PUNCHINELLO

FOR SALE.—22 VOLS., 52 NOS. EACH, OF London Punch,
COMPLETE FROM 1841 (1st YEAR) TO 1862, INCLUSIVE.
PRICE Fifty Dollars.
ADDRESS P.F.G., P.O. BOX 2783, NEW YORK CITY.

See 15th page for Extra Premiums.

FASHIONABLE RELIGION.

Father. "WELL, MY DEAR, DID YOU HAVE AN AMUSING SERMON THIS MORNING?"

Daughter. "O NO!—VERY STUPID. DR. CHIPPER ISN'T THE LEAST FUNNY NOWADAYS—PREACHES THE REGULAR OLD MISERABLE SINNER SORT OF BUSINESS."

GREAT MEN OF AMERICA.

By MOSE SKINNER

DANIEL WEBSTER

Was the sort of a man you don't find laying round loose nowadays to any great extent. It's a pity his brains wasn't preserved in a glass case, where the imbecile lunatics at Washington could take a whiff occasionally. It would do 'em good.

We are told that as a boy DANIEL was stupid, but this has been said of so many great men that it's getting stale. Some talented men were undoubtedly stupid boys, but it doesn't follow that every idiotic youth will make an eminent statesman. But there are plenty of vacancies in the statesman business. A great many men go into it, but they fail for want of capital. If they would only stick to their legitimate business of clam-digging, or something of that sort, we should appreciate them, and their obituary notice would be a thing to love, because 'twould be short.

But D. WEBSTER wasn't one of this sort. He didn't force Nature. He forgot enough every day to set five modern politicians up for life. When he opened his mouth to speak, it didn't act upon the audience like chloroform, nor did the senate-chamber look five minutes after like a receiving tomb, with the bodies laying round promiscuously. I should say not. He could wade right into the middle of a dictionary and drag out some ideas that were wholesome. Yes, when DANIEL in that senatorial den did get his back up, the political lions just stood back and growled.

Take him altogether he was our biggest gun, and it's a pity he went off as he did, for he was the Great Expounder of the Constitution.

HON. JOHN MORRISSEY

Is also a Great Ex-pounder. Even greater than WEBSTER, for the constitution of the United States is a trifling affair, compared with the constitution of J.C. HEENAN.

Mr. MORRISSEY is a very able man and made his mark early in life. Before he could write his name, I'm told. No man has made more brilliant hits, and his speeches are concise and full of originality. "I'll take mine straight." "No sugar for me," &c., have become as household words.

A man like this, though he may be vilified and slandered for awhile, will eventually come in on the home stretch with a right bower to spare.

That's a nice place JOHN has got at Saratoga. Fitted up so elegantly, and with so much money in it, it looks like a Fairy bank with the fairies gambolling upon the green. It's all very pretty, no doubt, but excuse me if I pass.

GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN.

This gentleman is yet destined to send a thrill of joy to our hearts, and flood our souls with a calm and tranquil joy. This will come off when his funeral takes place. He wasn't born like other people. He was made to order for the position of common scold in a country sewing-circle.

But he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to be an Eminent Lunatic and found private mad-houses. And so he began to lecture. He used to rehearse in a graveyard, and it was a common thing for a newly-buried corpse to organize a private resurrection and make for the woods, howling dismally.

A village out West was singularly unfortunate last summer. In the first place the cholera raged, then they had an earthquake, and then G.F. TRAIN lectured three nights. Owing to this accumulation of horrors the village is no longer to be found on the maps. TRAIN'S second night did the business for 'em. The once happy villagers are now aimless wanderers, and one poor old man was found in the churchyard, studying a war map of Paris and vicinity in a late New York paper.

It is said that TRAIN has his eye on the White House, and is indeed a shrewd, far-seeing man. When he visited Europe and kissed all the little Irish girls, could he have had in his mind the time when they, as naturalized American Female Suffragers, would cast their votes for G.F. TRAIN as President?

That the mind of the reader may not become hopelessly dazed by contemplating this last paragraph, I will stop.

MOTHER GOOSE.

I cannot close these memoirs without a simple tribute to this remarkable woman, who has probably done more to mould the destinies of this Republic than any other man put together. She was an eminently pious woman, devoted body and soul to Foreign Missions, and to the great work of sending the gospel to New Jersey.

But it was as a composer that her brilliant talents stand preeminent. MOZART, BEETHOVEN, and a host of others excelled in this respect, but they all lack that exquisite pathos and graceful rhetoric which so distinguished this queen of literature. The beautiful creations of that fruitful brain are as a passing panorama of constant delight. Her style is singularly free from affectation, and, while we are at one moment rapt in wonder at her chaste and vigorous description of the annoyances of a female in the autumn of life, training up a large family in the limited accommodations afforded by a common shoe, we cannot but feel a twinge of compassion for the singular Mrs. HUBBARD and her lovely dog, who "had none," only to have those tears chased away by the arch and guileless portrayal of the eccentric JOHN HORNER.

That we cannot to-day gaze upon the classic lineaments of her who welded such a facile pen, is a source of the most poignant regret. It is a crying shame, for I think I am correct when I say that there does not exist on the civilized globe a statue of this peerless woman, but she will always live as long as there are infant minds to form, or tender recollections of childhood to remember.

P.S.—I forgot to say that I hold a copyright of old GRANNY GOOSE'S works. I have just got it renewed, and it is as vigorous as a kicking-mule. Send in your orders. Contributions to the old gal's statue will be duly acknowledged, and deposited with my tailor.

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

JANAUSCHEK is a Bohemian, and with the Bohemian propensity for picking up things, has picked up the English language. The public is somewhat divided in its estimate of her skill in speaking English. One-half of her average audience insists that she speaks better English than nine-tenths of our native actresses: the other half asserts that she is at times nearly unintelligible. Neither of these statements necessarily contradicting the other, they might both be easily true. The fact is, however, that she speaks English like a foreigner. Mud itself—or a Sun editorial—could not be plainer than this definition of her exact proficiency in our unmelodious tongue.

If we go to