come soon
enough, and when he does come receive
him as pleasantly as possible. Like the
tax-collector, he is a disagreeable chap
to have in one's house, but the more amiably
you greet him the sooner he will go
away.

A man in Buffalo—an entire stranger to
us—sends us a quarter-column puff of his
business, with the cool request that we
“copy as editorial, and oblige.” If he does
not eventually subside into a highway robber
it won't be for lack of the necessary
impudence.

23. XXIII.
HE FOUND HE WOULD.

Several years ago Bill McCracken lived
in Peru, Indiana. [We were in Peru several
years ago, and it was a nice place we
don't think.] Mr. McCracken was a
screamer, and had whipped all the recognized
fighting men on the Wabash. One
day somebody told him that Jack Long,
blacksmith at Logansport, said he would
give him (McCracken) a protracted fir of
sickness if he would just come down there
and smell of his bones. The McCracken
at once laid in a stock of provisions, consisting
of whiskey in glass and chickens in
the shell, and started for Logansport. In a
few days he was brought home in a bunged-up
condition, on a cot-bed. One eye was
gouged out, a portion of his nose was
chawed off, his left arm was in a sling, his

head was done up in old rag, and he was
pretty badly off himself. He was set down
in the village bar-room, and turning to the
crowd he, in a feeble voice, said, hot tears
bedewing his face the while, “Boys, you
know Jack Long said if I'd come down to
Loginsput he'd whale h—ll out of me; and,
boys, you know I didn't believe it, but I've
been down thar and I found he would.”

He recovered after a lapse of years and
led a better life. As he said himself, he returned
from Logansport a changed man.

24. XXIV.
DARK DOINGS.

Four promising young men of this city
attended a ball in the rural districts not long
since. At a late hour they retired, leaving
word with the clerk of the hotel to call
them early in the morning, as they wanted
to take the first train home. The clerk was
an old friend of the “fellers,” and he thought
he would have a slight joke at their expense.
So he burnt some cork and, with a sponge,
blacked the faces of his city friends after
they had got soundly asleep. In the morning
he called them about ten minutes before
the train came along. Feller No. 1
awoke and laughed boisterously at the
sight which met his gaze. But he saw
through it—the clerk had played his
good joke on his three comrades, and of
course he would keep mum. But it was a
devilish good joke. Feller No. 2 awoke,

saw the three black men in the room, comprehended
the joke, and laughed vociferously.
But he would keep mum. Fellers
No. 3 and 4 awoke, and experienced the
same pleasant feeling; and there was the
beautiful spectacle of four nice young men
laughing heartily one at another, each one
supposing the “urbane clerk” had spared
him in his cork-daubing operations. They
had only time to dress before the train
arrived. They all got aboard, each thinking
what a glorious joke it was to have
his three companions go back to town with
black faces. The idea was so rich that they
all commenced laughing violently as soon
as they got aboard the cars. The other
passengers took to laughing also, and fun
raged fast and furious, until the benevolent
baggage-man, seeing how matters
stood, brought a small pocket-glass and
handed it around to the young men. They
suddenly stopped laughing, rushed wildly
for the baggage-car, washed their faces, and
amused and instructed each other during
the remainder of the trip with some eloquent
flashes of silence.

25. XXV.
A HARD CASE.

We have heard of some very hard cases
since we have enlivened this world with our
brilliant presence. We once saw an able-bodied
man chase a party of little schoolchildren
and rob them of their dinners.
The man who stole the coppers from his
deceased grandmother's eyes lived in our
neighborhood, and we have read about
the man who went to church for the sole
purpose of stealing the testaments and
hymn-books. But the hardest case we
ever heard of lived in Arkansas. He was
only fourteen years old. One night he
deliberately murdered his father and mother
in cold blood, with a meat-axe. He was
tried and found guilty. The Judge drew
on his black cap, and in a voice choked
with emotion asked the young prisoner if
he had anything to say before the sentence

of the Court was passed on him. The
court-room was densely crowded and there
was not a dry eye in the vast assembly.
The youth of the prisoner, his beauty and
innocent looks, the mild lamblike manner
in which he had conducted himself during
the trial—all, all had thoroughly enlisted
the sympathy of the spectators, the ladies
in particular. And even the Jury, who
had found it to be their stern duty to declare
him guilty of the appalling crime
—even the Jury now wept aloud at this
awful moment. “Have you anything to
say?” repeated the deeply moved Judge.
“Why, no,” replied the prisoner, “I think
I haven't, though I hope yer Honor will
show some consideration FOR THE FEELINGS
OF A POOR ORPHAN!” The Judge sentenced
the perfect young wretch without delay.

26. XXVI.
REPORTERS.

The following paragraph is going the
rounds:

“How many a great man is now basking
in the sunshine of fame generously bestowed
upon him by the prolific genius of some
reporter! How many stupid orations have
been made brilliant, how many wandering,
pointless, objectless speeches put in
form and rendered at least readable, by
the unknown reporter. How many a
disheartened speaker, who was conscious
the night before of a failure, before a thin,
cold, spiritless audience, awakes delighted
to learn that he has addressed an overwhelming
assemblage of his enthusiastic,
appreciating fellow-citizens, to find his
speech sparkling with `cheers,' breaking

out into `immense applause,' and concluding
amidst `the wildest excitement!”'

There is considerable truth in the above,
we are sorry to state. Reporters are too
apt to smooth over and give a fair face to
the stupidity and bombast of political and
other public humbugs. For this they are
not only seldom thanked but frequently are
kicked. Of course this sort of thing is
wrong. A Reporter should be independent
enough to meet the approaches of gentlemen
of the Nincompoop persuasion with a
flat rebuff. He should never gloss over
a political humbug, whether he belongs to
“our side” or not. He is not thanked for
doing it, and, furthermore, he loses the respect
and confidence of his readers. There
are many amiable gentlemen ornamenting
the various walks of life who are under the
impression that for a dozen bad cigars or
a few drinks of worse whiskey they can
purchase the “opinion” of almost any
Reporter. It has been our pleasure on
several occasions to disabuse those gentlemen
of this impression.

Should another occasion of this kind

ever offer we feel that we should be “adequate”
to treat it in a similar manner.
A Reporter, we modestly submit, is as good
as anybody and ought to feel that he is,
everywhere and at all times. For one, let
us quietly and without any show of vanity
remark, that we are not only just as good
as anybody else but a great deal better
than very many we know of. We love
God and hate Indians; pay our debts;
support the Constitution of the United
States; go in for Progress, Sunshine, Calico,
and other luxuries; are perfectly satisfied
and happy, and wouldn't swop “sits”
with the President, Louis Napoleon, the
Emperor of China, Sultan of Turkey,
Brigham Young, or Nicholas Longworth.
Success to us!

27. XXVII.
“BURIAL IN RICHMOND AND RESURRECTION
IN BOSTON.”

A drama with this title, written by a colored
citizen (an artist by profession), the
characters being performed by colored citizens,
was played at the Melodeon last evening.
There were several white persons
present, though most of the audience were
colored. The great variety of colors made
a gay, and indeed we may say gorgeous
spectacle.

A hasty sketch of this great moral production
may not be uninteresting. Act 1st,
scene 1st, discloses a log-cabin, with fifteen
minutes' intermission between each log.
“William, a spirited slave,” and “John, the
obedient slave,” are in the cabin. William,
the spirited slave, says he will be free. His
blood is up. “Why,” says William, “am I

here thus? Was this frame made to be a
bondage? Shall these voice be hushed?
Never, never, never!” “Oh, don't say it
thus,” says John, the obedient slave, “for
thus it should not be. An' I tole ye what
it was, now, jes take keer of them pistiles
or they'll work yer ruins. Mind what I
say Wilyim. As for me I shall stay here
with my dear Julia!” (Immense applause.)
“And so it has come to this, ha?” said
William, the spirited slave, standing himself
up straight and brandishing his arms in a
terrific manner. “And so it has come to
this, ha? And this is a free land, so it has
come to this—to this—to this.” William
appeared to be somewhat confused at this
point, but a wealthy newsboy in the audience
helped him out by crying, “or any
other man.” John and William then embraced,
bitter tears moistening their manly
breasts. “Farwel, Wilyim,” said John, the
obedient slave, “and bless you, bless you,
me child.” The spirited slave walks off
and the obedient slave falls into a swoon.
Tableau: The Goddess of Liberty appears
in a Mackinaw blanket and pours incense
on the obedient slave. A member of the
orchestra gets up and softly warbles on a
bass drum. Angels are hearn singing in
the distance. Curtain falls, the audience
being soaking wet with tears.

Act 2, scene first, discloses the house of
Mr. Lyons, a slaveholder in Virginia. Mr.
Lyons, as we learn by the play, is “a member
of the Whig Congress.” He learns
that William, his spirited slave, has escaped.
This makes him very angry, and he says he
will break every bone in William's body.
He goes out and searches for William, but
cannot find him, and comes back. He
takes a heavy drink, is stricken with remorse
and declares his intention to become
a nun. John, the obedient slave, comes in
and asks permission to marry Julia. Mr.
Lyons says, certainly, by all means, and
preparations are made for the wedding.

The wedding takes place. The scene
that follows is rather incomprehensible. A
young mariner has a clandestine interview
with the obedient slave and receives $10 to
make a large box. An elderly mariner—
not that mariner, but another mariner—

rushes madly in and fires a horse-pistol into
the air. He wheels, and is about going off,
when a black Octoroon rushes madly in
and fires another horse-pistol at the retreating
mariner, who falls. He says he is going
to make a die of it. Says he should
have acted differently if he had only done
otherwise, which was right, or else it wouldn't
be so. He forgets his part and don't
say anything more, but he wraps himself
up in the American Flag and expires like
a son of a gentleman. More warblings on
the bass drum. The rest of the orchestra
endeavor to accompany the drum, but are
so deeply affected that they can't. There
is a death-like stillness in the house. All
was so still that had a cannon been fired
off it could have been distinctly seen.

The next scene discloses a large square
box. Several colored persons are seen
standing round the square box. The mariner
who was killed in the last scene commences
knocking off the cover of the box.
He pulls the cover off, and up jumps the
obedient slave and his wife! The obedient

slave and his dear Julia fall out of the box.
Great applause. They rush to the footlights
and kneel. Quick music by the orchestra,
in which the bass drum don't warble
so much as she did. “I'm free! I'm free!
I'm free!!” shrieks the obedient slave, “O
I'm free!” The stage is suddenly lighted
up in a gorgeous manner. The obedient
slave and his dear Julia continue kneeling.
The dead mariner blesses them. The Goddess
of Liberty appears again—this time in
a Beaver overcoat—and pours some more
incense on to the obedient slave. An allegorical
picture of Virtue appears in a red vest
and military boots, on the left proscenium.
John Brown the Barber appears as Lady
Macbeth, and says there is a blue tinge into
his nails, and consequently he is an Octoroon.
Another actor wants to define his
position on the Euclid street improvement,
but is hissed down. Curtain descends
amidst the admiring shouts of the audience,
red fire, music, and the violent assertion of
the obedient slave that he is free.

The play will not be repeated this evening,

as was announced. Due notice will be
given of its next performance. It is the
greatest effort of the kind that we ever witnessed.

Eating-Match for the Championship.—
We understand that preparations are making
for a grand Eating-Match for the
Championship of America, to take place in
this city some time next month. Two of
our most voracious eaters, whose names we
are not now permitted to give, will meet
somewhere beyond the city limits and proceed
to devour mush and milk until one of
them bursts. The one who don't burst will
be declared the victor, and come into possession
of the Championship and the stakes,
whatever they may be. The contestants
are now training for the trial.

28. XXVIII.
HE HAD THE LITTLE VOUCHER IN HIS
POCKET.

L—lived in this city several years ago.
He dealt in horses, carriages, &c. Hearing
of a good chance to sell buggies up West
he embarked with a lot for that “great”
country. At Toledo he took a Michigan
Southern train. Somebody had, by way of
a joke, warned him against the conductor
of that particular train, telling him that said
conductor had an eccentric way of taking
up tickets at the beginning of the journey,
and of denying that he had done so and
demanding fare at the end thereof. This
the confiding L—swallowed. He determined
not to be swindled in this way, and
so when the conductor came around and
asked him for his ticket he declined giving
it up. The conductor insisted—L—

still refused. “I've got the little voucher
in my pocket,” he said, with a knowing
look, slyly slapping the pocket which contained
the ticket. The conductor glanced
at L—'s stalwart frame. He had heard
L— spoken of as a fighting man. He
preferred not to grapple with him. The
train was a light one, and it so happened
that L— was the only man in this, the
hind car. So the conductor had the train
stopped, and quietly unhitched this car.
“Good day, Mr. L—,” he yelled, “just
keep that little voucher in your pocket and
be d—d to you!” L— jumped up and
saw the other cars moving rapidly away. He
was left solitary and alone in a dismal
piece of woods, known as the Black Swamp.
He remained there in the car until night,
when the down train came along and took
him to Toledo. He had to pay fare, his
up through-ticket not being good on that
train. His buggies had gone unattended
to Chicago. He was very angry. He finally
got through, but he will never hear the last
of that “little voucher.”

29. XXIX.
THE GENTLEMANLY CONDUCTOR.

Few have any idea of the trials and tribulations
of the railway conductor—“the
gentlemanly conductor,” as one-horse newspapers
delight in styling him. Unless you
are gifted with the patience of the lamented
Job, who, tradition informs us, had “biles”
all over his body and didn't swear once,
never go for a Conductor, me boy!

The other evening we enlivened a railroad
car with our brilliant presence. Starting
time was not quite up, and the passengers
were amusing themselves by laughing,
swearing, singing, and talking, according to
their particular fancy. The Conductor
came in and the following were a few of the
questions put to him: One old fellow, who
was wrapped up in a horse-blanket and
who apparently had about two pounds of

pigtail in his mouth, wanted to know “What
pint of compass the keers was travelin' in?”
An old lady, surrounded by band-boxes and
enveloped in flannels, wanted to know what
time the 8 o'clock train left Rock Island
for “Dubu-kue?” A carroty-haired young
man wanted to know if “free omyibuses”
run from the cars to the taverns in Toledo?
A tall, razor-faced individual, evidently from
the interior of Connecticut, desired to know
if “conductin” paid as well eout West as
it did deoun in his country; and a portly,
close-shaven man, with round keen eyes,
and in whose face you could read the interest-table,
asked the price of corner lots in
Omaha. These and many other equally
absurd questions the conductor answered
calmly and in a resigned manner. And
we shuddered as we thought how he would
have to answer a similar string of questions
in each of the three cars ahead.

30. XXX.
A MAYORALTY ELECTION.

Messrs. Senter and Coffinberry, two esteemed
citizens, are the candidates. Here's
a faint attempt at a specimen scene: An
innocent German is discovered about half
a mile from the polls of this or that ward.
A dozen ticket-peddlers scent him (“even
as the war-horse snuffs the battle,” etc.),
see him, and make a grand rush for him.
They surround him, each shoves a bunch
of tickets under his nose, and all commence
bellowing in his ears: Here's the
ticket yer want—Coffinberry. Here's Senter—Senterberry
and Coffinter. What the
h—l yer tryin' to fool the man for? Don't
yer spose he knows who he wants ter vote
for, say! 'Ere's the ticket—Sen—Coff—
don't crowd—get off my toes, you d—d
fool! Workin' men's ticket is the ticket

you want! To h—l wid yez workin' men's
ticket, 'ere's the ticket yez want! No, by
Cot, vote for Shorge P. Senter—he says
he'll py all the peer for dems as votes for
him as much more dan dey can trinks, by
tam! Senter be d—d! Go for Coffinberry!
Coffinberry was killed eight times
in the Mexican war, and is in favor of justice
and Pop'lar Sovrinty! Oh gas! Senter
was at the battle of Tippe-ca-noo,
scalped twelve Injuns and wrote a treatise
on Horse-shoeing! Don't go for Coffinberry.
He's down on all the Dutch, and
swears he'll have all their heads chopped
off and run into sausages if he's lected. Do
you know what George B. Senter says
about the Germans? He says by —
they're in the habit of stealing live American
infants and hashing 'em up into head
cheese, by —! That's a lie! T'aint—
I heard him say so with my own mouth.
Let the man alone—stop yer pullin—I'll
bust yer ear for yer yet. My Cot, my Cot,
what tam dimes dese 'lections is. Will yez
crowd a poor Jarman till death, yer d—d
spalpanes, yez? Sen—Coff—Senterberry
and Coffinter—Working Men's—Repub—
Dem—whoop—h—l—whooray—bully—
y-e-o-u-c-h!!

The strongest side got the unfortunate
German's vote, and he went sore and bleeding
home, satisfied, no doubt, that this is a
great country, and that the American Eagle
will continue to be a deeply interesting
bird while his wings are in the hands of
patriots like the above. Scenes like the
above (only our description is very imperfect)
were played over and over again, at
every ward in the city, yesterday.

Let us be thankful that the country is
safe—but we should like to see some of the
ward politicians gauged to-day, for we are
confident the operation would exhibit an astonishing
depth of whiskey.

Hurrah for the Bar-Stangled Spanner!

31. XXXI.
FISHING EXCURSION.

The Leviathan, Capt. Wm. Sholl, left
the foot of Superior street at 6 o'clock yesterday
morning for a fishing excursion down
the lake. There were about twenty persons
in the party, and we think we never saw a
more lovely lot of men. The noble craft
swept majestically out of the Cuyahoga into
the lake, and as she sped past a retired
coal-dealer's office the Usher borrowed our
pocket-handkerchief (which in the excess of
his emotion he forgot to return us) to wipe
away four large tears which trickled from
his light bay eyes. On dashed the Leviathan
at the rate of about forty-five knots an
hour. The fishing-ground reached, the
clarion voice of Sholl was heard to ejaculate,
“Reef home the jib-boom, shorten the
mainbrace, splice the forecastle, and throw

the hurricane-deck overboard! Lively, my
lads!” “Aye, aye, Sir!” said Marsh, the
chaplain of the expedition, in tones of thunder,
and the gallant party sprang to execute
the Captain's orders, the agile form of first-officer
Hilliard being especially conspicuous
in reefing the jib-boom. Lines were
cast and the sport commenced. It seemed
as though all the fish in the lake knew of
our coming, and had collected in that particular
spot for the express purpose of being
caught! What teeth they had—sufficiently
good, certainly, to bite a cartridge or anything
else. The Usher caught the first fish
—a small but beautiful bass, whose weight
was about three inches and a half. The
Usher was elated at this streak of luck, but
his hand did not tremble, and he continued
to haul the fish in until at noon he
had caught thirteen firkins full, and he announced
that he should fish no more.
Cruelty was no part of his nature, and he did
not think it right to slaughter fish in this
way. Cross, Barney, and the rest, were immensely
successful, and hauled in tremendous
quantities of bass, perch, Mackinaw
trout, and Connecticut shad. Bone didn't
catch a fish, and we shall never forget the
sorrowful manner in which the poor fellow
gazed upon our huge pile of beautiful bass,
which occupied all of the quarter-deck and
a large portion of the forecastle. Having
fished enough the party went ashore, where
they found Ab. McIlrath (who was fanning
himself with a barn door), the Grand Commandant
(who in a sonorous voice requested
the parties, as they alighted from the small
boats, to “keep their heads out of water”),
the General (who was discussing with the
Doctor the propriety of annexing East
Cleveland to the United States), and several
distinguished gentlemen from town, who
had come down with life-preservers and
ginger-pop. After disposing of a sumptuous
lunch the party amused and instructed
each other by conversation, and about
3 o'clock the shrill whistle of the Leviathan
was sounded by Mike, the urbane and accomplished
engineer, and the party were
soon homeward bound. It was a good
time.

32. XXXII.
RED HAND: A TALE OF REVENGE.

Chapter I.

—F. W. Shuckers.

“Go forth, Clarence Stanley! Hence to
the bleak world, dog! You have repaid
my generosity with the blackest ingratitude.
You have forged my name on a five thousand
dollar check—have repeatedly robbed
my money-drawer—have perpetrated a long
series of high-handed villainies, and now
to-night, because, forsooth, I'll not give you
more money to spend on your dissolute
companions you break a chair over my
aged head. Away! You are a young
man of small moral principle. Don't ever
speak to me again!”

These harsh words fell from the lips of
Horace Blinker, one of the merchant princes
of New York city. He spoke to Clarence

Stanley, his adopted son and a beautiful
youth of nineteen summers. In vain did
Clarence plead his poverty, his tender age
and inexperience; in vain did he fasten
those lustrous blue eyes of his appealingly
and tearfully upon Mr. Blinker, and tell
him he would make the pecuniary matter
all right in the fall, and that he merely shattered
a chair over his head by way of a
joke. The stony-hearted man was remorseless,
and that night Clarence Stanley became
a wanderer in the wide, wide world!
As he went forth he uttered these words:
“H. Blinker, beware! A Red Hand is
around, my fine feller!”

Chapter II.

—H. W. Faxon.

—Anon.

—President Buchanan's instructions to the Collector
of Toledo.

—George N. True.

—C. R. Dennett.

Seventeen years have become ingulfed

in the vast and moist ocean of eternity
since the scene depicted in the last chapter
occurred. We are in Mexico. Come with
me to the Scarlet Banditti's cave. It is
night. A tempest is raging tempestuously
without, but within we find a scene of dazzling
magnificence. The cave is spacious.
Chandeliers of solid gold hang up suspended
round the gorgeously furnished
room, and the marble floor is star-studded
with flashing diamonds. It must have cost
between two hundred dollars to fit this cave
up. It embraced all of the modern improvements.
At the head of the cave lifesize
photographs (by Ryder) of the bandits,
and framed in gilt, were hung up suspended.
The bandits were seated around a marble
table, which was sculped regardless of expense,
and were drinking gin and molasses
out of golden goblets. When they got out
of gin fresh supplies were brought in by
slaves from a two-horse wagon outside,
which had been captured that day, after a
desperate and bloody struggle, by the bandits,
on the plains of Buena Vista.

At the head of the table sat the Chief.

His features were swarthy but elegant. He
was splendidly dressed in new clothes, and
had that voluptuous, dreamy air of grandeur
about him which would at once rivet the
gaze of folks generally. In answer to a
highly enthusiastic call he arose and delivered
an able and eloquent speech. We
regret that our space does not permit us to
give this truly great speech in full—we can
merely give a synopsis of the distinguished
speaker's remarks: “Comrades! listen to
your chief. You all know my position on
Lecompton. Where I stand in regard to
low tolls on the Ohio Canal is equally clear
to you, and so with the Central American
question. I believe I understand my little
Biz. I decline defining my position on the
Horse Railroad until after the Spring Election.
Whichever way I says I don't say so
myself unless I says so also. Comrades!
be virtuous and you'll be happy.” The
Chief sat down amidst great applause, and
was immediately presented with an elegant
gold-headed cane by his comrades, as a
slight testimonial of their respect.

Chapter III.

—Bone.

—N. T. Nash.

—Brown.

Two hours later. Return we again to
the Banditti's Cave. Revelry still holds
high carnival among the able and efficient
bandits. A knock is heard at the door.
From his throne at the head of the table
the Chief cries, “Come in!” and an old
man, haggard, white haired, and sadly bent,
enters the cave.

“Messieurs,” he tremblingly ejaculates,
“for seventeen years I have not tasted of
food!”

“Well,” says a kind-hearted bandit, “if
that's so I expect you must be rather faint.
We'll get you up a warm meal immediately,
stranger.”

“Hold!” whispered the Chief in tones
of thunder, and rushing slowly to the spot;
“this is about played out. Behold in me

Red Hand, the Bandit Chief, once Clarence
Stanley, whom you cruelly turned into a
cold world seventeen years ago this very
night! Old man, prepare to go up!”
Saying which the Chief drew a sharp carving
knife and cut off Mr. Blinker's ears.
He then scalped Mr. B., and cut all of his
toes off. The old man struggled to extricate
himself from his unpleasant situation,
but was unsuccessful.

“My goodness,” he piteously exclaimed,
“I must say you are pretty rough. It
seems to me—.”

This is all of this intensely interesting
tale that will be published in the Plain
Dealer. The remainder of it may be
found in the great moral family paper,
“The Windy Flash,” published in New
York, by Stimpkins. The Windy Flash
circulates 4,000,000 copies weekly.

IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED.

IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED.

IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED.

IT IS THE ALL-FIREDEST PAPER EVER PRINTED.

IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD.

IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD.

IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD.

IT'S THE CUSSEDEST BEST PAPER IN THE WORLD.

IT'S A MORAL PAPER.

IT'S A MORAL PAPER.

IT'S A MORAL PAPER.

IT'S A MORAL PAPER.

SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.

SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.

SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.

SOLD AT ALL THE CORNER GROCERIES.

33. XXXIII.

A few weeks since a young Irishman
named Culkins wandered into Cleveland
from New York. He had been in America
only a short time. He overflowed with
book learning, but was mournfully ignorant
of American customs, and as innocent
and confiding withal as the Babes in the
Wood. He talked much of his family,
their commanding position in Connaught,
Ireland, their immense respectability, their
chivalry, and all that sort of thing. He
was the only representative of that mighty
race in this country. “I'm the last of the
Culkinses!” he would frequently say, with
a tinge of romantic sadness, meaning, we

suppose, that he would be the last when
the elder Culkins (in the admired language
of the classics) “slipped his wind.” Young
Culkins proposed to teach Latin, Greek,
Spanish, Fardown Irish, and perhaps Choctaw,
to such youths as desired to become
thorough linguists. He was not very successful
in this line, and concluded to enter
the office of a prominent law firm on Superior
street, as a student. He dove among
the musty and ponderous volumes with all
the enthusiasm of a wild young Irishman,
and commenced cramming his head with
law at a startling rate. He lodged in the
back-room of the office, and previous to retiring,
he used to sing the favorite ballads
of his own Emerald Isle. The boy who
was employed in the office directly across
the hall used to go to the Irishman's door
and stick his ear to the key-hole with a
view to drinking in the gushing melody
by the quart or perhaps pailful. This vexed
Mr. Culkins, and considerably marred the
pleasure of the thing, as witness the following:

[What yez doing at that door yer d—d
spalpane?]

[I'll twist the nose off of yez presently,
me honey!]

[Bedad, I'll do murther to yez, young
gintlemin!]

Of course this couldn't continue. This,
in short, was rather more than the blood of
the Culkinses could stand, so the young
man, through whose veins such a powerful
lot of that blood courses, sprang to the
door, seized the eaves dropping boy, drew
him within and commenced to severely
chastise him. The boy's master, the gentleman
who occupied the office across the
hall, here interfered, pulled Mr. Culkins off,
thrust him gently against the wall and
slightly choked him. Mr. Culkins bottled
his furious wrath for that night, but in the
morning he uncorked it and threatened the

gentleman (whom for convenience sake we
will call Smith) with all sorts of vengeance.
He obtained a small horsewhip and tore
furiously through the town, on the look-out
for Smith.

He sent Smith a challenge, couched in
language so scathingly hot that it burnt
holes through the paper, and when it
reached Smith it was riddled like an old-fashioned
milk strainer. No notice was
taken of the challenge, and Culkins' wrath
became absolutely terrific. He wrote handbills
which he endeavored to have printed,
posting Smith as a coward. He wrote a
communication for the New Herald, explaining
the whole matter. (This wasn't
very rich, we expect). He urged us to
publish his challenge to Smith. Somebody
told him that Smith was intending to flee
the city in fear on an afternoon train, and
Culkins proceeded to the depot, horsewhip
in hand, to lie in wait for him. This was
Saturday last. During the afternoon Smith
concluded to accept the challenge. Seconds
and a surgeon were selected, and we are
mortified to state that at 10 o'clock in the

evening Scranton's Bottom was desecrated
with a regular duel. The frantic glee of
Culkins when he learned his challenge had
been accepted can't be described. Our pen
can't do it—a pig-pen couldn't. He wrote
a long letter to his uncle in New York, and
to his father in Connaught. At about ten
o'clock the party proceeded to the field.
The moon was not up, the darkness was
dense, the ground was unpleasantly moist,
and the lights of the town, which gleamed
in the distance, only made the scene more
desolate and dreary. The ground was paced
off and the men arranged. While this was
being done the surgeon, by the light of a
dark lantern, arranged his instruments,
which consisted of 1 common handsaw, 1
hatchet, 1 butcher knife, a large variety of
smaller knives, and a small mountain of old
rag. Neither of the principals exhibited
any fear. Culkins insisted that, as the challenging
party, he had the right to the word
fire. This, after a bitter discussion, was
granted. He urged his seconds to place
him facing towards the town, so that the
lights would be in his favor. This was
done without any trouble, the immense benefits
of that position not being discovered
by Smith's second.

“If I fall,” said Culkins to his second,
“see me respectably buried and forward bill
to Connaught. Believe me, it will be
cashed.” The arms (horse-pistols) were
given to the men, and one of Culkins' seconds
said:

“Gentlemen, are you ready?”

Smith—Ready.

Culkins—Ready. The blood of the Culkinses
is aroused!

Second—One, Two, Three—fire!

Culkins' pistol didn't go off. Smith
didn't fire. “That was generous in Smith,
not to fire,” said a second. “It was inDADE,”
said Culkins, “I did not think it of the low-lived
scoundrel!”

The word was again given. Crack went
both pistols simultaneously. The smoke
slowly cleared away, and the principals
were discovered standing stock-still. The
silence and stillness for a moment were
awful. No one moved. Soon Smith was
seen to reel and then to slowly fall. His

second and the surgeon rushed to him.
Culkins made a tremendous effort to fly
from the field but was restrained by his
seconds. The honor of the Culkinses,” he
roared, “is untarnished—why the divil
won't yez let me go? H—ll's blazes, men,
will yez be after giving me over to the
bailiffs? Docther, Docther,” he shouted,
“is he mortally wounded?” The doctor said
they could not tell—that he was wounded
in the shoulder—that a carriage would be
sent for and the wounded man taken to
his house. Here a heart-rending groan
came from Smith, and Culkins, with a
Donnybrook shriek, burst from his seconds,
knocked over the doctor's lantern, and fled
towards the town like greased lightning
amidst a chorus of excited voices.

“Hold him!”

“Stop him!”

“Grab him by the coat-tails!”

“Shoot him!”

“Head him off!”

And half of the party started after him at
an express-train rate. There was some
very fine running indeed. Culkins was

brought to a sudden stop against a tall
board fence, but he sprang back and cleared
it like an English hunter, and tore like a
lunatic for the city. Half an hour later the
party might have been seen, if it hadn't
been so pesky dark, groping blindly around
the office in which Culkins had been a
student at law.

“Are you here, Culkins?” said one.

“Before Culkins answers that,” said a
smothered voice in the little room, “tell me
who yez are.”

“Friends—your seconds!”

“Gintlemin, Culkins is here. The last
of the Culkinses is under the bed.”

He was dragged out. “I hope,” he said,
“the ignoble wretch is not dead, but I call
you to witness, gintlemin, that he grossly
insulted me.” [We don't care what folks
say, but choking a man is a gross insult.
Eds. P. D.] He was persuaded to retire.
There was no danger of his being disturbed
that night, as the watch were sleeping sweetly
as usual in the big arm-chairs of the various
hotels, and he would be able to fly the
city in the morning. He had a haggard

and wornout look yesterday morning. Two
large bailiffs, he said, had surrounded the
building in the night, and he had not slept
a wink. And to add to his discomfiture
his coat was covered with a variegated and
moist mixture, which he thought must be
some of the brains of his opponent, they
having spattered against him as he passed
the dying man in his flight from the field.
As Smith was not dead (though the surgeon
said he would be confined to his house for
several weeks, and there was some danger
of mortification setting in), Culkins wisely
concluded that the mixture might be something
else. A liberal purse was made up
for him, and at an early hour yesterday
morning the last of the Culkinses went
down St. Clair street on a smart trot. He
took this morning's Lakeshore express train
at some way-station, and is now on his way
to New York. The most astonishing thing
about the whole affair is the appearance on
the street to-day, apparently well and unhurt,
of the gentleman who was so badly
“wounded in the shoulder.” But a duel
was actually “fit.”

34. XXXIV.
HOW OLD ABE RECEIVED THE NEWS OF HIS
NOMINATION.

There are several reports afloat as to how
“Honest Old Abe” received the news of
his nomination, none of which are correct.
We give the correct report.

The Official Committee arrived in Springfield
at dewy eve, and went to Honest Old
Abe's house. Honest Old Abe was not in.
Mrs. Honest Old Abe said Honest Old Abe
was out in the woods splitting rails. So
the Official Committee went out into the
woods, where sure enough they found Honest
Old Abe splitting rails with his two
boys. It was a grand, a magnificent spectacle.
There stood Honest Old Abe in his
shirt-sleeves, a pair of leather home-made
suspenders holding up a pair of home-made
pantaloons, the seat of which was neatly

patched with substantial cloth of a different
color. “Mr. Lincoln, Sir, you've been nominated,
Sir, for the highest office, Sir—.”
“Oh, don't bother me,” said Honest Old
Abe, “I took a stent this mornin' to split
three million rails afore night, and I don't
want to be pestered with no stuff about no
Conventions till I get my stent done. I've
only got two hundred thousand rails to split
before sundown. I kin do it if you'll let
me alone.” And the great man went right
on splitting rails, paying no attention to the
Committee whatever. The Committee were
lost in admiration for a few moments, when
they recovered, and asked one of Honest
Old Abe's boys whose boy he was? “I'm
my parents' boy,” shouted the urchin, which
burst of wit so convulsed the Committee
that they came very near “gin'in eout” completely.
In a few moments Honest Old
Abe finished his task, and received the
news with perfect self-possession. He then
asked them up to the house, where he received
them cordially. He said he split
three million rails every day, although he
was in very poor health. Mr. Lincoln is a
jovial man, and has a keen sense of the
ludicrous. During the evening he asked
Mr. Evarts, of New York, “why Chicago
was like a hen crossing the street?” Mr.
Evarts gave it up. “Because,” said Mr.
Lincoln, “Old Grimes is dead, that good
old man!” This exceedingly humorous
thing created the most uproarious laughter.

35. XXXV.
ROBERTO THE ROVER:—A TALE OF SEA AND
SHORE.

Chapter I.—France.

Our story opens in the early part of the
year 17—. France was rocking wildly
from centre to circumference. The arch
despot and unscrupulous man, Richard the
III., was trembling like an aspen leaf upon
his throne. He had been successful, through
the valuable aid of Richelieu and Sir Wm.
Donn, in destroying the Orleans Dysentery,
but still he trembled! O'Mulligan, the
snake-eater of Ireland, and Schnappsgoot of
Holland, a retired dealer in gin and sardines,
had united their forces—some nineteen
men and a brace of bull pups in all—
and were overtly at work, their object being
to oust the tyrant. O'Mulligan was a

young man between fifty-three years of age,
and was chiefly distinguished for being the
son of his aunt on his great grandfather's
side. Schnappsgoot was a man of liberal education,
having passed three weeks at Oberlin
College. He was a man of great hardihood,
also, and would frequently read an
entire column of “railway matters” in the
Cleveland Herald without shrieking with
agony.

Chapter II.—The King.

The tyrant Richard the III. (late Mr.
Gloster) sat upon his throne in the Palace
d' St. Cloud. He was dressed in his best
clothes, and gorgeous trappings surrounded
him everywhere. Courtiers, in glittering
and golden armor, stood ready at his beck.
He sat moodily for a while, when suddenly
his sword flashed from its silvern scabbard,
and he shouted—

“Slaves, some wine, ho!”

The words had scarcely escaped his lips

ere a bucket of champagne and a hoe were
placed before him.

As the king raised the bucket to his lips,
a deep voice near by, proceeding from the
mouth of the noble Count Staghisnibs,
cried—“Drink hearty, old feller.”

“Reports, traveling on lightning-wings,
whisper of strange goings on and cuttings
up throughout this kingdom. Knowest
thou aught of these things, most noble
Hellitysplit?” and the king drew from the
upper pocket of his gold-faced vest a paper
of John Anderson's solace and proceeded
to take a chaw.

“Treason stalks monster-like throughout
unhappy France, my liege!” said the noble
Hellitysplit. The ranks of the P. Q. R's
are daily swelling, and the G. R. J. A.'s are
constantly on the increase. Already the
peasantry scout at cat-fish, and demand
pickled salmon for their noonday repasts.
But, my liege,” and the brave Hellitysplit's
eyes flashed fire, “myself and sword are at
thy command!”

“Bully for you, Count,” said the king.
“But soft: methinks report—perchance

unjustly—hast spoken suspiciously of thee,
most Royal d'Sardine? How is this? Is
it a newspaper yarn? What's up?”

D'Sardine meekly approached the throne,
knelt at the king's feet, and said: “Most
patient, gray, and red-headed skinner; my
very approved shin-plaster: that I've been
asked to drink by the P. Q. R.'s, it is most
true; true, I have imbibed sundry mugs of
lager with them. The very head and front
of my offending hath this extent, no more.”

“Tis well!” said the King, rising and
looking fiercely around. “Hadst thou
proved false I would with my own good
sword have cut off yer head, and spilled
your ber-lud all over the floor! If I
wouldn't, blow me!”

Chapter III.—The Rover.

Thrilling as the scenes depicted in the
preceding chapter indubitably were, those
of this are decidedly THRILLINGER. Again
are we in the mighty presence of the King,

and again is he surrounded by splendor
and gorgeously-mailed courtiers. A seafaring
man stands before him. It is Roberto
the Rover, disguised as a common
sailor.

“So,” said the King, “thou wouldst have
audience with me!”

“Aye, aye, yer 'onor,” said the sailor,
“just tip us yer grapplin irons and pipe all
hands on deck. Reef home yer jibpoop
and splice yer main topsuls. Man the jib-boom
and let fly yer top-gallunts. I've seen
some salt water in my days, yer landlubber,
but shiver my timbers if I hadn't rather
coast among seagulls than landsharks. My
name is Sweet William. You're old Dick
the Three! Ahoy! Awast! Dam my
eyes!” and Sweet William pawed the marble
floor and swung his tarpaulin after the
manner of sailors on the stage, and consequently,
not a bit like those on shipboard.

“Mariner,” said the King, gravely, “thy
language is exceeding lucid, and leads me
to infer that things is workin' bad.”

“Aye, aye, my hearty!” yelled Sweet
William, in dulcet strains, reminding the

King of the “voluptuous smell of physic,”
spoken of by the late Mr. Byron.

“What wouldst thou, seafaring man?”
asked the King.

“This!” cried the Rover, suddenly taking
off his maritime clothing and putting
on an expensive suit of silk, bespangled
with diamonds. “This! I am Roberto the
Rover!”

The King was thunder-struck. Cowering
back in his chair of state, he said in a
tone of mingled fear and amazement,
“Well, may I be gaul-darned!”

“Ber-lud! ber-lud! ber-lud!” shrieked
the Rover, as he drew a horse-pistol and
fired it at the King, who fell fatally killed,
his last words being, “We are governed
too much—this is the last of earth!!!”
At this exciting juncture Messrs. O'Mulligan
and Schnappsgoot (who had previously
entered into a copartnership with the Rover
for the purpose of doing a general killing
business) burst into the room and cut off
the heads and let out the inwards of all the
noblemen they encountered. They then
killed themselves and died like heroes,

wrapped up in the Star Spangled Banner,
to slow music.

The Rover fled. He was captured near
Marseilles and thrust into prison, where he
lay for sixteen weary years, all attempts to
escape being futile. One night a lucky
thought struck him. He raised the window
and got out. But he was unhappy. Remorse
and dyspepsia preyed upon his vitals.
He tried Bœrhave's Holland Bitters and
the Retired Physician's Sands of Life, and
got well. He then married the lovely
Countess D'Smith, and lived to a green
old age, being the triumph of virtue and
downfall of vice.