Puck — September 25, 1878 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

THE LOVERS AGAIN. Ep1roR Puck.—It is said that the most lumi- nous of your daily contemporaries “kills” every night fifteen columns of type that has been set up, but cannot be crowded into that journal's teeming columns, ‘The facts and fancies, sketches, news items and poems that thus are lost to an already generously supplied public are not preserved even as office records, But, under Puck's mystic influence, last Saturday night, the writer gained admission to the com- posing room of the paper in question, and, after the printers had gone home and the build- ing was deserted, ran his eye over the columns of defunct matter, and decided to preserve from an unjust doom the following portion of the weekly “Questions of the Lovers, reproduced in your sparkling pages. Pin. ‘To Simon C-mM-rox.—You are, as Charles Francis Adams has observed, a fraud, first tri- umphant in American history. ‘The widow Ol-v-r loves you, passes sleepless nights, wears her hair down her back, neglects shopping, her kittens and kindred joys—all on your account It is proven that you kept her company. se cured her a livelihood, pursued her with gifts — then why deny the rest? Why compel. her to sue for that breach (we had almost said those breaches)? ‘The truth is you are from that por- tion of the country given overto Addition, Di vision and Silence. [Foreman, here insert that letter by Bill Kemble on the sabj of A., D, and S. It will only be the 1,1o0th time we have printed it.] ‘To W. Rocers, of Washington, late of Ohio.—In your poetical communication you sa, “Where'er I look, which way I turn, A female heart for me docs burn, A thousand sweethearts seek my hand, A thousand covet me my heart; While thus bewildered, sad I stand, T fear a wound from Cupid’s dart.” You are an ass! If you will read the Sun there may be reason to hope for you. You will learn that yours is not the worst poetry in the world, for our verses on political topics are a thousandfold more diabolical. You speak of your heart and hand, What noble American girl would have to do with either, considering thit both are in the service of MISTER hayes, the fraudulent President? (Foreman, here in- sert cut of Mister hayes wearing his detested title, “ FRAUD,” upon his loathsome brow.J Dominie Izeserc.—How dare you ask us what is the quickest and cheapest way of pro- curing a divorce? How can you admit that you “love all women save one”? ‘Turn back to the files of the Su carly in the past summer, and read that interview with the druggist on the hill, Read the account, in an evening pa- per, of your beer-drinking at the Schuetzen Park. Dominie, you should reduce the num- ber of your vices, reduce the intensity of your passions, reduce your desire for divorces from both your wife and your church, and Repuce THE ARMY TO 10,000 MEN! Deacon Rictarp Surtit.—You write us that you, too, are a lover. You love whatever is truly good; you even love those wicked part- ners that abuse your confidence and traduce your character. You want our advice about your lower limbs. [The Deacon's legs are Shaped thus: (.)—Ed. Sua] For pity’s sake, leave them as they are, serving, by their con- trast with your upright course and correct mind, to heighten the effect of those truly good traits; indicating by their oddity how different you aie from most men, Let them creak and wobble under you as you hasten home to undo the machinations of Romeo R—d and the other wicked partners. PUCK. THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE. Firs. (x Professeur!—ce cher M. le Professeur! He Francois, pompier a Nanterre, n’est-ce pas? Herr Bruuae My emb don’t vas wride nodings onl, Firtne (cheenfuily,) > W—rer-w Re-p.—You say in your let- ter that “Isidore and Jeannette were born under the silvered ray of a planet of bright fortune. Roses and ivy twine caressingly upon their lat- | ticed porch. One bright June day, as both | were seated on purple ottomans, devouring each other's glances, and intoxicated by the | half-subdued murmurings of their joy-laden souls, a tall, dark stranger, fashioned like a courtier in Louis XV's time, entered their beautiful dwelling, engaged the hall-bedroom on the second floor, and scattered gall and | wormwood in Isidore’s path, as he observed the dying embers of Jeannette’s affection sin ing trom before him. She loved the fair | stranger.” he dash. uit will not quote more of this balder- | Climb down, young editor, from out of | the rarified atmosphere of the tall tower, and if your notes are not all prote,ted, and Jay | Gould will grant you leave, seat yourself at a | table in your rum -shop—dedicated to the memory of Horace Greeley—and try to un- derstand the manners and habits of your fellow- men around you. ‘Then you won’t write such trash. ‘To Georce W. Cu-tos.—You send, on a shect of black-edged paper, the following sam- ple of your immortal poesy, marked, ‘$1.25 for one insertion”: “Peggy's flown; our hearth is bare; Leaving woe and sin and care. Fold away her little socks; She was took with chickenpox. Gone to meet little Clemmy.”” It seems to us that this is cheap—we mean at $1.25 for one insertion. But it bears the stamp of your funereal genius, and will doubt- less become popular and appear twenty times in to-morrow’s obituary column of the Ledger, You desire to know what to do now that Peggy has gone and her socks are “folded away.” We suggest a memorial window in some ropean church, with the design of the chicken- pox bursting into a humble dwelling and her mistress's German teacher,) “Ant can! fait I so glad to see M. le be so vair aimable—he write me letter to my I no can write.” harrassed), “Aber, mein schdnes Friulein, 1 He no can read non plus! swooping up the chimney with Peggy, bare: footed, in its talons or teeth or carpet-bag, however that may be. Under this design a legend like this: “Presented by G. W. C.,A.M., of the Public Ledger ‘o family should be without it. Ledger Almanacs given away to the needy and the heathen.”” To H. W. Be-cu-r.—You complain that your love has led you over stony paths, and | you have “even wished that you were dead.” You are “‘ far from those you love.” We pre- sume you mean that California, where you are now lecturing, is 3,000 miles from Elizabeth (N. J.). This is indeed true; but, although you were acquitted by a jury whose failure to agree gave you an inglorious escape from the clutches of justice, there isa greater jury that has convicted you, not alone of adultery but of falsehood. We refer to the jury of public opinion. Tommy Shearman’s tears cannot wash away the meaning of your letters, No lye (sic) he can invent will clear your stained reputation, To Ssa-rH E-y, Jr.—You say you are a sin- gle man yearning fora mate, You submit one of many sad experiences in rhyme, and remind us that you are the author of the “ Crooked Nose,” in which another disappointment met you. This is the rhyme you send: Last leap-year I a beauty spied, Earnest, eager at me staring; Anxious my great joy to hide, I stared back, as if not caring. Sure I was that she adored me— ‘Toward my heart her hopes seemed bent; | But, alas! the woman bored me | With a bill for last month’s rent. | We can only advise you to cease writing | these rhymes. They betray a half-heartedness, | if not a contemptuous feeling toward women, Still, after November you will have time enough on your hands to seck out some inno} cent beauty, whose nose you cannot ridicule, | and who nose nothing about your cynical | writings. comicbooks.com