Puck — September 24, 1879 — page 3: what you’re looking at

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

451 On high Olympus's elevation There sat two rulers of heaven's vault, And Hebe poured them, in sweet libation, 'Twas Jove and Bacchus—the god of thunder— Dispenser of mortals’ joys and woes: And Bacchus, smiling his rose-wreath under— ‘The newer nectar of hops and malt. A full aurora was in his nose. They puffed their nicotine at their leisure, And dreamily gazed at the world below, Its bootless struggle, its painful pleasure, Its politicians devouring crow. “O, Bacch, old boy,” said Jove as he bent to Pick up a thunderbolt for a light, “T knew there was something or other I meant to Ask you about, the other night— The night we went off on that—well, no matter!” And he rolled his cigar between his teeth, And dropped his thunder, sending a splatter Of casual rain to the earth beneath, “It may, perhaps, have escaped your notice— Those mortals are raising an extra god. Just like their mundane impudence, though 'tis— Dash my eyes, sir, a trifle odd Not to have given a voice in their powwows, To the ruler of heaven and earth, begad. I tell you, the times have gone to the bowwows; The mythological biz is bad.” And, pointing down where the far Pacific Pauses the Golden Gate to kiss, “They've prepared,” said he, “a splendorific, Old-fashioned, square apotheosis! ‘They are decking the city with flags and flowers For the new god coming from over the sea. I’ve a mind to stir up a pack of showers To remind the irreverent beggars of me! The air with bunting is filled, that flutters, And flaps to the winds of heaven his fame; And the shop-keeper cheers, and puts up his shutters— Bacch, do you know this—person’s—name ? Is this his portrait I found in Mars’s Coat-tail pocket—this photograph ?” And Bacchus smiled, and said: “ Bless my starses! Boss Immortal, you make me laff.” You rouse my risibles, Jove Eternal! Does never your eye unwinking run Over the Louisville Courier-Journal, Or the New York daily and weekly Sun? You're safe, old man, in your high position, You're not the man he would fain supplant. ‘Tis rather with me he’s in competition— That “person’s” name is—Ulysses Grant.” MR. MICHAEL ANGELO MULHOOLY THE POLITICAL SITUATION. No. I. ‘When I say the perlitical situation, I mean the local situation, I ain’t no snoozer-at- large, nor no Wash- ington sardine. I t'row meself on Noo Yark, I do, and that's why I’m chinnin’ now. When I say chin- nin’, I mean talkin’ —conversin’, I ain't no slouch on #2 grammar meself— NoO,nor none of the b'yes in me gan; —that is, click, would say. I'ma shoutin’ for Kelly, 1am, Kelly’s the boss candidate, I tell you. When I say the boss candidate, I ain’t refer- rin’ to Cornell. Cornell's a bleedin’ low-down Republican, that’s what he is. I suppose I may take it for solid that you ain’t no bleedin’ low-down Republican yerself. In course you ain't, Hamlet would have chawed some of your meat before this, if he’d have smelt a bleedin’ Rad. When I say Hamlet, 1 mean Ham—that’s my purp. Oh, he’s a tough citizen, he is. He's got a sorter mansard roof on him, he has, jes’ now. Look at that orf eye. I give him that. Night afore last, down to Larry’s—Larry Gaff- ney’s—no, maybe ’twas to Dutch Ike’s—I can’t rightly call it jes’ this minit—Hell! I was fear- ful lush, Didn't know what I was doin’—most kicked yer damn eye out, didn’t I, purp—hey? When I say lush, I don’t mean I was on no low drunk, I was jes’ on a quiet, gentlemanly booze wid Maginnis an’ some of de b’'yes— some 'f the members, I mean to say. Maginnis says, says he: “Mulhooly,” says he, ‘the principles this canvass is got to be conducted on is the princi- ples of aristocratic democracy.” “Maginnis,” says I to him, “ Maginnis,” I says: ‘ there ain’t no such thing as aristocracy compatible with the principles of the Dem- ocratic party. That’s just what took Dorshei- mer’s wind out of him. Now don’t you go to givin’ us no aristocratic guff, or you'll be hear- in’ from the ole man,” says I. “ Mulhooly,” says he, a-holdin’ onto Micky Geoghegan’s whiskey, by mistake for his own, “ Mulhooly,” says he: “now don't you go for to make no mistake. This canvass has got to be conducted on aristocratic principles, and we've got the boss aristocratic candidate, you jes’ freeze to that fac’, We ain’t goin’ to elect no ole rooster of a farmer like -Loosh Robin- son; we want a man wid some style about him.” “Maginnis,” says I to him, says I: “ Magin- nis, that there's the straight steer. We want a gentleman, we do.” “ Mulhooly,” says he to me, “ Mulhooly,” he says: “ you've got a big head, you have.” And den—then, I mean to say—he cleans out Geoghegan’s glass, 'n’ Geoghegan says to me, say he: ‘‘ Mulhooly,” he says, “ what sort of aman do you call that?” “ Geoghegan,” says I, “you go chew bricks, he ain't no Westchester snide, anyway.” “Do you call me a Westchester snide?” says Geoghegan, a reachin’ for the water-jug. “J ain’t callin’ no one naathin’” says I; an’ I give Ham a boot in the eye, I did, bajeeze! John Kelly's the boss candidate, now you freeze right to dat—that, I mean to say. comicbooks.com