Judge — November 5, 1881 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

2 THE JUDGE. case fully proved against the officer. (To Officer Honest.) It is brutes like you who dis- grace the police uniform. I will fine you sixty days’ pay, and recommend you for dismissal. (Orricer Honest fades sadly away. P.C. takes a recess of half an hour to crack a bottle of wine with the ALDERMAN, WM. H. Fowe and politicians, (curtaln.] A Couple of 4=sthetes on a Booth Evening. ARRAYING ourselves in our tight-fitting black frock-coat, our light pantaloons and white vest, and adjusting a white satin cravat, we donned our large new soft hat, drew ona pair of salmon-colored kids, and sallied forth re- cently for an evening with Booth. We arrived in good season, and selected a location to the entire satisfaction of our ex- acting nature. Waiting silently and medi- tatively for the rising of the curtain, though occasionally disturbed by violent nasal reports and irritating “a-hems,” we were suddenly attracted by the approach of two apparently leisure-loving young gentlemen. One of them wore one of those very flat, skillet like hats now so much in vogue, and a rather short coat, his shirt front being covered by a saffron-hued piece of neckwear. The other was tiled with a shape made of a dark-blue, blanket-like texture, pulled snugly down on his head, then partially turned up, with a crease running in the form of a circle round the crown, giving it the appearance of a bull's eye, and plenty good enough fora target. He was also attired in a short sack some’ seanticr than his companion’s, and set off with neck-gear of a delicate pinkish purple. Their solitaires snapped in the gas-light. The canes tuey carried looked like huge, heavy lead pencils. Planting themselves directly in front of us, we made them a study, and they were evidently attracted by ourselves. The curtain at length arose, and the play was well under way, when wewere entertain- ingly annoyed by the following conversation: “I really can't see much in Booth,” said the taller of the twain; ‘he’s too mechanical. He lacks the fire of genius. He's a bore.” “Yahs,” responded the other, “he’s net up to my idea of a great impersonator of Shakesperian types of character by a vast deal, though, indeed, I have never seen one yet that has approached my private concep- tive ideal. Barrett, McCullough—none of them, in fuct—not even the famed Italian, Salvini, realize it. They all seem not to possess that rare intuitive delicacy of dis- cernment so essential to a correct portrayal of Shakespeare's creations. Oh, how I should like to have seen Garrick. I fancy that he would have appeased my cravings.” “Yahs, they say he was really great; but those men do not exist to-day—they are of the past. A very ordinary looking audience here to-night. Such an audience deadens the ar- dor of an artist's ambition—his intellect is grieved, so to speak.” “The attendance is very inferior-looking | isn’t it? I see noone of any recognized | standing. We seem to be alone.” The electricity by this time had taken effect, and although we very seldom smile, it caused the antagonistic forces of gravity and levity corked up in our jaws to clinch with such vio- lence that we exploded with’ bladder-like ef- fect, and immediately ducked our head. As we assumed an erect position, a broad grin might Nave been seen disappearing from our countenance, which was met by a joint look of blank astonishment from our esthetic neigh- bors, giving way to one of stern rebuke. “Idioticlooking monstrosity,” re-observed my tall friend, “ Funny-looking fellow, isn’t he? Peculiar hatehet-like face, and such a nose! I sup- pose the performance is as much too superior for his intellect as it is inferior for ours. I don’t think he knows whether it is a farce or atragedy. He, he!” twittered the other. “T suppose so. Ha, ha! Oh, my! He's one of the unsalted.” “Come on, let's get out. See who's at the club. It's a deuced bore here." “Well, I think we'd better. I shouldn't like to become embroiled with that fellow.” As they arose to go, we covered them with our eagle eye, which had a withering effect, and they piled out under the glasses of the whole house. We then took up the broken thread with the “Bard of Avon,” and agreeably passed another hour or so, when we repaired to a neighboring eating-house for our coffee and chops. ‘A halfhour later, accompanied by a cigar of delicate bouquet, we passed the “ White Elephant,” and were painfully impressed by the sight of our two friends being hurriedly injected into a “keb,” under a heavy load of “braundy punchez.” Their canes rattled against the windows of the coach, as the door was sharply closed behind them, and they were rapidly driven in the direction of the— unascertainable. We leave them to THE JUDGE. JuBAL Gaunt. BRIC-A-BRAC. Now is the chance afforded for collectors of | bric-a-brac to work off their stock of Confeder- ate bonds. These chromos are in demand at two dollars per thousand. ‘This is too cheap. Think of getting portraits of the leaders of the late unpleasantness at so low a figure. Be- sides, they ought to be worth more than this as wall paper. Not only would a room pre- sent an esthetic appearance thus adorned, but there would be millions in it. AN ambitious youth in Brooklyn started a campaign paper on which he hoped to float himself and friends into office. It died after the first issue, being even unable to float itself. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and it is the same way with weather. Old Prob., Ven- nor, and one or two others have mussed and mixed things up terribly this year. Come to think of it, wonder if Mother Shipton’s proph- ecy has anything to do with this remarkable year of weather? THE CURRENCY QUESTION. BY PRANK BELLEW. ‘Tuts matilated currency is getting quite a bor A holy dollar isn’t now almighty any more. You cannot find a taker In your butcher, or your baker, In your grocer, or shoemaker, Or in any kind of store. You are bucketed about with your mutilated dime, Your quarter, or your dollar, as though it were a crime To own a piece of silver which some too officious ass Has punched out of its recognized ability to pass. To get a holy coin 's enungh to make a fellow swear The great almighty dollar is a mighty mean affair, Yet still while sad, and savagely you cuss, and rip, and tear, There's solace in your sorrow, consolation in your care. Though your batcher may deride you, Your baker look awry, ‘Though car-conductors chide you With cold, vindictive eye, Though all the world may shake you and bounce you with a sneer, There rests this calm, consoling thought, it's ateays good for beer. AGatn the World’s Fair project comes to the surface, after every New Yorker of a sen- sible turn of mind had hoped it was sunk “full fathom five” in the waters of defeat. Why its troubled spirit cannot rest we do not see. New York is World's Fair enough, as itstands, The hot re crowded, the streets are blocked with traffic, the city was never so prosperous. What have we to gain by a gi- gantic exposition, which might, very likely, prove a colossal failure? Nothing but the in- trusion of a mob of provincials in bad hats and faded dusters, with perhaps a slight boom in the soda-water trade. Let Boston or some other quict town have the uext World’s Fair. When are our friends, the cigar-makers, to make their next attempt for the liberation of Cuba? We have not heard from them for some time. The hated Spaniard still holds control over the island, and shows no apparent sign of surrender or abdicatiua. New York has long been the center of operation for those who had in charge the American contingent of the Cuba Libre forces. The newspapers used to be filled with accounts more or less thrilling of their mysterious movements. But now we hear no more of the actions of the patriots, or the fulminations of committees. ‘The Cubans are apparently biding their time, which truly enough does not seem the present. THE charge at Balaklava was wonderful— if Tennyson can be believed, and the charges at the Bridge of Lodi was something more than a ruction, if history is to be relied upon, but the “charges” at Yorktown were at least fifteen dollars per day, which wasn't a trifling matter either, ‘Rah for U. S.1 A StaTex Isaxp woman scours her tin- ware with the bright ideas she finds in the local papers. She has the dullest looking kitchen in Richmond county. Davip Davis may be a mass, but he can never hope to be a Mascot. “On, gruel fate!” a dyspeptic was heard to murmur over his plate of matutinal mush, comicbooks.com