concern;
And as they never, never'll learn,
We shoot 'em, and don't care a dern!

EDITORIAL WASHING-DAY.

Observe PUNCHINELLO'S Cartoon, in which you shall behold the editorial laundresses of New-York city having a washy time of it all around. There is a, shriek of objurgation in the air, and a flutter of soiled linen on the breeze. Granny MARBLE, to the extreme left of the picture, clenches her fists over the pungent suds, and looks fight at Granny JONES, of the Times. The beaming phiz of Granny GREELEY looms up between the two, like the sun in a fog. But the real Sun in a fog is to be seen to the extreme right. There you behold Granny DANA, shaking her "brawny bunch of fives" in the face of Granny YOUNG, whose manner of wringing out the linen, you will observe, is up to the highest Standard of that branch of art. Further away, Granny TILTON flutters her linen with spiteful flourish, nettled by the vituperation of Granny HASTINGS, who hangs up her Commercial clothes on the line. The tableau is an instructive one; and it is to be hoped that all the U-Lye soaps used by the washerwomen is used up by this time, and that they will replace it with some having a sweeter perfume.

BOOK NOTICES.

MRS. JERNINGHAM'S JOURNAL. New-York: Charles Scribner & Company.

A very cleverly-written narrative, in smooth verse, detailing the experience of a bride who took to flirting early in her matrimonial career, but was saved from coming to grief by the decisive action of a stern husband. The book contains a capital lesson for the Girl of the Period, whose follies are satirized in it with a sharp pen.

NOTICE.

The attention of the Public is requested to PUNCHINELLO No. 10, which will be issued upon Thursday, May 26th. It will be a very brilliant number, illustrated with flights of fancy by ten comic artists.

In PUNCHINELLO No. 11 will be commenced a new burlesque serial, "The Mystery of Mister E. Drood," written expressly for this paper by the celebrated humorist, ORPHEUS C. KERR.

MAKING A HASH OF IT.

Customer. "I THOUGHT YOU HAD A GOOD PLACE WITH MR. ASHE; WHY ARE YOU GOING TO LEAVE?"

Cockney Waiter. "FACT IS, SIR, HASHE IS IN THE 'ABIT OF MAKING USE OF HODIOUS LANGUAGE TO HIS WAITERS, SIR, AND NO MAN OF HEDUCATION COULD STAND THAT, SIR, YOU KNOW, SIR."

JUMBLES.

MR. PUNCHINELLO, do you know when a woman is perfection itself? "No." I do. It is when she is from sixteen to nineteen. Of course you take her judgment. At sixteen she is the coming flower that has come—the first Rose of Summer, and about the best that may be looked for. Her ideas may not be solid, but they are expansive. Her mind may not make a very great show, but her hair (real and otherwise) is sure to. She is very deep in love—with herself. The supremest divinity is seen when she looks in the mirror. Call her ARABELLA if you like. ARABELLA is mistress of that portion of the dictionary which includes the common-place compliments of society. In her mouth they have a common place, indeed. Some people call such utterances "stuff," "nonsense," "puerilities," but nobody is so prejudiced and unreliable as the above-named some people. They complacently think they know a thing or two, but that is all it amounts to. ARABELLA hasn't any doubt about her being perfection. Unfortunately there is a question about some matters in this world in politics, religion, morality and other kindred things, but on the doctrine of perfection, as applied to her individual self, ARABELLA is clear and settled. Did any body, she says sotto voce, to herself, ever put vision on such an ensemble countenance? Were eyes ever more sparkling? Were ever dimples dimpler? Had ever peach such artistic hue, and teeth such pearly pearliness, and lips such positive sweetness, and brow such loveliness? We suppose not. ARABELLA is eighteen, is of elastic notions, sees life as a romance, believes the ground on which she walks ought to be grateful for the honor, and wonders if every body who goes out don't go straightway to talking rapturously about her. ARABELLA is a type—the type of a class of perfectionists. ARABELLA is neither a worm nor a butterfly, but the bridge between. For all this ARABELLA believes herself to be the best of butterflies, with the capacity to fly in the highest manner. At twenty-five her wings will be clipped, her colors will modify, her notions renovate, and her eyes open. She will perceive that the doctrine of perfection is mythical, and angels upon earth only so in name.

Going to church is a good thing. All good people go, and from good motives, of course. Mrs. BROWN, says a wicked gossip, goes to show a bonnet; Mrs. JONES her shawl; Mrs. SMITH her silk; Mrs. JENKINS her gloves and fan. No sane person believes that these ladies go for any such purpose. The case isn't presumable. They are nice, high-toned people, sit in $800 pews, adore Rev. Dr. CANTWELL, and give very freely (of their husband's money) to the heathen in the uttermost corners of the earth. They prefer, good souls, to give to the heathen under the equator to those under their noses. It is not true that ladies go to church for the display of dress. It is true Mrs. JONES does not wish to be outdone by Mrs. JENKINS, and isn't if STEWART can help it, but she is a good pious woman of simple tastes, though Mr. J. thinks she tastes rather often. Going to church is a good thing for example's sake. It is so nice and strengthening to reflect that, as the minister preaches piety, and you practice poetry, (with a pencil in the prayer-book,) you set an example to the rising generation. One can never do too much for the rising generation, though it often rises too frequently and too high. Besides, it encourages the minister. Only think of talking to emptiness instead of fulness—to people instead of plush. How can the dear Rev. SPLURGE SPLUTTER have the heart or tongue to drop his pearls of eloquence to the swine of empty pews? And how dreadful for the gifted soprano, Miss SCREECH, to tune her melodious voice to earless aisles! And then it is so easy to "set" examples by sitting in soft pews, doing to church should be a matter of conscience. Every body not a dolt admits conscience to be a good thing, though a thing every body cannot boast of possessing. I like people of conscience—that is, I should like them if I knew any. It is such a nice thing to talk about—and how much nicer to have. Mrs. TODD often wishes "to conscience" she could reach mine. I am sorry to say that at times Mrs. T. is an irreverent woman. She doesn't perceive that some where under that hairless, proud dome of mine there must be a conscience—I may proudly say, an imposing conscience. I said to Mrs. T. one day, "I have an imposing conscience," and she really thought so—adding the cruel expression that she didn't know of any thing about me but was imposing, and that she first became aware of the sad fact when she married me.

TIMOTHY TODD.

THE REIGN OF COUPS.

The situation of France is always striking. This is because its people are always being struck with a succession of Napoleonic ideas. They labor, for example, under a constant coup d'etat. Their Press is the victim of a regular coup de main; their Strikes are daily evidences of coups de mains; their Legislature suffers continually from coup de théâtre; and their Emperor is perpetually threatened with a coup de grace. The energies of Frenchmen are not imprisoned; no, they are only couped.

ELEVATED STATESMANSHIP—INSOBRIETY THE BEST POLICY.

Sir JOHN MACDONALD, the Premier of Canada, though an eccentric leader, is a happy illustration of the most elevated statecraft. "He has been drunk," says the Toronto Globe, "for several days, and incapacitated for public affairs." Considering what Canadian affairs are (including Sir JOHN,) this does not follow. Evidently it is not his policy to keep sober. But Sir JOHN is often drunk, says the Globe; he was tight before Prince ARTHUR, and he rushes to the bottle whenever the Fenians give alarm. Now this strikes us as very good policy. It helps us to see how convenient it was for Sir JOHN to magnify a few O'BRIENS and O'SHAUGHNESSYS into an army with green banners, and how opportunely the Dominion became intoxicated with its fears.

A POWERFUL PROTECTOR.

Mother. "WHY, ROSIE, HOW LATE YOU ARE TO-DAY!"

Rosie. "YES, MA, BUT I COULDN'T HELP IT. THERE WAS A POOR LITTLE GIRL AT SCHOOL WHO HAD NO ONE TO TAKE CARE OF HER, AND SO I HAD TO SEE HER HOME."

COMIC ZOOLOGY.

Order-Reptilia.

THE VIPER.

The supposition that this snake prefers a file to any other species of nourishment is a vulgar error, and belongs to the same mendacious category as the stories that ostriches are fond of ten-penny nails and soldiers of hard tack. It is true that old files are sometimes bitten by vipers in localities where these serpents abound, but in the lizard and hop-toad they usually find metal more attractive. The viper, when in a state of repose, is of an olive-brown color; but, if trodden upon, turns rusty. He is about twenty-four inches in length, as you may see by applying a two-foot rule to him, but it is a good rule to keep two feet away from him. As a bosom friend he is not to be trusted—a fact in natural history that was discovered many years ago by a green countryman, who got into a bad box by placing a viper on his chest. It is a peculiarity of this serpent, that when held suspended by his posterior extremity he can not raise his head to a level with his tail. In consequence of this provision in the economy of nature, he finds it as impossible to make both ends meet as if he were a human prodigal. In this respect he presents a marked contrast to the hoop-snake, which has no more back-bone than a timid politician, and can put its tail in its mouth, and roll in any direction with the utmost facility. The viper was at one time supposed to have an envenomed tongue, and although this error has been exploded, it is as well to avoid his jaw if possible, as, when irritated, he is very snappish.

This snake, according to some naturalists, is oviparous, and according to others viviparous; but all authorities agree that it is viperous in the extreme. Serpents are generated in various ways; the horse-runner, for instance, being derived from the fibres of horses' manes and tails, which probably receive the breath of life in a mare's nest. That such is the origin of the horse-runner the reader can verify for himself, by putting a few horse hairs in a basin of water and watching them till they begin to squirm. Possibly the shorter fibres from the caput of an African might in like manner produce vipers. The experiment is worth trying. There are several varieties of the species in this country; the most malignant and treacherous being the Political Vipers—snakes in the grass—bred from the spawn of the Original Cockatrices, and a curse to the land we live in.

WOMAN IN THE CENSUS.

A fresh blow has been struck at Woman's Rights! Gallant ladies, eager to cope with figures, have been compelled to yield to numbers—inferior numbers at that! Man, the minority, remains the popular tyrant of population. Women, the majority, don't count, can't count for any thing—even for women—at least in the sense of being Census-takers; for General WALKER has decided that Assistant Marshals LAVINIA PURLEAR and SARAH BURGOYNE (hear it, shades of NEY and BLUCHER!) are ineligible to such a warlike title. General WALKER is not firm in his mind that Marshals PURLEAR and BURGOYNE [would it be as well to say Marshal WALKER and Generals PURLEAR and BURGOYNE?] are feminine. "These appear to be the names of women," he says. Why might they not be the names of men? Is there no right or reason in these days of domestic revolution for men to name themselves LAVINIA and SARAH if they like it, and their wives like it? And suppose LAVINIA and SARAH that ought to be, or might have been, choose to call themselves MAHALALEEL and METHUSALEM—who's to prevent? Why should not the Rev. Mr.---- style himself Miss NANCY if he pleases? Why should not the Hon. Mr.---- rechristen himself BETTY if he has a mind to? H'm! A pretty pass we are coming to if these women folks who ask men's rights and take men's names won't lend us theirs! And alas, alas, ye lasses! What if some-day ye do indeed abstract our census, and marshal us into helpless minority. What if we have to disguise ourselves, and shave our beards, and change our names even to get on the police! Or will ye—ye bullying Syrens!—grow whiskers and wear pantaloons, and put us in station-houses, and clear us out of the Census altogether?

A LETTER FROM A FRIEND.

Friend PUNCHINELLO: Thee has doubtless sorrowed, in spite of thy motley, with those bereft at Richmond. Circumstances made that disaster a calamity which we have all felt in common. But thee knows that "Blessings come often in disguise." Let us find what small comfort we can in this thought.

Circumstances, however, alter cases. How different the feeling—how thin the disguise would have been—had our Capitol fallen, at Harrisburg! Before another Session we trust the proper spirit will move some underpinning there, for the greater good of the Commonwealth. It was formerly said that "Law is law;" but not even a Philadelphia lawyer now knows what law is or what law is not—for "any thing" is law here abouts. Of one result we may boast, if that be not sinful, we are ahead of thy wicked city.. Thee had thy delinquent Tax Collector, but thee has him not. We sorrowed, for we had him not, but now we rejoice in one whose name is—not BAILEY—but HILL. We did not want him, but got him involuntarily, as thee might get the small-pox.

Doubtless he will make it more up-Hill work than ever with our taxes, but, if he would only shoulder them and be off, what a blessing? For, verily, it cannot be said, as of old, that a man "heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them."

But, perhaps, thee pays taxes also? If so, thee can affirm to the gatherer, as well as thy friend,

PHINEAS BRODBRIMME.

Philadelphia, 5th month, 9th day, 1870.

OLD IRON.

Somebody talks of the Iron Men of Congress. Does he mean the Cast-iron members or the Pig-iron members? For instance there are the rusty Heavy-weights, and then there are the fellows who are greedy about Tariff. Members of the scrap-iron and ten-penny nail order are, of course, not alluded to. All these are iron men, but, as every body knows, are not men of Iron. In view of its rusty legislation and legislators, we recommend Congress to hang out a sign—"Highest prices paid here for old iron."

Bar That!

The Toronto Globe is at present treating the Premier of the Dominion to a course of lectures, advising him not to get drunk so often as he does. Now this is too much to expect, since the