PUNCHINELLO

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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the PUNCHINELLO PUBLISHING COMPANY,
in the Clerk's Office of the District court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.

AN ADAPTATION,

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XII.

A NIGHT OF IT WITH MCLAUGHLIN.

Judge SWEENEY, with a certain supercilious consciousness that he is figuring in a novel, and that it will not do for him to thwart the eccentricities of mysterious fiction by any commonplace deference to the mere meteorological weaknesses of ordinary human nature, does not allow the fact that late December is a rather bleak and cold time of year to deter him from taking daily airings in the neighborhood of the Ritualistic churchyard. Since the inscription of his epitaph on his late wife upon her monument therein, the churchyard is to him a kind of ponderous work of imagination with marble leaves, to which he has contributed the most brilliant chapter; and when he sees any stranger hovering about a part of the outer railings from whence the inscription may be read, it is with all the swelling pride of an author who, having procured the publication of some dreary article in a magazine, is thrown into an ecstacy of vanity if he sees but one person glance at that number of the periodical on a news-stand.

Since his first meeting with Mr. BUMSTEAD, on the evening of the epitaph-reading, Judge SWEENEY has cultivated that gentleman's acquaintance, and been received at his lodgings several times with considerable cordiality and lemon-tea. On such occasions, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in his musical capacity, has sung so closely in Judge SWEENEY'S ear as to tickle him, a wild and slightly incoherent Ritualistic stave, to the effect that Saint PETER'S of Rome, with pontifical dome, would by ballot Infallible be; but for making Call sure, and Election secure, Saint Repeater's of Rum beats the See. With finger in ear to allay the tickling sensation, JUDGE SWEENEY declares that this young man smelling of cloves is a person of great intellectual attainments, and understands the political genius of his country well enough to make an excellent Judge of Election.

Walking slowly near the churchyard on this particular freezing December evening, with his hands behind his bank, and his eyes intent for any envious husband who may be "with a rush retiring," monumentally counselled, after reading the Epitaph, Judge SWEENEY suddenly comes upon Father DEAN conversing with SMYTHE, the sexton, and Mr. BUMSTEAD. Bowing to these three, who, like himself, seem to find real luxury in open-air strolling on a bitter night in midwinter, he notices that his model, the Ritual Rector, is wearing a new hat, like Cardinal's, only black, and is immediately lost in wondering where he can obtain one like it short of Rome.

"You look so much like an author, Mr. BUMSTEAD, in having no overcoat, wearing your paper collar upside down, and carrying a pen behind your ear," Father DEAN is saying, "that I can almost fancy you are about to write a book about us. Well, Bumsteadville is just the place to furnish a nice, dry, inoffensive domestic novel in the sedative vein."

After two or three ineffectual efforts to seize the end of it, which he seems to think is an inch or two higher than its actual position, Mr. BUMSTEAD finally withdraws from between his right ear and head a long and neatly cut hollow straw.

"This is not a pen, Holy Father," he answers, after a momentary glance of majestic severity at Mr. SMYTHE, who has laughed. "It is only a simple instrument which I use, as a species of syphon, in certain chemical experiments with sliced tropical fruit and glass-ware. In the precipitation of lemon-slices into cut crystal, it is necessary for the liquid medium to be exhausted gradually; and, after using this cylinder of straw for the purpose about an hour ago, I must have placed it behind my ear in a moment of absent-mindedness."

"Ah, I see," said Father DEAN, although he didn't. "But what is this, Judge SWEENEY, respecting your introduction of MCLAUGHLIN to Mr. BUMSTEAD, which I have heard about?"

"Why, your Reverence, I consider JOHN MCLAUGHLIN a Character," responds the Judge, "and thought our young friend of the organ-loft might like to study him."

"The truth is," explains Mr. BUMSTEAD, "that Judge SWEENEY put into my head to do a few pauper graves with JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, some moonlight night, for the mere oddity and dampness of the thing.—And I should regret to believe," added Mr. BUMSTEAD, raising his voice as saw that the judiciary was about to interrupt—"And I should really be loathe to believe that Judge SWEENEY was not perfectly sober when he did so."

"Oh, yes—certainly—I remember—to be sure," exclaims the Judge, in great haste; alarmed into speedy assent by the construction which he perceives would be put upon a denial. "I remember it very distinctly. I remember putting it into your head—by the tumblerful, if I remember rightly."

"Profiting by your advice," continues Mr. BUMSTEAD, oblivious to the last sentence, I am going out to-night, in search of the moist and picturesque, with JOHN MCLAUGHLIN—"

"Who is here," says Father DEAN.

OLD MORTARITY, dinner-kettle in hand and more mortary than ever, indeed seen approaching them with shuffling gait. Bowing to the Holy Father, he is about to pass on, when Judge SWEENEY stops him with—

"You must be very careful with your friend, BUMSTEAD, this evening, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN, and see that he don't fall and break his neck."

"Never you worry about Mr. BUMSTEAD, Judge," growls OLD MORTARITY. "He can walk further off the perpendicklar without tumbling than any gentleman I ever see."

"Of course I can, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN," says Mr. BUMSTEAD, checking another