Punchinello, Volume 2, No. 33, November 12, 1870

In Short

This issue functions as a curated miscellany of Gilded Age wit, featuring columns, satirical poetry, and humorous anecdotes that satirize the political landscape and social pretensions of late 19th-century New York. It is a time capsule of post-Civil War American humor, capturing the cynical, rapid-fire temperament of a society obsessed with status, "fake news," and the vanity of public figures. Its lasting interest lies in its authentic vernacular—a mix of high-minded Victorian prose and rough-hewn, colloquial satire—which vividly reconstructs the cultural anxieties and public preoccupations of 1870.

The Story

The narrative arc of this issue is not a singular plot, but a collective editorial stance: the world is ridiculous, and it is the publication's duty to point out why. The issue opens with an invitation to the reader to engage with a "Great Illustrated Paper" that prides itself on "able editorials" and "attractive reading." From this professional opening, the tone shifts immediately into the irreverent, as the humorist Mose Skinner dissects the reputations of American icons. He treats Daniel Webster with a mix of reverence and backhanded praise, suggesting that if modern politicians had half the intelligence of the deceased statesman, Washington would be a far less "imbecile" place.

The focus then drifts toward the absurdities of the day. The publication turns its eye to the Hon. John Morrissey, a former fighter and politician, framing him as a "Great Ex-pounder" whose primary skill is his ability to order a drink. This segment highlights the central conflict of the issue: the clash between the dignity of public office and the reality of the corrupt, brawling, and money-obsessed individuals who occupy it. The mockery continues with a scathing profile of George Francis Train, an eccentric figure whom the author imagines will only provide "a thrill of joy" to the public when his funeral finally takes place.

As the issue progresses, the scope expands to include the "Editor’s Drawer," a collection of macabre and dryly funny tombstones and local anecdotes that serve as a Greek chorus to the main commentary. We find a man boasting about killing a "four-year-old" (a calf), only to have the editorial staff dryly remark that they could not treat their own children with such utilitarian efficiency. The satire reaches a fever pitch in the account of a balloon trip over war-torn France, where the narrator survives cannon fire only to be lectured on the superiority of Prussian laundry.

The issue concludes by addressing the small, nagging inconveniences of life—cold feet, being blackballed from clubs, and the etiquette of widowhood—before returning to its core theme: the relentless pursuit of "filthy lucre." A poem titled "Auri Sacra Fames" lambastes a preacher for railing against gold while clearly coveting a higher salary. The issue ends not with a resolution, but with a series of advertisements for silks and stationery, reminding the reader that even as society laughs at its own folly, the wheels of commerce continue to turn, undisturbed by the satire or the occasional earthquake.

How It Unfolds

The call to order The issue begins by establishing its authority as a premier weekly publication, framing its contents as both intellectually substantial and aesthetically refined. It invites the reader to step into a world of sophisticated satire, promising an escape from the mundanity of standard journalism.

The dissection of status The middle section pivots to the "Great Men of America," where the author systematically dismantles the reputations of statesmen and celebrities. By contrasting historical figures with current, flawed politicians, the publication establishes a cynical distance from contemporary governance.

The theater of the absurd The narrative shifts to the stage and the streets, reviewing performances of Macbeth and recording the strange, bumbling interactions of ordinary citizens. This section highlights the disconnect between high culture and the messy reality of the American public.

The final judgment The issue draws to a close with advice columns and poetic critiques of greed, grounding its high-level mockery in the relatable frustrations of daily life. It leaves the reader with a final, biting remark on the nature of human greed, before seamlessly transitioning into the advertisements that underpin the entire enterprise.

The People

Mose Skinner emerges as the primary voice of the publication’s cynicism, acting as a judge who finds the world’s "great men" mostly wanting. He is unimpressed by wealth or political title, preferring to evaluate public figures by their usefulness or the lack of their presence. The "microscopic man" serves as a foil to the reader’s own anxieties, representing the obsessive, pseudo-scientific fear of impure food and drink that gripped the era. Hiram Green, the "Lait Gustise of the Peece," acts as an everyman who wanders into the Navy-Yard, only to be mocked by soldiers and mistaken for a politician, highlighting the profound disconnect between the average citizen and the institutions of power. Finally, the Reverend Whitcomb appears as an object of satire, a man who gamely uses the pulpit to advertise his services with a crassness that confirms the publication’s belief that everything, even religion, has a price tag in the current climate.

In Its Own Voice

"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."

The author contrasts the genuine oratorical power of Daniel Webster with the soporific, lifeless quality of modern political discourse.

"If you have a suspicion that the horse is quick to take a fence, just dash him at one and try."

This dry, rather dangerous piece of advice is offered in response to a reader’s earnest inquiry about testing a horse's temperament.

"The little brown cottage at Cambridge, Pa., is the place to call to have the marriage-knot promptly and strongly tied."

This line from an advertisement exposes the transactional, business-like approach that some clergy took toward their sacred duties.

What It's Really About

At its core, this volume explores the tension between an idealized American past and a chaotic, commercialized present. The text grapples with the question of whether progress is an illusion, suggesting that while the tools of modern life—balloons, steel pens, and rapid transit—have changed, human vanity remains constant. It argues that the "greatness" of the republic is frequently a performance, played out by men who are more interested in the spoils of power than the responsibilities of leadership. The publication positions laughter as the only rational response to a world where preachers chase gold, politicians behave like buffoons, and the very ground beneath one's feet—as in the recent earthquake—feels perpetually unstable.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the biting, skeptical wit of modern political commentary will find a familiar spirit here. The language, while occasionally dense with 19th-century slang and references to forgotten theater stars, is remarkably energetic and punchy. You will encounter a specific, somewhat jarring blend of warmth and cruelty; the humor is often aimed at the "imbecile lunatics" of the day, and the casual dismissiveness toward foreigners and the lower classes reflects the period's insular attitudes.

However, the experience of reading these pages is like watching a live broadcast from a century and a half ago. It is fascinating to see the same anxieties—the fear of toxic food, the frustration with inept government, and the weary suspicion of advertising—that echo in today’s headlines. It is not a book for those who require a cohesive plot, but for those who find pleasure in the rhythm of a well-turned insult or the absurdity of a historical footnote. What stays with you is the sheer, irrepressible vitality of the writing; it is the sound of a culture trying to make sense of itself by laughing at everything it holds dear.