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7 LH,
,3A11133.L WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor,
VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 44.1
,PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDAY DIOR?illiG
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gratttinito.
From the Scalpel
Bonner and the New York Ledger.
When a man publishes a periodical which
attains a circulation of four hundro,thous
and copies weekly, and has, probably, five
times that number of readers: when he can
afford to advertise so enormously as to cre
ate a new era in the art; when, also, by
way of - advertisement, he presses into his
service an ea-Secretary of State, ex-Minis
ter to England, Es-Governor of Massachu
setts, in the person of one highly respecta
ble gentleman, whose name has achieved
national celebrity in connection with the
patriotic object of purchasing the home and
tomb of Washington ; when this and more
is effected by a single individual, that in
dividual assumes a position of undeniable
social importance, which it were well to
have 'defined, and whose pretensions may
fairly admit of the strictest examination.—
Very much has been written of Mr. Bonner
and the Ledger, but to our thinking, not
prescisely the right thing. We are going
to try to say it. Perhaps the Scalpel, of :111
publications, occupies the best, if not the
only position, in which this is possible; for,
as we shall show presently, nearly the whole
of the press is more or less Bonnerized—we
coin the word in no invidious sense, but as
exprsssive of a remarkable fact in connection
with the periodical and publisher we are
about to criticise.
And, first, let us acknowledge Mr. Bon
ner's enterprise. Ile bas perceived that if
one dollar thrown to the press as ground
bait, in the way of advertisement, produces
so much, a. hundred, a thousand, ten thous
and must invitably produce so much more.
lie has acted upon this simple arithmetical
truth on a magnificient scale, and the pros
perous condition of his Ledger—in a double
sense—is his reward. Still more let us com
mend his large-handed liberality to his con
tributors, a liberality, at once generous and
politic, which is to the best of our know
ledge, as uniquely his own as his "Napo
leonic" system of advertising. Folks tell
stories of his munificence and courtesy which
cannot but incite the good will and admira
tion of literary men, for the most part not
too much accustomed to be dealt with after
that fashion, and whom Mr. Bonner is indi
rectly helping to their true position of think
ers and gentlemen, from that necessitating
the pedling of their wares as though they
were pies or peanuts. All of Mr. Bonner's
employees like him, a fact which speakes vol
umes in his favor and is as surely indicative
of fair generous treatment as its reverse im
plies meanness and injustice. We bestow no
small praise when we say of one man that
he pays like a prince, and introduces his
writers to such an immense audience, as
from the simple fact of their number any
man might be proud of addressing. So much
by the way of deerved eulogium, which, here
must end.
No prorose examining the intellec
tual pabulum placed before this audi
ence, the wares our "Napoleon of the
press" deals in--for by a man's works be
must be judged, if - at all, and "colossal in
stitution" as the Ledger is, we do not re
ceive it into our articles of belief on that
account. Could an air-bublo be blown up
to the bigness of this uuicerso, there would
be "nothing in it," for all its size, and it
may be so with the New York Ledger.
What have been and are the contents of
this largely-purchased and immensely pop
ular periodical? What apartpfrora the ad
rniral)le enterprise exhibited in the purvey
ing, is the quality of 'the fare fur which
4-:ere exists so vast an appetite?
t in the first place, as the prominhat fea
ttnrs, stories, novelettes, by fourth-rate
wr.it,ars who were comparatively obscure,
commanding only limited and local reputa
ttioas, as manufacturers of harmless literary
inanity, until Mr. Bonner advertised them
• I
Into a celebriety, of which, probably, not
:one";;if them bad dreamed before the Ledger's
appearance. To have talked of Cobb's
;pretensions as an author then, would have
stamped the talker, if above the age of
twelve, atm very simple person, and the
lilts, With scarcely an exception, applied to
eatire,Ledgcr corps. This, as generally as
serted, ri 41owed, until quite recently, has
been Most perseveringly and wrathfully
contested by.r4r. Bonner. lie has trampled
his writers' merits editorially, T araded them
before the public in entire papas of "mag
nificently monotonous" advertisement, and,
in a word, championed them tbro' thick and
thin—all of which .iie had a perfect right
to do, though we shall say something as to
his way of doing it presently. Qur busi-
MSS now lies with the Ledger literature.
We shall exaamine some of its principal char
acteristic, and, as its proprietor assumes
high ground with respect to it, shall try
him by the strong, simple standard of hott
est common sense.
SI 50
The writer heretofore alluded to—Cobb—
is the great gun of the Ledger. The an
nouncement of a new story from his pen,
we are informed, invariably sends up the
circulation of the periodical some thou
sands, and our inquiries and observation of
Ledger readers and purchasers have con
s ineed us that, in their estimation, the
Hon. Edward Everett is a very secondary
person compared with the author of "the
Gunmaker of Moscow." Therefore we ad
dress ourself to him in the first place; and as
that particular story is now being reprinted
in order to supply a demand which may jus
tify Mr. Bonner in his assertion that "the
sea hath bounds, but it seems as if the pop
ularity of this story has none," we select it
for critical examination. Acknowledged
as Cobb's crack production, nothing can be
fairer than to judge of his literary proton
' tions by it.
Wo have perused carefully every word
of "The Gunmaker of Moscow," which,
fortunately, is not long. We find it to be,
simply, trash, with but a feeble echo oil
Walter Scotticism to commend it to notice.
Plot, conception of character, incident,
style, and execution email of the meagerest,
the cheapest, and most conventional 'order.
Attempt at preserving the unities of time,
place, and nationality, there is scarcely
any. Vulgarities of diction, and the clum
siest repetiots of the same awkward forms
of sentence are prevalent. In short, the
only praise that can be honestly awarded
is, that the rubbish is harmless; at least, no
more harmful than involving the sheer
waste of time devoted to its perusal.
Let us prove what we assert by a brief
dissection of the story. The he hero of it
is a species of mild version of Scott's Henry
Smith, the Gout Chroni of the Fair Maid of.
Perth, living at Mos.esw in the time of Peter
the Great; not the picturesque Moscow to
which Bayard Taylor has introduced us,
but a verbally colorless capital, which, but
for a few forlorn names, as "Kremlin,"
"Sluboda," &c., might be located in any
part of the globe, at any age and date; not
Czar Peter, that "strangest mixture of
heroic virtue and brutish Samoiedie sav
agery," who appears in Carlyle's pages,
but a kind of feeble Harems Alraschid,
sort of mysterious being," as Mr. Cobb's
heroine Slavonically calls him, (we wonder
he did not spell it "sorter,") who, in ac
cordance with tradition, goes masquerading
obout his capital as a fat monk, protecting
the good and punishing evil-doers. Well,
our gunmaker, a born artisan, who has
traveled in Spain, (Mr. Cobb knows the
facilities which existed for this in Peter's
time; now even nobles obtain permission to
absent themselves from the "holy soil" of
Russia with ditficulty,) our gumnaker is in
love, as a hero ought to be. And the lady,
"a beautiful girl with nothing of the aris
tocrat in her look," with "gentleness and
love" constituting the "true elements of
her soul," who "spurned that respect which
only aims at outward show, while the heart
may be reeking with vilest sensualism,"
reciprocates his passion, of course. And,
equally of course, they have an enemy, an
atrocious and mercenary plotter against
their happiness, in the person of a nobleman
of high position in the Russian empire.
And, still.more inevitably, by the aid of
the prowess of the gunmnker, (who is chal
lenged by and fights a duel with another
nobleman!) the constancy of the lady and ,
the omnipresence of the czar-monk, the'.
wicked nobleman and his agentl are miser- I
ably defeated, the lovers happily 'united,
vice ponished, virtue triumphant, and, as
Mr. Sampson Brass remarks, "all is happi-1
ness and joy." Thus the story closes.
In every line and paragraph, this pro-)
duction exhibits all the simplicity of igno
ranee. Theatric rant, such as "What ho!
there! what ho! without, I say!" alternates
with palpable American vulgarisms, as
",:fix this medicine," "I'll fix the matter
with the emperor," (!) "lie struggled some,"
&o. The persons introduced possess butt
the shadowiest similitude to many-sided
humanity. Every. 'n'ay it is the product
not of thought, or sympathy, or observation,
but of weak and conventional, though per
haps once nacicus imitation. W oat, then,
constitutes its attractions to 'probably two
million of readers. We shall try to an-!
QM
MU
Firstly, there is a thin rein of gentle sen
timentality running throughout the plot,
which always commends itself to the multi
tude, who like to hare their sympathies ex
cited. Then it ie, to them, easy—deploi
ably easy reading. They are called upon
to do no nothing but read; no necessity for
coherent thinking existing. Again, in
Cobb they see themselves; "The Gunmaker
of Moscow" is just the book which they
would write, did they possess the limited
amount of graiumar and English necessary
to the performance. Thence a sensation of
self flattery attends the perusal; uncon
sciously the reader finds his opinion of hie
own judgment strengthened and his taste
complimented. Naturally, iherefore, he
will like the author who offers him all this.
tho' perhaps be never troubles himself to
think why. Add to which the additional
incitements of puffery and advertisement,
and the whole thing is accounted for.
4. similar analysis of the rest of :Mr.
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, .MAY 1859.
Bonner's stock story tellers, with perhaps
the exception of Mrs. Southworth, .would
produce no more satisfactory results, though
the majority of them show indication of
talents, of which Cobb is wholly deficient.
They seem to possess popularity in inverse
proportion to their Merits. But none are
strong enough to deserve further notice.
We turn to the essays and editorials, the
poetry, the Answers to Correspondents—an
important feature, we should judge, and
certainly an amusing one—intending subse
quently to speak of Everett and the recent
really literary acquisitions to the Ledger's
muster roll.
Here wo can afford a certain amount of
commendation. Many of the essays and
editorials have been marked by such good
sense, thought, and scholarship, as, were
the Ledger readers at all in the habit of
thinking, might excite surprise which we
shared until we recognized them as appro
priated, of course without acknowledge
ment, from Addison and the writers in ;
the Spectator.' (Whenever the title of that
brilliant production of the wits and thinkers
of Queen Anne's days occurs, that of Ledger
is substituted!) By which almost laudable
proceeding, Mr. Bonner has been feeding
his enormous nursery of adult babes and
sucklings with much stronger and more
healthful food than they suspected or de
sired.
How it harmonizes with the diluted
asses' milk purveyed by the gentle Cobb,
our readers may judge. • But to intimate
that all the good contained in the Ledger
columns is plagarized, were unjust. On
the contrary, very excellent matter has ap
peared there, especially during the last
three months; as also have editorials of the
cheapest construction, the mast common
place morality, the stalest significance. Wo
notice, too, as pervading these, a Mrs.
Trimmer-like wisdom. which•is exceedingly
ludicrous. Be a good boy and read your
Ledger, and you'll be sure to go to heaven,
runs, like a latent chorous, throughout
these performances.
The poetry, with an occasional brilliant
exception, seldom rises above such es is or
dinarily written by young persons who
mistake ambition fur capacity. In thi, we do
not, of course, include the productions of
Mrs. Sigourney, the Carys, Saxe, or Morris,
though none of these have favored the
Ledger with anything worthy of criticism.
Everybody knows that Mrs. Sigourney
writes so religiously, that she has been
called (after our stupid system of adapta
tion of English nomenclature) "the Ameri
can Hemans." Well, her Ledger perfor
mances arc Amerienn-Hemanisms and
water, the water predominating. The
Misses Cory's generally "gushing" eflu
sions incite on our part an earnest hope
that they may be incontinently cut short by
matrimony, for surely so much good affec
tion ought not to be allowed to run to waste,
finding no 'other development than in
printer's ink. For Saxe, his dreary re
vamping of old stories, slipshod Ingoldsby
isms, and stereotyped fun (as cheerful as
the knocking about of pots and pans) con
firm us in an opinion which we have long
been growing to, that ho is just a punster,
and nu more—such a bogus Tom Hood as
might be compounded of disused tea-leaves
and cinders. And Morris—well, "the Gen
eral" wrote "Woodman, Spare that Treel"
and a great deal more, which bas, we un
derstand, been published in an exceedingly'
handsome volume, which is all that need
be said of him.
The Answers to Correspondents deserve
notice, as aforesaid, from their peculiarity.
Sometimes sensible, sometimes common
place, sometimes so asinine'as to be highly
ludicrous; they present occasionally what
we consider very objectionable characteris
tics. If scantily-educated girls choose to
write letters to Mr. Bonner's editors upon
"kissing," "hugging," "beaus," and the
like, is that any reason why their idiotic
effusions should receive baptism in printer's
ink? That awkwardly-constructed con
fessional in Syracuse, which echoed its
penitents' pecadilloes in the market
place, might have been a more mischievous
but hardly less offensive contrivance than
this feature of the Ledger.
We now come to Mr. Everett's engage
ment. a stroke of dashing and perfectly
legitimate advertising policy; for who can
suppose that Mr. Bonner would have paid
the sum added to that national begging box
infliction, the Mount Vernon Fund, for such
papers as our ex-U. S. Senator hascontribu
ted, without the prestige of his name? That
honorable gentleman certainly deserves
credit for undertaking the task, and lias
s evidently gone to work with a conscientious
attempt to please and instruct his unaccus
tomed audience. Unhappily he appear!, to
have endeavored to "write down" to its
intellectual level, and the effect is melan
in the extreme. Nor, to the best of our
belief are the lovers of Cobb at all delighted
with Everett. They would rather not have
him, in fact. If they read him, it is from
a sense of duty, which we can hardly won
der at, when we find them addressed from
the Mrs. Trimmer standpoint before alluded
to. Cobb, inherently one of themselves,
never troubles them with indefinable im
pressions that they are being put to school.
And however agreeable it maybe to be talked
to by a great man, one doesen't like his
thrusting a horn-book under one's nose.
We can fancy a disgusted Ledger reader
mutinying -almost in the words of the
badgered brickmakcr in "Bleak House" to I
Mrs. Pardiggle: "Have I read the little
book wet you left. No. I an't read the lit
tle book wot you left. It's a book fit for a
babby, and I'm not a babby. If you was
to leave me a doll, I shouldn't nuss it!"
Mr. Bonner may yet find is necessary to
civilly bow Mr. Everett out of his columns;
with all his desire to arrogate real. literary
merit to them, he is yet too shrewd a man
of business not to retrace what may prove
a false ste7. The addition of the name of
the ex-ambassador to his list of contributors,
expanded his circulation by two hundred
thousand; with the celebrity gained, the af
fair has proved a pretty good business in
vestment.
Two other recent acquisitions remain to
be spoken of—the contributor who writes
under the title of ',One who keeps his Eyes
and Ears open," universally recognized as
the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, and I. 8.,
author of the "True History of New Ply
mouth," less generally presumed to be Dr.
Holmes. Everybody knows that the brother
of Mrs. Stowe is a clever man, a man of
genius, with perhaps too many irons in the
lire. If he wrote less And thought more,
he might avoid talking occasional nonsense.
His Ledger articles are excellent—some
times. The Plymouth history bothered us
at the outset, with its not particularly in
teresting New England genealogies, but it
reads well now. Still we regret that the
brilliant pen which we delighted to honor
in our last Scalpel—if indeed it be his—
should undertake whnt cannot fail to be re
garded as an imitation of Irving's Knicker
bocker.
Having, thus briefly reviewed the compo
nent.features of the Ledger we come to con
Sider the position which may be justly
awarded to it, as that assumed by the pro
prietor.
When one of the editors of a powerful
daily paper characterized Mr. Bonnei's pe
riodical as "trashy," and himself as a
"trickster," he having provoked both epi
thets by an attempt at indirectly asserting
the indorsement of the daily as to the liter
ary merits of his publication, Mr. Bonner
assailed that editor in terms of coarse vitu
peration. Furthermore he abstained from
advertising in that journal for a season; re
suming it only because he could not af
fqrd to dispense with such a means of pub
licity. He has, too, denounced both indi
viduals and newspapers who have taken the
liberty of differing with him in his estima
tion of his writers. Ho has described the
former as actuated by envy, hatred, and all
uncharitableness, "drinking confusion" to
the resplendent Cobb, a rather a.musingpic
tune. Tic has advertised that individual as
the "inheritor or the mantle of Walter
Scott," as a man of "richly-stored mind
and varied experience," with a good deal
of nonsense of a similar sort. In a word,
Mr. Bonner will have it that trash is not
trash, that Ledger literature is the ono thing
needful. Great is Bonner, and Coble his
Profit! issues from his autocratic lips upon
every possible occasion.
We refuse to join in the cry. We totally
object to it. We tell the proprietor of the
Ledgar, what be probably knows and rages
I at, that there is a large and intelligent mi
nority who smile at his pretensions, and
ouly allude to his paper to cut jokes on it—
knowing, too, that ho has a circulation of
four hundred thousand; nay, who would do
so were the number inflated tenfold; for
I they believe there is a much higher sort of
success than Mr, Bmner's, and are by no
means dazzled by it.
Of course, success implies ability—of a
sort. But how mean an ability it may be.
Throughout American life there rum a dan
gerous materialism, which preaches that
I money is the great end and evidence of the
possession of intellect; that a man must be
l a failure unless he culminates in the posses
sion' of a cheek-book, a belief only worthy
, of a people prepared to accept "Poor Bich
ard's maxims," as a New Testament. Was
the divinest life ever led on this earth, a
success, humanly speaking? Whatever you
will pay the price for, you can have in this
world—that is the rule. Be rich, if you
, choose, perk aps by bringing all your array
of faculties to bear en one point, as did
William the Conqueror and Cesar their
forces, perhaps letting your intellectual and
moral nature lie fallow the whilst. But do
not arrogate too much on the strength of it,
or expect applause or admiration, or even
tacit assent, to your claims from those who
are accustomed to look below the surface.—
The confounding of excellence with pecu
niary success is both absurd and immoral;
and when some great gross instance of it
occurs, whether in the case of Rai/road
Hudson in England, or Barnum or Bonner
in America, a deterioration of honest public
sentiment takes place. Mr. Bonner simply
publishes it popular periodical of third or.
fourth rate merit, and has made a good deal
of ' money by it, that is all. lie, cleverly
enough, by judicious advertising, as by se•
curing and liberally paying for the occasion
al contributions of our prominent, editors,
(many of-whom hare written a Lodger arti
cle of so anonymously,) has, so to speak,
subsidized the whole press. Invisible threads
stretch from the Ann street Willa to all sorts
of sanctums, binding their occupants over to
keep the pence. They do not even venture
to joke at his expense now, at least not in
print. Wherefore it behooves the Scalpel,
which occupies the extraordinary position
of being able to tell the truth on all things
to speak out. We hate done so, and in per
fect good will commend mar very much
needed remarks to M.r. Bonner's considera
tion. They will find an echo in the bos
oms of more than will confess it at his
questioning.
Jack Joyce and the Giant
Jack Joyce was mighty proud of his size
and of bein', as ho used to say, the greatest
man in all Ireland. An' sure enough, lie
was tremendous big, nigh seven fut in
height, and wid a carkiss on him like an
eighteen gallon keg. Well, wan day• Jack
comes trampin' down into Leenane to get
himself measured for a pair of brogues, for
he was mighty severe upon shoe-leather by
raison of his weight, and in he goes into
the shop of the broguo maker, one 'Farrell
by name, a little ottomy of a man, with a
sharp tongue of his own, an' who used to
take great divarshun out of big Jack, by
gibin' him an' makin' all sorts of dhroll
collusions to his bulk and dimensions.
"Morrow, Jack," says Mr. Farrell.
think ye might say misther Joyce to
yer betthers," says Jack. •
"My betthers!" says the little man, "For
why now? Is it because you're big an' bul
ky, an' ate more bacon to your breakquest
than would keep a decent family for a week?
Erre what good are ye at all, man, except
for fillip' house-room? And, for the matter
of that, I seen a bigger man than ye yes
therday, and he had'ut, yer consate."
"That's a lie," says Jack' "I'm the big :
gest man in all Ireland."
"Divil a lie," says the other. "There's
a bigger maw than ever you were in Bailin
robe this minnit. And what do you think
they're doin' wid him? why they're showin'
him to the people for tuppence in a raree
show, all as one as lie was a wild baste.—
Arrab man, go show yourself for tuppence.
it's all t'o're good for."
Wid that Jack made a wipe at him wid a
bit of a stick he used to carry; it was like
the mast of a Galway hooker, that same
switch. But the little brogue maker was
as nimble as a grasshopper, and schkipped
away, an' Jack a'most knocked out the wall
of the cabin wid the whack he hit it. Well
he knew of old there was no ketchin' Far
rell to bate him, so he made it up wid him;
for, to give him his jew, there was always
a power of nathur about Jack, barrin' such
times as he was riz. Sometimes he'd rnur
ther a whole village, and be the first man
to forget all abotit it afterwards. So he got
measured for the brogues and went home
in peace, but mighty unaisy in his mind in
regard to the news he had heard about the
joint, in Ballinrobe. "Will you ate yer
supper?" says the wife. "Don't bother me
wid yer suppers," says Jack. "Well, then,
!take a shaugh of the pipe, and come to
' bed." No, di vll a pipe or supper would
Jack have, he that was heavy in his heart.
"Waken me airly," says he, "for I've got a
transaction at Ballinrobe." and with that
he goes to sleep, determined to make a com
plete discovery of the whole matter before
be was a day older. In the mornin' he sot
off for Ballinrobe, but, lo rind behold, when
he got there the carrywan with the joint
was gone, an' all they could tell him was
that it tuck the Castlebar road. Off goes
Jack post haste, without waiting to take
bite or sup, and at last, about five or six
miles out of the town, be sees the carrywan
standin' by the-roadside. It was a big yalla
chay made in the shape of a house, Wid an
elegant hall,door and glass windies to it,
and "Corcoran's Pavilion," wrote in big
letthers over them; an' the people belongin'
to it were sitting on the grass by the side
of the road aitin' their dinner off the top
of a big drum. There was the showman
himself, who need to do thricks wid knives
and forks, and crumble up a little guinea
pig he had, quite small, and put it in his
weskit pocket. And there was a north
countryman with one leg, an' mighty handy
at a Highland fling, whicirwas a great cu
riosity in a cripple, you know. And there
was a young woman:that used to dance in
trousers, and take the money in a tambo
rine when the people went to see the show.
And then, there was the joint; hut the mo
ment they seen Jack comin' puffin' down
the road, they made him quit aitin' and
crawl into the earrywan, not likin' him to
be seen too chape.
"God save all here," says Jack.
"God save ye kindly," says the show
man. •
"I could hear of a joint that you hare
for Amy," says Jack, "might ono hare a
look at him?"
"Faix you're n'most a joint yourself,"
says the woman, laughing quite pleasant.
"Them's my very raisons, my darl—
that's to say, Miss," soya Jack, very re
spectful, for he was struck entirely wid her,
never seem' the like before. She was a
weeshy little cratur, dressed out fine in rib
bons, wid a Bellow face and a spot of raddle
on each cheek like a ilgppy in a barley
field. But then she had a purty nate fat
and ankle, an' them was faymale accom
plishments Jaqk was evermore mighty par
tial to. Well, to make a long story short,
when they heard that Jack had come all
that way to see the joint, they agreed to let
him have a look for a shilling, tuppence
bein' th l 6 regular price, but, as the show
man said, it was out of business hours. So
the long man was brought out, an' he an'
Jack stood up beside each other; an' sure
enough, Jack wasn't within a head of him.
But then zrz was'nt within three feet as big
round the body as Jack, and when they
tame to talk of strength, and tell to wrost,
lin, Jack threw him on his back ae airy as
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
kiss my hand; for with all his hcigth he was
a poor eraythur, especially about the legs.
This made Jack as planed as Punch, and
put him in great humor entirely. lie got
quite friendly with the whole lot, more es
pecially wid the young woman, and when
the wan-legged man pulled out a deck o'
cards and proposed a game of spoil•fice, he
went in as in good mariners bound, and in
course got rooked most awful. The truth
is, he was ecormore soft wid the girls, and
instead of minding his play, he was-carry
ing on wid the young woman, an' she en
courrigiu' him, all to spite the long fellow,
who was by way of courting her. While
this was going on the showman was eyein'
Jack, and remarkin bow thunderin' big he
was.
"Ile'd make a gallows fine property,"
says he to the wan-legged man,
"Bedad he would," 851313 the other; "I
wish we had him."
"The other fellow won't last long," says
the showman. "He's gottin' wake in the
logs'."
"He never was sthrong in them," says
the cripple; "but he says it comes of lyin'
doubled up in the carrywan."
"That's all blather," says the showman;
"'tis goin' he is. T wish we bad this chap
in his place so as not to be left without n
joint at all."
'I wonther could we coax him to come
with us?" says wan-kg.
"I misdoubt it," says the P how ni nu .
"See," says the other, "how Biddy is
putting the comeether on him. Suppose we
give her the hard word. She's the divil for
deludthering, any how."
"Thry it, avick, and God speed you,"
says the showman,
The first opportunity they got they made
Biddy sensible, and explained their maynin'
to herand then the cards were put up and
whisky brought out, and they all fell to
dhrinkin'.
I don't know as your honor has ever re
marked, but big. men never stand the
dhrink. May-be its because the sperrets
have plenty of room to make a ruction.—
But anyhow, partly bole' a big man and
partly by rayson of bein' fasting—not fur
getting that the young woman never let the
glass stand empty—Jack was very soon
rnagalore—you know what I mane. Thee
they all got into the carrywan, Jack bur
rooin' And swearing he'd make her queen
of Maraky, and I dunna what beside; and
then they had more drink, until at last
poor Jack tumbled over on the flare speech
less,..
"You ger him too much," says the show-
man.
"Divil a bit," says Biddy; "ho won't
come to till tomorrow, and then I'll begin
on him again. Lave him to me, I'll man
age him."
So they doubled up Jack, and crammed
him into a part of the carrywan that was
made for the great say serpent, end put a
stuffed mermaid under his head for a pil
low.
"He'll be mortal heavy on the ould mare
I'm thinkin'," says the showman; "but
sure it's dark and Magra—that was the
long-fellow—can walk."
When they got into Castlebar, Jack was
sleeping beautiful, so they lett him quiet
and peaceable where ho was; and in the
morning', when the people began to cluster
round the concern to see the curiosities,
he was sleepin' still. Well there was no
call to rouse him up, for the say sn.rpint he
was lying with could'nt be exhibited in re- ; 1
gard of being bruk to pieces by the joult
ing of the machine over the bad roads. So I
I the showman began calling the people to
I stir up and see the great Portugee joint, en'
the Injin joggler (maynin' himself, the ould
imposthir,) and the grate rolling picthor of i
the goold-diggins in Ostherailye, and the
rest of his wonderful things—every wan o'
them lies, more or less, an' the wan-legged
man took to futtin' it iu a Highland fling,
pounding away like a pavior on his wooden
I leg; an' Biddy all the time turnin' the han
dle of a thing like a -young winnowing ma
chine, and gettin' elegant music out of it.
It was'nt long before the people began to
stir up in dirnest. First one and two, and
then in bunches, till the interior of the car-
rywan was nigh thronged. But the wan- I
legged man every now and then would quit
danciti' and come inside and pack thdralike
pickled herrins, to make room for more;
puffin' all the tall ones in the hack, and all
the short ones in front. Well, while they
wor waitin', an' the showman outside
screechin' always that he was going to be
gip, whether it was the tranvia' and the
talkin' that woke him I dusina. but anyhow,
Jack began to mutter to himself, and snore
that strong that this whole concaniency
thrimbled. "My oh," says the 'people,
"what's that?" An' some said it was the ,
Injin juggler; an' more said it was - some
other wild baste roarin'. "I'm fearful,"
says one. "I'll not stay," says another.— •
"Here, whither, let me out," says another.
"What's the matter?" says the showman.
When they told him, ho was fairly am- •
plusbed, not kuowin' how to git oat of it,
for he was afeerd of ruinin' the character :
of the show, eyther by lettin' them go in a
fright, or lettin' on that it was only a drunk
en man. "Lave it to me," says the wan- '
legged man, in a whisper. "Leediea an'
jintlemin,! says he,
."rosburne Ter pliseces.
There's no call for alarum at all at all,"
says he.
"What is it?" says they.
"The Royal Bingal tigyer," says he.
[WHOLE NUMBER 1,501.
That was enough for some of them. --
"Here, give us back our money," says they,
"and let us get shut of the roaria' baste."
"There's no money returned," says be.
"Well, we wont stay to be ate for the lu
cre of tuppence," says they.
"lie won't ate ye," says he.
"For why not?" say,g they.
"Becaise he's a studdy responsible baste,"
says he. "I'll te11,3 - on," says he, "he's the
Royal Bingal tigyer, predinted to the Queen
by the Imperor of Chany, an uur proprin
thur is now takin' him home to her majesty
an' he's confined wid six big goolden chains
and a padlock."
Well, whin they heard that an' about the
chains, they were tuck void a curiosity to
see Lim. But no sorrow a sight would
wan•leg give them.
"It id be high thrayson," says he, "to
make a show of a baste that's the royal
poperty, and or it kem to tho Lord Leften
ant's ears, he might cut off the head of the
propriethur;" and in course this made them
all the more rampagious to got a look nt
the baste. How and however, he purtin
ded at last to come round, "I dursent show
him to yez," says lie, "but there's a chink
here convenient to the door, and if any lady
or gintleman gives me tuppunce more ov
course I can't purwint them from peepin'
through;" the enunin' blaguard Inowing
well in his heart that all they could see, by
reason of the darkness was the tip of Jack's
nose and the knees of his small clothes as
he lei doubled up forninst them.
As ye may guess, the tuppences came isa
raiddlin' lively, aid people was five deep at
the chink in a Lace of shakes.
"Oh dear, oh!" says one, "do ye mind his
eyes? It's as red as a coal of fire,"
"Hut, man, that's his nose," eays anoth-
"An' the Lig legs he hue of his own!"
says another
"Are they athrippd?" says one in tho
Lack, "I'm told ft tiger is sthriped all
aver."
"Bedad, they,nre," says the other, "fur
all the world like cordtberoy,"
An' so they went on, the craythurs,
though sorrow a much could they see bar
ing a big lump of somethin' gruptin' in a
corner. But they did'nt like lettin' on to
one another that they had'ut got the worth
of their money. Itlaintime the news flew.
like wild fire through the town, and man
woman and child; gentle an' si sple, kem
croirdin' up to 100 44 at the Royal I.3ingal tig
yer, and wid them kern. one Mullins, a grate
old miser of a chap. To. be sure he began
castin' about for some way of seein' the
tigyor eluipe; so what dues h. 3 do when no
ono is lookiu', he creeps under the wheels
of the carrywan, and begins thryNg for a
chink of his own; and as good Jock wou/d,
have it, he finds a bole where. the bolt bad
fell out of the boords, just convenient to
Jack's ear. As he was lookinL through
this he hears Jack talkin' and grumblin' to
himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ears
arid listens. "Pais," says he, "you're a
dthroll I3ingal tigyer.. May I never if it
is'nt, Irish he's spakin." And with that he
takes a bit of stbrasr and prods Jack in the
jaw. "Owl" says Jack.
"That's was a great roar,!' says the peo
ple inside.
"What ore ye, at all, at all?" says Alnl-
Tins, in a whisper.
"I'm the greatest man in all Ireland,"
says Jack, 'drowsy like.
"Troth, then ye don't take up much room
av ye are," says Mullins.
"Thrue for re," says• Jack; "I'm hint
double, like a cod in a pot, wid ray heels in
my mouth ai'most."
'An' what brought you there?" says
Mullin',
"Arra, how do I knows" says Juck, go
ing off to sleep again.
"Do ye know whero ye arc, wrick?" ea) a
Mullins
"Sorra a know I know," says Jed;
"maybe it's in pargathory I em, for my
Lead is splittin' in two helves, an' I'm a'-
most destroyed wid a pain io the small o' my
Lack. Moreover, my tongue is as dry es
the flora of a lime-kiln. Ay it's in 'Abra
ham's bosom ye are there, give us a dthrink
of .water an' I'll be obleeged to ye."
I "Tat, man," says 3lullins, "sure yo're
not in glo . ry nt all. Are'nt ye in Corco
.nra 's Pavilion, no' the people looking at 5.e
for tuppence a head."
iWell, sir, when the mintion of that an'
j the tuppence ,trues .Tack's car, he romim
bered nil of a suddint all about it, an' how
little Farrell was gibin him with being only
fit fora peep-show. And wid that ho let's
one roar mit him ye'd hare heard at the
other ind of the barony, an' straikhtoned
himself powerful. The Limbers of the car
ryttan was'nt over strong, an' they split
and cracked with a. noise like tundher am'
the decent people begins sereoebiri' "the
tigyer! the til, , , , yer!' and goes revile and
tumblin' down the steps, for all the world
like potatoes out of a creel. Slob murdther
was never seen since Gastlebar was a town.
wid the hurry they were in. Au' maybe
the showman wasn't in as big a fright as
any of them. An' so did wan-leg, but in
his hurry ho drur his wooden leg into the
drum, whiob delayed him. WbenJaek get
himself loose, the first thing he did was to
go and bate the joint, for, as he said after
wards, it was along of him that he got into
the scrape at all. An' he bate him that
wicked that it is my belief he'd be batting
this minit as it wasn't for the youngwornan
that wint down on her two binded knees to