The Wit of Women
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Title: The Wit of Women
Author: Kate Sanborn
Release date: April 5, 2009 [eBook #28503]
Language: English
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THE WIT OF WOMEN
by
KATE SANBORN
* * * * *
"The Wit of Women," by Miss Kate Sanborn, [Funk &
Wagnalls,] proves that the authoress is one of those
rare women who are gifted with a sense of humor.
Fortunately for her, the female sense of humor, when it
does exist, is not affected by such trifles as
"chestnuts." Therefore, women will read with pleasure
Miss Sanborn's choice collection of these dainties.
There are, however, many new anecdotes in Miss
Sanborn's collection, and, taken as a whole, it may
fairly be said to establish the fact that there have
been feminine wits not inferior to the best of the
opposite sex.
[Newspaper clipping pasted into front cover]
* * * * *
THE WIT OF WOMEN
by
KATE SANBORN
Fourth Edition
New York
Funk & Wagnalls Company
London and Toronto
1895
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by
Funk & Wagnalls,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D.C.
Miss Addie Boyd, of the Cincinnati "Commercial," and
Miss Anna M.T. Rossiter, alias Lilla M. Cushman, of the
Meriden "Recorder," will probably represent the gentler
sex in the convention of paragraphers which meets next
month. They are a pair o' graphic writers and equal to
the best in the profession.--Waterloo Observer.
[Newspaper clipping pasted into book]
INTRODUCTION.
It is refreshing to find an unworked field all ready for harvesting.
While the wit of men, as a subject for admiration and discussion, is now
threadbare, the wit of women has been almost utterly ignored and
unrecognized.
With the joy and honest pride of a discoverer, I present the results of
a summer's gleaning.
And I feel a cheerful and Colonel Sellers-y confidence in the success of
the book, for every woman will want to own it, as a matter of pride and
interest, and many men will buy it just to see what women think they can
do in this line. In fact, I expect a call for a second volume!
KATE SANBORN.
HANOVER, N.H., August, 1885.
My thanks are due to so many publishers, magazine editors, and personal
friends for material for this book, that a formal note of acknowledgment
seems meagre and unsatisfactory. Proper credit, however, has been given
all through the volume, and with special indebtedness to Messrs. Harper
& Brothers and Charles Scribner's Sons of New York, and Houghton,
Mifflin & Co. of Boston. I add sincere gratitude to all who have so
generously contributed whatever was requested.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
THE MELANCHOLY TONE OF WOMEN'S POETRY--PUNS, GOOD
AND BAD--EPIGRAMS AND LACONICS--CYNICISM OF FRENCH
WOMEN--SENTENCES CRISP AND SPARKLING 13
CHAPTER II.
HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN 32
CHAPTER III.
FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE 47
CHAPTER IV.
"SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE 67
CHAPTER V.
A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN 85
CHAPTER VI.
GINGER-SNAPS 103
CHAPTER VII.
PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY 122
CHAPTER VIII.
HUMOROUS POEMS 150
CHAPTER IX.
GOOD-NATURED SATIRE 179
CHAPTER X.
PARODIES--REVIEWS--CHILDREN'S POEMS--COMEDIES BY
WOMEN--A DRAMATIC TRIFLE--A STRING OF FIRECRACKERS 195
TO
G.W.B.
In Grateful Memory.
_"There was in her soul a sense of delicacy mingled
with that rarest of qualities in woman--a sense of
humor," writes Richard Grant White in "The Fate of
Mansfield Humphreys." I have noticed that when a
novelist sets out to portray an uncommonly fine type of
heroine, he invariably adds to her other intellectual
and moral graces the above-mentioned "rarest of
qualities." I may be over-sanguine, but I anticipate
that some sagacious genius will discover that woman as
well as man has been endowed with this excellent gift
from the gods, and that the gift pertains to the large,
generous, sympathetic nature, quite irrespective of the
individual's sex. In any case, having heard so
repeatedly that woman has no sense of humor, it would
be refreshing to have a contrariety of opinion on that
subject._--THE CRITIC.
PROEM.[A]
We are coming to the rescue,
Just a hundred strong;
With fun and pun and epigram,
And laughter, wit, and song;
With badinage and repartee,
And humor quaint or bold,
And stories that _are_ stories,
Not several aeons old;
With parody and nondescript,
Burlesque and satire keen,
And irony and playful jest,
So that it may be seen
That women are not quite so dull:
We come--a merry throng;
Yes, we're coming to the rescue,
And just a hundred strong.
KATE SANBORN.
[Footnote A: _Not_ Poem!]
THE WIT OF WOMEN.
CHAPTER I.
THE MELANCHOLY TONE OF WOMEN'S POETRY--PUNS, GOOD AND BAD--EPIGRAMS AND
LACONICS--CYNICISM OF FRENCH WOMEN--SENTENCES CRISP AND SPARKLING.
To begin a deliberate search for wit seems almost like trying to be
witty: a task quite certain to brush the bloom from even the most
fruitful results. But the statement of Richard Grant White, that humor
is the "rarest of qualities in woman," roused such a host of brilliant
recollections that it was a temptation to try to materialize the ghosts
that were haunting me; to lay forever the suspicion that they did not
exist. Two articles by Alice Wellington Rollins in the _Critic_, on
"Woman's Sense of Humor" and "The Humor of Women," convinced me that the
deliberate task might not be impossible to carry out, although I felt,
as she did, that the humor and wit of women are difficult to analyze,
and select examples, precisely because they possess in the highest
degree that almost essential quality of wit, the unpremeditated glow
which exists only with the occasion that calls it forth. Even from the
humor of women found in books it is hard to quote--not because there is
so little, but because there is so much.
The encouragement to attempt this novel enterprise of proving ("by their
fruits ye shall know them") that women are not deficient in either wit
or humor has not been great. Wise librarians have, with a smile,
regretted the paucity of proper material; literary men have predicted
rather a thin volume; in short, the general opinion of men is condensed
in the sly question of a peddler who comes to our door, summer and
winter, his stock varying with the season: sage-cheese and home-made
socks, suspenders and cheap note-paper, early-rose potatoes and the
solid pearmain. This shrewd old fellow remarked roguishly "You're
gittin' up a book, I see, 'baout women's wit. 'Twon't be no great of an
undertakin', will it?" The outlook at first was certainly discouraging.
In Parton's "Collection of Humorous Poetry" there was not one woman's
name, nor in Dodd's large volume of epigrams of all ages, nor in any of
the humorous departments of volumes of selected poetry.
Griswold's "Female Poets of America" was next examined. The general air
of gloom--hopeless gloom--was depressing. Such mawkish sentimentality
and despair; such inane and mortifying confessions; such longings for a
lover to come; such sighings over a lover departed; such cravings for
"only"--"only" a _grave_ in some dark, dank solitude. As Mrs. Dodge puts
it, "Pegasus generally feels inclined to pace toward a graveyard the
moment he feels a side-saddle on his back."
The subjects of their lucubrations suggest Lady Montagu's famous speech:
"There was only one reason she was glad she was a woman: she should
never have to _marry_ one."
From the "Female Poets" I copy this "Song," representing the average
woman's versifying as regards buoyancy and an optimistic view of this
"Wale of Tears":
"Ask not from me the sportive jest,
The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection;
These social baubles fly the breast
That owns the sway of pale Dejection.
"Ask not from me the changing smile,
Hope's sunny glow, Joy's glittering token;
It cannot now my griefs beguile--
My soul is dark, my heart is broken!
"Wit cannot cheat my heart of woe,
Flattery wakes no exultation;
And Fancy's flash but serves to show
The darkness of my desolation!
"By me no more in masking guise
Shall thoughtless repartee be spoken;
My mind a hopeless ruin lies--
My soul is dark, my heart is broken!"
In recalling the witty women of the world, I must surely go back,
familiar as is the story, to the Grecian dame who, when given some
choice old wine in a tiny glass by her miserly host, who boasted of the
years since it had been bottled, inquired, "Isn't it very small of its
age?"
This ancient story is too much in the style of the male
story-monger--you all know him--who repeats with undiminished gusto for
the forty-ninth time a story that was tottering in senile imbecility
when Methuselah was teething, and is now in a sad condition of
anec_dotage_.
It is affirmed that "women seldom repeat an anecdote." That is well,
and no proof of their lack of wit. The discipline of life would be
largely increased if they did insist on being "reminded" constantly of
anecdotes as familiar as the hand-organ repertoire of "Captain Jinks"
and "Beautiful Spring." Their sense of humor is too keen to allow them
to aid these aged wanderers in their endless migrations. It is
sufficiently trying to their sense of the ludicrous to be obliged to
listen with an admiring, rapt expression to some anecdote heard in
childhood, and restrain the laugh until the oft-repeated crisis has been
duly reached. Still, I know several women who, as brilliant
_raconteurs_, have fully equalled the efforts of celebrated after-dinner
wits.
It is also affirmed that "women cannot make a pun," which, if true,
would be greatly to their honor. But, alas! their puns are almost as
frequent and quite as execrable as are ever perpetrated. It was Queen
Elizabeth who said: "Though ye be burly, my Lord Burleigh, ye make less
stir than my Lord Leicester."
Lady Morgan, the Irish novelist, witty and captivating, who wrote "Kate
Kearney" and the "Wild Irish Girl," made several good puns. Some one,
speaking of the laxity of a certain bishop in regard to Lenten fasting,
said: "I believe he would eat a horse on Ash Wednesday." "And very
proper diet," said her ladyship, "if it were a _fast_ horse."
Her special enemy, Croker, had declared that Wellington's success at
Waterloo was only a fortunate accident, and intimated that he could have
done better himself, under similar circumstances. "Oh, yes," exclaimed
her ladyship, "he had his secret for winning the battle. He had only to
put his notes on Boswell's Johnson in front of the British lines, and
all the Bonapartes that ever existed could never _get through_ them!"
"Grace Greenwood" has probably made more puns in print than any other
woman, and her conversation is full of them. It was Grace Greenwood who,
at a tea-drinking at the Woman's Club in Boston, was begged to tell one
more story, but excused herself in this way: "No, I cannot get more than
one story high on a cup of tea!"
You see puns are allowed at that rarely intellectual assemblage--indeed,
they are sometimes _very_ bad; as when the question was brought up
whether better speeches could be made after simple tea and toast, or
under the influence of champagne and oysters. Miss Mary Wadsworth
replied that it would depend entirely upon whether the oysters were
cooked or raw; and seeing all look blank, she explained: "Because, if
raw, we should be sure to have a raw-oyster-ing time."
Louisa Alcott's puns deserve "honorable mention." I will quote one.
"Query--If steamers are named the Asia, the Russia, and the Scotia, why
not call one the _Nausea_?"
At a Chicago dinner-party a physician received a menu card with the
device of a mushroom, and showing it to the lady next him, said: "I hope
nothing invidious is intended." "Oh, no," was the answer, "it only
alludes to the fact that you spring up in the night."
A gentleman, noticeable on the porch of the sanctuary as the pretty
girls came in on Sabbath mornings, but _not_ regarded as a devout
attendant on the services within, declared that he was one of the
"pillars of the church!" "Pillar-sham, I am inclined to think," was the
retort of a lady friend.
To a lady who, in reply to a gentleman's assertion that women sometimes
made a good pun, but required time to think about it, had said that
_she_ could make a pun as quickly as any man, the gentleman threw down
this challenge: "Make a pun, then, on horse-shoe." "If you talk until
you're horse-shoe can't convince me," was the instant answer.
* * * * *
The best punning poem from a woman's pen was written by Miss Caroline B.
Le Row, of Brooklyn, N.Y., a teacher of elocution, and the writer of
many charming stories and verses. It was suggested by a study in butter
of "The Dreaming Iolanthe," moulded by Caroline S. Brooks on a
kitchen-table, and exhibited at the Centennial in Philadelphia. I do not
remember any other poem in the language that rings so many changes on a
single word. It was published first in _Baldwin's Monthly_, but ran the
rounds of the papers all over the country.
I.
"One of the Centennial buildings
Shows us many a wondrous thing
Which the women of our country
From their homes were proud to bring.
In a little corner, guarded
By Policeman Twenty-eight,
Stands a crowd, all eyes and elbows,
Seeing butter butter-plate
II.
"'Tis not 'butter faded flower'
That the people throng to see,
Butter crowd comes every hour,
Nothing butter crowd we see.
Butter little pushing brings us
Where we find, to our surprise,
That within the crowded corner
Butter dreaming woman lies.
III.
"Though she lies, she don't deceive us,
As it might at first be thought;
This fair maid is made of butter,
On a kitchen-table wrought.
Nothing butter butter-paddle,
Sticks and straws were used to bring
Out of just nine pounds of butter
Butter fascinating thing.
IV.
"Butter maid or made of butter,
She is butter wonder rare;
Butter sweet eyes closed in slumber,
Butter soft and yellow hair,
Were the work of butter woman
Just two thousand miles away;
Butter fortune's in the features
That she made in butter stay.
V.
"Maid of all work, maid of honor,
Whatsoever she may be,
She is butter wondrous worker,
As the crowd can plainly see.
And 'tis butter woman shows us
What with butter can be done,
Nothing butter hands producing
Something new beneath the sun.
VI.
"Butter line we add in closing,
Which none butter could refuse:
May her work be butter pleasure,
Nothing butter butter use;
May she never need for butter,
Though she'll often knead for bread,
And may every churning bring her
Butter blessing on her head."
* * * * *
The second and last example is much more common in its form, but is just
as good as most of the verses of this style in Parton's "Humorous
Poetry." I don't pretend that it is remarkable, but it is equally worthy
of presentation with many efforts of this sort from men with a
reputation for wit.
THE VEGETABLE GIRL.
BY MAY TAYLOR.
Behind a market-stall installed,
I mark it every day,
Stands at her stand the fairest girl
I've met within the bay;
Her two lips are of cherry red,
Her hands a pretty pair,
With such a charming turn-up nose,
And lovely reddish hair.
'Tis there she stands from morn till night,
Her customers to please,
And to appease their appetite
She sells them beans and peas.
Attracted by the glances from
The apple of her eye,
And by her Chili apples, too,
Each passer-by will buy.
She stands upon her little feet
Throughout the livelong day,
And sells her celery and things--
A big feat, by the way.
She changes off her stock for change,
Attending to each call;
And when she has but one beet left,
She says, "Now, that beats all."
* * * * *
As to puns in conversation, my only fear is that they are too generally
indulged in. Only one of this sort can be allowed, and that from the
highest lady in the land, who is distinguished for culture and good
sense, as well as wit. A friend said to her as she was leaving Buffalo
for Washington: "I hope you will hail from Buffalo."
"Oh, I see you expect me to hail from Buffalo and reign in Washington,"
said the quick-witted sister of our President.
In epigrams there is little to offer. But as it is stated that "women
cannot achieve a well-rounded epigram," a few specimens must be
produced.
Jane Austen has left two on record. The first was suggested by reading
in a newspaper the marriage of a Mr. Gell to Miss Gill, of Eastborne.
"At Eastborne, Mr. Gell, from being perfectly well,
Became dreadfully ill for love of Miss Gill;
So he said, with some sighs, 'I'm the slave of your iis;
Oh, restore, if you please, by accepting my ees.'"
The second is on the marriage of a middle-aged flirt with a Mr. Wake,
whom gossips averred she would have scorned in her prime.
"Maria, good-humored and handsome and tall,
For a husband was at her last stake;
And having in vain danced at many a ball,
Is now happy to jump at a Wake."
It was Lady Townsend who said that the human race was divided into men,
women, and _Herveys_. This epigram has been borrowed in our day,
substituting for Herveys the _Beecher_ family.
When some one said of a lady she must be in spirits, for she lives with
Mr. Walpole, "Yes," replied Lady Townsend, "spirits of hartshorn."
Walpole, caustic and critical, regarded this lady as undeniably witty.
It was Hannah More who said: "There are but two bad things in this
world--sin and bile."
Miss Thackeray quotes several epigrammatic definitions from her friend
Miss Evans, as:
"A privileged person: one who is so much a savage when thwarted that
civilized persons avoid thwarting him."
"A musical woman: one who has strength enough to make much noise and
obtuseness enough not to mind it."
"Ouida" has given us some excellent examples of epigram, as:
"A pipe is a pocket philosopher, a truer one than Socrates, for it never
asks questions. Socrates must have been very tiresome, when one thinks
of it."
"Dinna ye meddle, Tam; it's niver no good a threshin' other folks' corn;
ye allays gits the flail agin' i' yer own eye somehow."
"Epigrams are the salts of life; but they wither up the grasses of
foolishness, and naturally the grasses hate to be sprinkled therewith."
"A man never is so honest as when he speaks well of himself. Men are
always optimists when they look inward, and pessimists when they look
round them."
"Nothing is so pleasant as to display your worldly wisdom in epigram and
dissertation, but it is a trifle tedious to hear another person display
theirs."
"When you talk yourself you think how witty, how original, how acute you
are; but when another does so, you are very apt to think only, 'What a
crib from Rochefoucauld!'"
"Boredom is the ill-natured pebble that always _will_ get in the golden
slipper of the pilgrim of pleasure."
"It makes all the difference in life whether hope is left or--left out!"
"A frog that dwelt in a ditch spat at a worm that bore a lamp.
"'Why do you do that?' said the glow-worm.
"'Why do you shine?' said the frog."
"Calumny is the homage of our contemporaries, as some South Sea
Islanders spit on those they honor."
"Hived bees get sugar because they will give back honey. All existence
is a series of equivalents."
"'Men are always like Horace,' said the Princess. 'They admire rural
life, but they remain, for all that, with Augustus.'"
"If the Venus de Medici could be animated into life, women would only
remark that her waist was large."
* * * * *
The brilliant Frenchwomen whose very names seem to sparkle as we write
them, yet of whose wit so little has been preserved, had an especial
facility for condensed cynicism.
Think of Madame du Deffand, sceptical, sarcastic; feared and hated even
in her blind old age for her scathing criticisms. When the celebrated
work of Helvetius appeared he was blamed in her presence for having made
selfishness the great motive of human action.
"Bah!" said she, "he has only revealed every one's secret."
And listen to this trio of laconics, with their saddening knowledge of
human frailty and their bitter Voltaireish flavor:
We shall all be perfectly virtuous when there is no longer any flesh on
our bones.--_Marguerite de Valois._
We like to know the weakness of eminent persons; it consoles us for our
inferiority.--_Mme. de Lambert._
Women give themselves to God when the devil wants nothing more to do
with them.--_Sophie Arnould._
Madame de Sevigne's letters present detached thoughts worthy of
Rochefoucauld without his cynicism. She writes: "One loves so much to
talk of one's self that one never tires of a _tete-a-tete_ with a lover
for years. That is the reason that a devotee likes to be with her
confessor. It is for the pleasure of talking of one's self--even though
speaking evil." And she remarks to a lady who amused her friends by
always going into mourning for some prince, or duke, or member of some
royal family, and who at last appeared in bright colors, "Madame, I
congratulate myself on the health of Europe."
I find, too, many fine aphorisms from "Carmen Sylva" (Queen of
Roumania):
"Il vaut mieux avoir pour confesseur un medecin qu'un pretre. Vous dites
au pretre que vous detestez les hommes, il vous reponds que vous n'etes
pas chretien. Le medecin vous donne de la rhubarbe, et voila que vous
aimez votre semblable."
"Vous dites au pretre que vous etes fatigue de vivre; il vous reponds
que le suicide est un crime. Le medecin vous donne un stimulant, et
voila que vous trouvez la vie supportable."
"La contradiction anime la conversation; voila pourquoi les cours sont
si ennuyeuses."
"Quand on veut affirmer quelque chose, on appelle toujours Dieu a
temoin, parce qu'il ne contredit jamais."
"On ne peut jamais etre fatigue de la vie, on n'est fatigue que de
soi-meme."
"Il faut etre ou tres-pieux ou tres-philosophe! il faut dire: Seigneur,
que ta volonte soit faite! ou: Nature, j'admets tes lois, meme
lorsqu'elles m'ecrasent."
"L'homme est un violon. Ce n'est que lorsque sa derniere corde se brise
qu'il devient un morceau de bois."
In the recently published sketch of Madame Mohl there are several
sentences which show trenchant wit, as: "Nations squint in looking at
one another; we must discount what Germany and France say of each
other."
Several Englishwomen can be recalled who were noted for their
epigrammatic wit: as Harriet, Lady Ashburton. On some one saying that
liars generally speak good-naturedly of others, she replied: "Why, if
you don't speak a word of truth, it is not so difficult to speak well of
your neighbor."
"Don't speak so hardly of ----," some one said to her; "he lives on your
good graces."
"That accounts," she answered, "for his being so thin."
Again: "I don't mind the canvas of a man's mind being good, if only it
is completely hidden by the worsted and floss."
Or: "She never speaks to any one, which is, of course, a great advantage
to any one."
Mrs. Carlyle _was_ an epigram herself--small, sweet, yet possessing a
sting--and her letters give us many sharp and original sayings.
She speaks in one place of "Mrs. ----, an insupportable bore; her neck
and arms were as naked as if she had never eaten of the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil."
And what a comical phrase is hers when she writes to her "Dearest"--"I
take time by the _pig-tail_ and write at night, after post-hours"--that
growling, surly "dearest," of whom she said, "The amount of bile that he
brings home is awfully grand."
For a veritable epigram from an American woman's pen we must rely on
Hannah F. Gould, who wrote many verses that were rather graceful and
arch than witty. But her epitaph on her friend, the active and
aggressive Caleb Cushing, is as good as any made by Saxe.
"Lay aside, all ye dead,
For in the next bed
Reposes the body of Cushing;
He has crowded his way
Through the world, they say,
And even though dead will be pushing."
Such a hit from a bright woman is refreshing.
Our literary foremothers seemed to prefer to be pedantic, didactic, and
tedious on the printed page.
Catharine Sedgwick dealt somewhat in epigram, as when she says: "He was
not one of those convenient single people who are used, as we use straw
and cotton in packing, to fill up vacant places."
Eliza Leslie (famed for her cook-books and her satiric sketches), when
speaking of people silent from stupidity, supposed kindly to be full of
reserved power, says: "We cannot help thinking that when a head is full
of ideas some of them must involuntarily _ooze_ out."
And is not this epigrammatic advice? "Avoid giving invitations to
bores--they will come without."
Some of our later literary women prefer the epigrammatic form in
sentences, crisp and laconic; short sayings full of pith, of which I
have made a collection.
Gail Hamilton's books fairly bristle with epigrams in condensed style,
and Kate Field has many a good thought in this shape, as: "Judge no one
by his relations, whatever criticism you pass upon his companions.
Relations, like features, are thrust upon us; companions, like clothes,
are more or less our own selection."
Miss Jewett's style is less epigrammatic, but just as full of humor.
Speaking of a person who was always complaining, she says: "Nothing ever
suits her. She ain't had no more troubles to bear than the rest of us;
but you never see her that she didn't have a chapter to lay before ye.
I've got 's much feelin' as the next one, but when folks drives in their
spiggits and wants to draw a bucketful o' compassion every day right
straight along, there does come times when it seems as if the bar'l was
getting low."
"The captain, whose eyes were not much better than his ears, always
refused to go forth after nightfall without his lantern. The old couple
steered slowly down the uneven sidewalk toward their cousin's house. The
captain walked with a solemn, rolling gait, learned in his many long
years at sea, and his wife, who was also short and stout, had caught
the habit from him. If they kept step all went well; but on this
occasion, as sometimes happened, they did not take the first step out
into the world together, so they swayed apart, and then bumped against
each other as they went along. To see the lantern coming through the
mist you might have thought it the light of a small craft at sea in
heavy weather."
"Deaf people hear more things that are worth listening to than people
with better ears; one likes to have something worth telling in talking
to a person who misses most of the world's talk."
"Emory Ann," a creation of Mrs. Whitney's, often spoke in epigrams, as:
"Good looks are a snare; especially to them that haven't got 'em." While
Mrs. Walker's creed, "I believe in the total depravity of inanimate
things," is more than an epigram--it is an inspiration.
Charlotte Fiske Bates, who compiled the "Cambridge Book of Poetry," and
has given us a charming volume of her own verses, which no one runs any
"Risk" in buying, in spite of the title of the book, has done a good
deal in this direction, and is fond of giving an epigrammatic turn to a
bright thought, as in the following couplet:
"Would you sketch in two words a coquette and deceiver?
Name two Irish geniuses, Lover and Lever!"
She also succeeds with the quatrain:
ON BEING CALLED A GOOSE.
A signal name is this, upon my word!
Great Juno's geese saved Rome her citadel.
Another drowsy Manlius may be stirred
And the State saved, if I but cackle well.
* * * * *
I recall a charming _jeu d'esprit_ from Mrs. Barrows, the beloved "Aunt
Fanny," who writes equally well for children and grown folks, and whose
big heart ranges from earnest philanthropy to the perpetration of
exquisite nonsense.
It is but a trifle, sent with a couple of peanut-owls to a niece of
Bryant's. The aged poet was greatly amused.
"When great Minerva chose the Owl,
That bird of solemn phiz,
That truly awful-looking fowl,
To represent her wis-
Dom, little recked the goddess of
The time when she would howl
To see a Peanut set on end,
And called--Minerva's Owl."
* * * * *
Miss Phelps has given us some sentences which convey an epigram in a
keen and delicate fashion, as:
"All forms of self-pity, like Prussian blue, should be sparingly used."
"As a rule, a man can't cultivate his mustache and his talents
impartially."
"As happy as a kind-hearted old lady with a funeral to go to."
"No men are so fussy about what they eat as those who think their brains
the biggest part of them."
"The professor's sister, a homeless widow, of excellent Vermont
intentions and high ideals in cup-cake."
And this longer extract has the same characteristics:
"You know how it is with people, Avis; some take to zoology, and some
take to religion. That's the way it is with places. It may be the
Lancers, and it may be prayer-meetings. Once I went to see my grandmother
in the country, and everybody had a candy-pull; there were twenty-five
candy-pulls and taffy-bakes in that town that winter. John Rose says, in
the Connecticut Valley, where he came from, it was missionary barrels;
and I heard of a place where it was cold coffee. In Harmouth it's
improving your mind. And so," added Coy, "we run to reading-clubs, and
we all go fierce, winter after winter, to see who'll get the 'severest.'
There's a set outside of the faculty that descends to charades and music
and inconceivably low intellectual depths; and some of our girls sneak
off and get in there once in a while, like the little girl that wanted
to go from heaven to hell to play Saturday afternoons, just as you and I
used to do, Avis, when we dared. But I find I've got too old for that,"
said Coy, sadly. "When you're fairly past the college-boys, and as far
along as the law students--"
"Or the theologues?" interposed Avis.
"Yes, or the theologues, or even the medical department; then there
positively _is_ nothing for it but to improve your mind."
Listen to Lavinia, one of Mrs. Rose Terry Cooke's sensible Yankee women:
"Land! if you want to know folks, just hire out to 'em. They take their
wigs off afore the help, so to speak, seemingly."
"Marryin' a man ain't like settin' alongside of him nights and hearin'
him talk pretty; that's the fust prayer. There's lots an' lots o'
meetin' after that!"
And what an amount of sense, as well as wit, in Sam Lawson's sayings in
"Old Town Folks." As this book is not to be as large as Worcester's
Unabridged Dictionary, I can only give room to one.
"We don't none of us like to have our sins set in order afore us. There
was _David_, now, he was crank as could be when he thought Nathan was a
talkin' about _other_ people's sins. Says David: 'The man that did that
shall surely die.' But come to set it home and say, '_Thou_ art the
man!' David caved right in. 'Lordy massy, bless your soul and body,
Nathan!' says he, 'I don't want to die.'"
And Mrs. A.D.T. Whitney must not be forgotten. "As Emory Ann said once
about thoughts: 'You can't hinder 'em any more than you can the birds
that fly in the air; but you needn't let 'em light and make a nest in
your hair.'"
And what a capital hit on the hypocritical apologies of conceited
housekeepers is this bit from Mrs. Whicher ("Widow Bedott"): "A person
that didn't know how wimmin always go on at such a place would a thought
that Miss Gipson had tried to have everything the miserablest she
possibly could, and that the rest on 'em never had anything to hum but
what was miserabler yet."
And Marietta Holley, who has caused a tidal-wave of laughter by her
"Josiah Allen's Wife" series, shall have her say.
"We, too, are posterity, though mebby we don't realize it as we ort to."
"She didn't seem to sense anything, only ruffles and such like. Her mind
all seemed to be narrowed down and puckered up, just like trimmin'."
But I must have convinced the most sceptical of woman's wit in
epigrammatic form, and will now return to an older generation, who claim
a fair share of attention.
CHAPTER II.
HUMOR OF LITERARY ENGLISHWOMEN.
In reviewing the _bon-mots_ of Stella, whom Swift pronounced the most
witty woman he had ever known, it seems that we are improving. I will
give but two of her sayings, which were so carefully preserved by her
friend.
When she was extremely ill her physician said, "Madam, you are near the
bottom of the hill, but we will endeavor to get you up again;" she
answered: "Doctor, I fear I shall be out of breath before I get up to
the top."
After she had been eating some sweet thing a little of it happened to
stick on her lips. A gentleman told her of it, and offered to lick it
off. She said: "No, sir, I thank you; I have a tongue of my own."
Compare these with the wit of George Eliot or the irony of Miss Phelps.
Some of Jane Taylor's stories and poems were formerly regarded as
humorous; for instance, the "Discontented Pendulum" and the
"Philosopher's Scales." They do not now raise the faintest smile.
Fanny Burney's novels were considered immensely humorous and diverting
in their day. Burke complimented her on "her natural vein of humor," and
another eminent critic speaks of "her sarcasm, drollery, and humor;" but
it would be almost impossible to find a passage for quotation that
would now satisfy on these points. Even Jane Austen's novels, which
strangely retain their hold on the public taste, are tedious to those
who dare to think for themselves and forget Macaulay's verdict.
Mrs. Barbauld, in her poem on "Washing Day," shows a capacity seldom
exercised for seeing the humorous side of every-day miseries.
"Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites!
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy
Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie,
Or tart, or pudding; pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try
Mending what can't be helped to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Cheer up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away."
But her style is too stiff and stately for every day.
There were many literary Englishwomen who had undoubted humor. Hannah
More did get unendurably poky, narrow, and solemn in her last days, and
not a little sanctimonious; and we naturally think of her as an aged
spinster with black mitts, corkscrew curls, and a mob cap, always
writing or presenting a tedious tract, forgetting her brilliant youth,
when she was quite good enough, and lively, too. She was a perennial
favorite in London, meeting all the notables; the special pet of Dr.
Johnson, Davy Garrick, and Horace Walpole, who called her his "holy
Hannah," but admired and honored her, corresponding with her through a
long life. She was then full of spirit and humor and versatile talent.
An extract from her sister's lively letter shows that Hannah could hold
her own with the Ursa Major of literature:
"Tuesday evening we drank tea at Sir Joshua's with Dr. Johnson. Hannah
is certainly a great favorite. She was placed next him, and they had the
entire conversation to themselves. They were both in remarkably high
spirits. It was certainly her lucky night. I never heard her say so many
good things. The old genius was extremely jocular, and the young one
very pleasant. You would have imagined we had been at some comedy had
you heard our peals of laughter. They, indeed, tried which could pepper
the highest, and it is not clear to me that the lexicographer was really
the highest seasoner."
And how deliciously does she set out the absurdity then prevailing, and
seen now in editions of Shakespeare and Chaucer, of writing books, the
bulk of which consists of notes, with only a line or two at the top of
each page of the original text.
It seems that a merry party at Dr. Kennicott's had each adopted the name
of some animal. Dr. K. was the elephant; Mrs. K., dromedary; Miss Adams,
antelope; and H. More, rhinoceros.
"HAMPTON, December 24, 1728.
"DEAR DROMY (a): Pray, send word if _Ante_
(b) is come, and also how _Ele_ (c) does, to your
very affectionate RHYNEY" (d).
The following notes on the above epistle are by a commentator of the
latter end of the nineteenth century. This epistle is all that is come
down to us of this voluminous author, and is probably the only thing she
ever wrote that was worth preserving, or which might reasonably expect
to reach posterity. Her name is only presented to us in some beautiful
hendecasyllables written by the best Latin poet of his time (Bishop
Lowth):
_Note_ (_a_).
"_Dromy._--From the termination of this address it
seems to have been written to a woman, though there is
no internal evidence to support this hypothesis. The
best critics are much puzzled about the orthography of
this abbreviation. Wartonius and other skilful
etymologists contend that it ought to be spelled
_drummy_, being addressed to a lady who was probably
fond of warlike instruments, and who had a singular
predilection for a _canon_. Drummy, say they, was a
tender diminutive of drum, as the best authors in their
more familiar writings now begin to use gunny for gun.
But _Hardius_, a contemporary critic, contends, with
more probability, that it ought to be written _Drome_,
from hippodrome; a learned leech and elegant bard of
Bath having left it on record that this lady spent much
of her time at the riding-school, being a very
exquisite judge of horsemanship. _Colmanus_ and
_Horatius Strawberryensis_ insist that it ought to be
written _Dromo_, in reference to the Dromo Sorasius of
the Latin dramatist."
_Note_ (_b_).
"_Ante._--Scaliger 2d says this name simply signifies
the appellation of uncle's wife, and ought to be
written _Aunty_. But here, again, are various readings.
Philologists of yet greater name affirm that it was
meant to designate _pre-eminence_, and therefore ought
to be written _ante_, before, from the Latin, a
language now pretty well forgotten, though the authors
who wrote in it are still preserved in French
translations. The younger Madame Dacier insists that
this lady was against all men, and that it ought to be
spelled _anti_; but this Kennicotus, a rabbi of the
most recondite learning, with much critical wrath,
vehemently contradicts, affirming it to have been
impossible she could have been against mankind whom all
mankind admired. He adds that ante is for _antelope_,
and is emblematically used to express an elegant and
slender animal, or that it is an elongation of _ant_,
the _emblem of virtuous citizenship_."
And so she continues her comments to close of notes.
Mrs. Gaskell's "Cranford" is full of the most delicate but veritable
humor, as her allusion to the genteel and cheerful poverty of the lady
who, in giving a tea-party, "now sat in state, pretending not to know
what cakes were sent up, though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that
we knew; and we knew that she knew that we knew she had been busy all
the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes."
The humor of Mary Russell Mitford, quiet and delectable, must not be
forgotten. We will sympathize with her woes as she describes a
visitation from
THE TALKING LADY.
"Ben Jonson has a play called _The Silent Woman_, who turns out, as
might be expected, to be no woman at all--nothing, as Master Slender
said, but 'a great lubberly boy,' thereby, as I apprehend,
discourteously presuming that a silent woman is a nonentity. If the
learned dramatist, thus happily prepared and predisposed, had happened
to fall in with such a specimen of female loquacity as I have just
parted with, he might, perhaps, have given us a pendant to his picture
in the talking lady. Pity but he had! He would have done her justice,
which I could not at any time, least of all now; I am too much stunned,
too much like one escaped from a belfry on a coronation day. I am just
resting from the fatigue of four days' hard listening--four snowy,
sleety, rainy days; days of every variety of falling weather, all of
them too bad to admit the possibility that any petticoated thing, were
she as hardy as a Scotch fir, should stir out; four days chained by 'sad
civility' to that fireside, once so quiet, and again--cheering
thought!--again I trust to be so when the echo of that visitor's
incessant tongue shall have died away....
"She took us in her way from London to the west of England, and being,
as she wrote, 'not quite well, not equal to much company, prayed that no
other guest might be admitted, so that she might have the pleasure of
our conversation all to herself (_ours!_ as if it were possible for any
of us to slide in a word edgewise!), and especially enjoy the
gratification of talking over old times with the master of the house,
her countryman.'
"Such was the promise of her letter, and to the letter it has been kept.
All the news and scandal of a large county forty years ago, and a
hundred years before, and ever since; all the marriages, deaths, births,
elopements, law-suits, and casualties of her own times, her father's,
grandfather's, great-grandfather's, nephews', and grandnephews', has she
detailed with a minuteness, an accuracy, a prodigality of learning, a
profuseness of proper names, a pedantry of locality, which would excite
the envy of a county historian, a king-at-arms, or even a Scotch
novelist.
"Her knowledge is most astonishing; but the most astonishing part of all
is how she came by that knowledge. It should seem, to listen to her, as
if at some time of her life she must have listened herself; and yet her
countryman declares that in the forty years he has known her, no such
event has occurred; and she knows new news, too! It must be
intuition!...
"The very weather is not a safe subject. Her memory is a perpetual
register of hard frosts and long droughts, and high winds and terrible
storms, with all the evils that followed in their train, and all the
personal events connected with them; so that, if you happen to remark
that clouds are come up and you fear it may rain, she replies: 'Ay, it
is just such a morning as three-and-thirty years ago, when my poor
cousin was married--you remember my cousin Barbara; she married
so-and-so, the son of so-and-so;' and then comes the whole pedigree of
the bridegroom, the amount of the settlements, and the reading and
signing them overnight; a description of the wedding-dresses in the
style of Sir Charles Grandison, and how much the bride's gown cost per
yard; the names, residences, and a short subsequent history of the
bridesmaids and men, the gentleman who gave the bride away, and the
clergyman who performed the ceremony, with a learned antiquarian
digression relative to the church; then the setting out in procession;
the marriage, the kissing, the crying, the breakfasting, the drawing the
cake through the ring, and, finally, the bridal excursion, which brings
us back again, at an hour's end, to the starting-post, the weather, and
the whole story of the sopping, the drying, the clothes-spoiling, the
cold-catching, and all the small evils of a summer shower. By this time
it rains, and she sits down to a pathetic see-saw of conjectures on the
chance of Mrs. Smith's having set out for her daily walk, or the
possibility that Dr. Brown may have ventured to visit his patients in
his gig, and the certainty that Lady Green's new housemaid would come
from London on the outside of the coach....
"I wonder, if she had happened to be married, how many husbands she
would have talked to death. It is certain that none of her relatives are
long-lived, after she comes to reside with them. Father, mother, uncle,
sister, brother, two nephews, and one niece, all these have
successively passed away, though a healthy race, and with no visible
disorder--except--But we must not be uncharitable."
* * * * *
Mary Ferrier, the Scotch novelist, was gifted with genial wit and a
quick sense of the ludicrous. Walter Scott admired her greatly, and as a
lively guest at Abbotsford she did much to relieve the sadness of his
last days. He said of her:
"She is a gifted personage, having, besides her great talents,
conversation the least _exigeante_ of any author, female at
least, whom I have ever seen, among the long list I have
encountered. Simple and full of humor, and exceedingly ready at
repartee; and all this without the least affectation of the
blue-stocking. The general strain of her writing relates to the
foibles and oddities of mankind, and no one has drawn them with
greater breadth of comic humor or effect. Her scenes often
resemble the style of our best old comedies, and she may boast,
like Foote, of adding many new and original characters to the
stock of our comic literature."
Here is one of her admirably-drawn portraits:
THE SENSIBLE WOMAN.
"Miss Jacky, the senior of the trio, was what is reckoned a very
sensible woman--which generally means a very disagreeable, obstinate,
illiberal director of all men, women, and children--a sort of
superintendent of all actions, time, and place, with unquestioned
authority to arraign, judge, and condemn upon the statutes of her own
supposed sense. Most country parishes have their sensible woman, who
lays down the law on all affairs, spiritual and temporal. Miss Jacky
stood unrivalled as the sensible woman of Glenfern. She had attained
this eminence partly from having a little more understanding than her
sisters, but principally from her dictatorial manner, and the pompous,
decisive tone in which she delivered the most commonplace truths. At
home her supremacy in all matters of sense was perfectly established;
and thence the infection, like other superstitions, had spread over the
whole neighborhood. As a sensible woman she regulated the family,
which she took care to let everybody hear; she was a sort of
postmistress-general, a detector of all abuses and impositions, and
deemed it her prerogative to be consulted about all the useful and
useless things which everybody else could have done as well. She was
liberal of her advice to the poor, always enforcing upon them the
iniquity of idleness, but doing nothing for them in the way of
employment, strict economy being one of the many points in which she was
particularly sensible. The consequence was that, while she was lecturing
half the poor women in the parish for their idleness, the bread was kept
out of their mouths by the incessant carding of wool, and knitting of
stockings, and spinning, and reeling, and winding, and pirning, that
went on among the ladies themselves. And, by the by, Miss Jacky is not
the only sensible woman who thinks she is acting a meritorious part when
she converts what ought to be the portion of the poor into the
employment of the affluent.
"In short, Min Jacky was all over sense. A skilful physiognomist would
at a single glance have detected the sensible woman in the erect head,
the compressed lips, square elbows, and firm, judicious step. Even her
very garments seemed to partake of the prevailing character of their
mistress. Her ruff always looked more sensible than any other body's;
her shawl sat most sensibly on her shoulders; her walking-shoes were
acknowledged to be very sensible, and she drew on her gloves with an air
of sense, as if the one arm had been Seneca, the other Socrates. From
what has been said it may easily be inferred that Miss Jacky was, in
fact, anything but a sensible woman, as, indeed, no woman can be who
bears such visible outward marks of what is in reality the most quiet
and unostentatious of all good qualities."
* * * * *
Frederika Bremer, the Swedish novelist, whose novels have been
translated into English, German, French, and Dutch, had a style
peculiarly her own. Her humor reminds me of a bed of mignonette, with
its delicate yet permeating fragrance. One paragraph, like one spray of
that shy flower, scarcely reveals the dainty flavor.
From the "Neighbors," her best story, and one that still has a moderate
sale, I take her description of Franziska's first little lover-like
quarrel with her adoring husband, the "Bear." (Let us remember Miss
Bremer with appreciation and gratitude, as one of the very few visitors
we have entertained who have written kindly of our country and our
"Homes.")
THE FIRST QUARREL.
"Here I am again sitting with a pen in my hand, impelled by a desire for
writing, yet with nothing particular to write about. Everything in the
house and in the whole household arrangement is in order. Little patties
are baking in the kitchen, the weather is oppressively hot, and every
leaf and bird seem as if deprived of motion. The hens lie outside in the
sand before the window, the cock stands solitarily on one leg, and looks
upon his harem with the countenance of a sleepy sultan. Bear sits in his
room writing letters. I hear him yawn; that infects me. Oh! oh! I must
go and have a little quarrel with him on purpose to awaken us both.
"I want at this moment a quire of writing-paper on which to drop
sugar-cakes. He is terribly miserly of his writing-paper, and on that
very account I must have some now.
"_Later._--All is done! A complete quarrel, and how completely lively we
are after it! You, Maria, must hear all, that you may thus see how it
goes on among married people.
"I went to my husband and said quite meekly, 'My Angel Bear, you must be
so very good as to give me a quire of your writing-paper to drop
sugar-cakes upon.'
"_He_ (_in consternation_). 'A quire of writing-paper?'
"_She._ 'Yes, my dear friend, of your very best writing-paper.'
"_He._ 'Finest writing-paper? Are you mad?'
"_She._ 'Certainly not; but I believe you are a little out of your
senses.'
"_He._ 'You covetous sea-cat, leave off raging among my papers! You
shall not have my paper!'
"_She._ 'Miserly beast! I shall and will have the paper.'
"_He._ '"I shall"! Listen a moment. Let's see, now, how you will
accomplish your will.' And the rough Bear held both my small hands fast
in his great paws.
"_She._ 'You ugly Bear! You are worse than any of those that walk on
four legs. Let me loose! Let me loose, else I shall bite you!' And as he
would not let me loose I bit him. Yes, Maria, I bit him really on the
hand, at which he only laughed scornfully and said: 'Yes, yes, my little
wife, that is always the way of those who are forward without the power
to do. Take the paper. Now, take it!'
"_She._ 'Ah! Let me loose! let me loose!'
"_He._ 'Ask me prettily.'
"_She._ 'Dear Bear!'
"_He._ 'Acknowledge your fault.'
"_She._ 'I do.'
"_He._ 'Pray for forgiveness.'
"_She._ 'Ah, forgiveness!'
"_He._ 'Promise amendment.'
"_She._ 'Oh, yes, amendment!'
"_He._ 'Nay, I'll pardon you. But now, no sour faces, dear wife, but
throw your arms round my neck and kiss me.'
"I gave him a little box on the ear, stole a quire of paper, and ran off
with loud exultation. Bear followed into the kitchen growling horribly;
but then I turned upon him armed with two delicious little patties,
which I aimed at his mouth, and there they vanished. Bear, all at once,
was quite still, the paper was forgotten, and reconciliation concluded.
"There is, Maria, no better way of stopping the mouths of these lords of
the creation than by putting into them something good to eat."
* * * * *
I wish I had room for my favorite Irishwoman, Lady Morgan, and her
description of her first rout at the house of the eccentric Lady Cork.
The off-hand songs of her sister, Lady Clarke, are fine illustrations of
rollicking Irish wit and badinage.
At one of Lady Morgan's receptions, given in honor of fifty philosophers
from England, Lady Clarke sang the following song with "great effect:"
FUN AND PHILOSOPHY.
Heigh for ould Ireland! Oh, would you require a land
Where men by nature are all quite the thing,
Where pure inspiration has taught the whole nation
To fight, love, and reason, talk politics, sing;
'Tis Pat's mathematical, chemical, tactical,
Knowing and practical, fanciful, gay,
Fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry,
There's nothing in life that is out of his way.
He makes light of optics, and sees through dioptrics,
He's a dab at projectiles--ne'er misses his man;
He's complete in attraction, and quick at reaction,
By the doctrine of chances he squares every plan;
In hydraulics so frisky, the whole Bay of Biscay,
If it flowed but with _whiskey_, he'd store it away.
Fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry,
There's nothing in life that is out of his way.
So to him cross over savant and philosopher,
Thinking, God help them! to bother us all;
But they'll find that for knowledge 'tis at our own college
Themselves must inquire for--beds, dinner, or ball.
There are lectures to tire, and good lodgings to hire,
To all who require and have money to pay;
While fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry,
Ladies and lecturing fill up the day.
So at the Rotunda we all sorts of fun do,
Hard hearts and pig-iron we melt in one flame;
For if Love blows the bellows, our tough college fellows
Will thaw into rapture at each lovely dame.
There, too, sans apology, tea, tarts, tautology,
Are given with zoology, to grave and gay;
Thus fun and philosophy, supping and sophistry
Send all to England home, happy and gay.
* * * * *
From George Eliot, whose humor is seen at its best in "Adam Bede" and
"Silas Marner," how much we could quote! How some of her searching
comments cling to the memory!
"I've nothing to say again' her piety, my dear; but I know very well I
shouldn't like her to cook my victuals. When a man comes in hungry and
tired, piety won't feed him, I reckon. Hard carrots 'ull lie heavy on
his stomach, piety or no piety. I called in one day when she was dishin'
up Mr. Tryan's dinner, an' I could see the potatoes was as watery as
watery. It's right enough to be speritial, I'm no enemy to that, but I
like my potatoes mealy."
"You're right there, Tookey; there's allays two 'pinions: there's the
'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on
him. There'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell if the bell could hear
itself."
"You're mighty fond o' Craig; but for my part, I think he's welly like a
cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to hear him crow."
"When Mr. Brooke had something painful to tell it was usually his way to
introduce it among a number of disjointed particulars, as if it were a
medicine that would get a milder flavor by mixing."
"Heaven knows what would become of our sociality if we never visited
people we speak ill of; we should live like Egyptian hermits, in crowded
solitude."
"No, I ain't one to see the cat walking into the dairy and wonder what
she's come after."
"I have nothing to say again' Craig, on'y it is a pity he couldna be
hatched o'er again, and hatched different."
"I'm not denyin' the women are foolish; God Almighty made 'em to match
the men."
"It's a waste of time to praise people dead whom you maligned while
living; for it's but a poor harvest you'll get by watering last year's
crop."
"I suppose Dinah's like all the rest of the women, and thinks two and
two will come to make five, if she only cries and makes bother enough
about it."
"Put a good face on it and don't seem to be looking out for crows, else
you'll set other people to watchin' for 'em, too."
"I took pretty good care, before I said 'sniff,' to be sure she would
say 'snaff,' and pretty quick, too. I warn't a-goin' to open my mouth
like a dog at a fly, and snap it to again wi' nothin' to swaller."
CHAPTER III.
FROM ANNE BRADSTREET TO MRS. STOWE.
The same gratifying progress and improvement noticed in the wit of women
of other lands is seen in studying the literary annals of our own
countrywomen.
Think of Anne Bradstreet, Mercy Warren, and Tabitha Tenney, all extolled
to the skies by their contemporaries.
* * * * *
Mercy Warren was a satirist quite in the strain of Juvenal, but in
cumbrous, artificial fashion.
Hon. John Winthrop consulted her on the proposed suspension of trade
with England in all but the _necessaries_ of life, and she playfully
gives a list of articles that would be included in that word:
"An inventory clear
Of all she needs Lamira offers here;
Nor does she fear a rigid Cato's frown,
When she lays by the rich embroidered gown,
And modestly compounds for just enough,
Perhaps some dozens of mere flighty stuff;
With lawns and lute strings, blonde and Mechlin laces,
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer-cases;
Gay cloaks and hat, of every shape and size,
Scarfs, cardinals, and ribands, of all dyes,
With ruffles stamped and aprons of tambour,
Tippets and handkerchiefs, at least threescore;
With finest muslins that fair India boasts,
And the choice herbage from Chinesian coasts;
Add feathers, furs, rich satin, and ducapes,
And head-dresses in pyramidal shapes;
Sideboards of plate and porcelain profuse,
With fifty dittoes that the ladies use.
So weak Lamira and her wants so few
Who can refuse? they're but the sex's due."
* * * * *
Mrs. Sigourney, voluminous and mediocre, is amusing because so
absolutely destitute of humor, and her style, a feminine _Johnsonese_,
is absurdly hifalutin and strained.
This is the way in which she alludes to green apples:
"From the time of their first taking on orbicular shape, and when it
might be supposed their hardness and acidity would repulse all save
elephantine tusks and ostrich stomachs, they were the prey of roaming
children."
And in her poem "To a Shred of Linen":
"Methinks I scan
Some idiosyncrasy that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case."
She preserved, however, a long list of the various solicitations sent
her to furnish poems for special occasions, and I think this shows that
she possessed a sense of humor. Let me quote a few:
"Some verses were desired as an elegy on a pet canary accidentally
drowned in a barrel of swine's food.
"A poem requested on the dog-star Sirius.
"To write an ode for the wedding of people in Maine, of whom I had never
heard.
"To punctuate a three-volume novel for an author who complained that the
work of punctuating always brought on a pain in the small of his back.
"Asked to assist a servant-man not very well able to read in getting his
Sunday-school lessons, and to write out all the answers for him clear
through the book--to save his time.
"A lady whose husband expects to be absent on a journey for a month or
two wishes I would write a poem to testify her joy at his return.
"An elegy on a young man, one of the nine children of a judge of
probate."
* * * * *
Miss Sedgwick, in her letters, occasionally showed a keen sense of
humor, as, when speaking of a certain novel, she said:
"There is too much force for the subject. It is as if a railroad should
be built and a locomotive started to transport skeletons, specimens, and
one bird of Paradise."
* * * * *
Mrs. Caroline Gilman, born in 1794, and still living, author of
"Recollections of a Southern Matron," etc., will be represented by one
playful poem, which has a veritable New England flavor:
JOSHUA'S COURTSHIP.
A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.
Stout Joshua was a farmer's son,
And a pondering he sat
One night when the fagots crackling burned,
And purred the tabby cat.
Joshua was a well-grown youth,
As one might plainly see
By the sleeves that vainly tried to reach
His hands upon his knee.
His splay-feet stood all parrot-toed
In cowhide shoes arrayed,
And his hair seemed cut across his brow
By rule and plummet laid.
And what was Joshua pondering on,
With his widely staring eyes,
And his nostrils opening sensibly
To ease his frequent sighs?
Not often will a lover's lips
The tender secret tell,
But out he spoke before he thought,
"My gracious! Nancy Bell!"
His mother at her spinning-wheel,
Good woman, stood and spun,
"And what," says she, "is come o'er you,
Is't _airnest_ or is't fun?"
Then Joshua gave a cunning look,
Half bashful and half sporting,
"Now what did father do," says he,
"When first he came a courting?"
"Why, Josh, the first thing that he did,"
With a knowing wink, said she,
"He dressed up of a Sunday night,
And _cast sheep's eyes_ at me."
Josh said no more, but straight went out
And sought a butcher's pen,
Where twelve fat sheep, for market bound,
Had lately slaughtered been.
He bargained with a lover's zeal,
Obtained the wished-for prize,
And filled his pockets fore and aft
With twice twelve bloody eyes.
The next night was the happy time
When all New England sparks,
Drest in their best, go out to court,
As spruce and gay as larks.
When floors are nicely sanded o'er,
When tins and pewter shine,
And milk-pans by the kitchen wall
Display their dainty line;
While the new ribbon decks the waist
Of many a waiting lass,
Who steals a conscious look of pride
Toward her answering glass.
In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;
Of Joshua thought not she,
But of a hearty sailor lad
Across the distant sea.
Her arm upon the table rests,
Her hand supports her head,
When Joshua enters with a scrape,
And somewhat bashful tread.
No word he spake, but down he sat,
And heaved a doleful sigh,
Then at the table took his aim
And rolled a glassy eye.
Another and another flew,
With quick and strong rebound,
They tumbled in poor Nancy's lap,
They fell upon the ground.
While Joshua smirked, and sighed, and smiled
Between each tender aim,
And still the cold and bloody balls
In frightful quickness came.
Until poor Nancy flew with screams,
To shun the amorous sport,
And Joshua found to _cast sheep's eyes_
Was not the way to court.
* * * * *
"Fanny Forrester" and "Fanny Fern" both delighted the public with
individual styles of writing, vastly successful when a new thing.
When wanting a new dress and bonnet, as every woman will in the spring
(or any time), Fanny Forrester wrote to Willis, of the _New Mirror_, an
appeal which he called "very clever, adroit, and fanciful."
"You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this season.
_Such_ beautiful things! Well, you know (no, you don't know
that, but you can guess) what a delightful thing it would be to
appear in one of those charming, head-adorning,
complexion-softening, hard-feature-subduing Neapolitans, with a
little gossamer veil dropping daintily on the shoulder of one of
those exquisite _balzarines_, to be seen any day at Stewart's
and elsewhere. Well, you know (this you _must_ know) that
shopkeepers have the impertinence to demand a trifling exchange
for these things, even of a lady; and also that some people have
a remarkably small purse, and a remarkably small portion of the
yellow "root" in that. And now, to bring the matter home, I am
one of that class. I have the most beautiful little purse in the
world, but it is only kept for show. I even find myself under
the necessity of counterfeiting--that is, filling the void with
tissue-paper in lieu of bank-notes, preparatory to a shopping
expedition. Well, now to the point. As Bel and I snuggled down
on the sofa this morning to read the _New Mirror_ (by the way,
Cousin Bel is never obliged to put tissue-paper in her purse),
it struck us that you would be a friend in need, and give good
counsel in this emergency. Bel, however, insisted on my not
telling what I wanted the money for. She even thought that I had
better intimate orphanage, extreme suffering from the bursting
of some speculative bubble, illness, etc.; but did I not know
you better? Have I read the _New Mirror_ so much (to say nothing
of the graceful things coined under a bridge, and a thousand
other pages flung from the inner heart) and not learned who has
an eye for everything pretty? Not so stupid, Cousin Bel, no,
no!...
"And to the point. Maybe you of the _New Mirror_ PAY for
acceptable articles, maybe not. _Comprenez vous?_ Oh, I do hope
that beautiful _balzarine_ like Bel's will not be gone before
another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the next
_Mirror_; but pray, my dear Editor, let it be done very
cautiously, for Bel would pout all day if she should know what I
have written.
"Till Saturday, your anxiously-waiting friend,
"FANNY FORRESTER."
Such a note received by an editor of this generation would promptly fall
into the waste-basket. But Willis was captivated, and answered:
"Well, we give in! On _condition_ that you are under twenty-five and
that you will wear a rose (recognizably) in your bodice the first time
you appear in Broadway with the hat and _balzarine_, we will pay the
bills. Write us thereafter a sketch of Bel and yourself as cleverly done
as this letter, and you may 'snuggle' down on the sofa and consider us
paid, and the public charmed with you."
This style of ingratiating one's self with an editor is as much a bygone
as an alliterative pen-name.
* * * * *
Fanny Fern (Sarah Willis Parton) also established a style of her own--"a
new kind of composition; short, pointed paragraphs, without beginning
and without end--one clear, ringing note, and then silence."
Her talent for humorous composition showed itself in her essays at
school. I'll give a bit from her "Suggestions on Arithmetic after
Cramming for an Examination":
"Every incident, every object of sight seemed to produce an arithmetical
result. I once saw a poor wretch evidently intoxicated; thought I, 'That
man has overcome three scruples, to say the least, for three scruples
make one dram.' Even the Sabbath was no day of rest for me--the psalms,
prayers, and sermons were all translated by me into the language of
arithmetic. A good man spoke very feelingly upon the manner in which our
cares and perplexities were multiplied by riches. Muttered I: 'That,
sir, depends upon whether the multiplier is a fraction or a whole
number; for if it be a fraction, it makes the product less.' And when
another, lamenting the various divisions of the Church, pathetically
exclaimed: 'And how shall we unite these several denominations in one?'
"'Why, reduce them to a common denominator,' exclaimed I, half aloud,
wondering at his ignorance.
"And when an admiring swain protested his warm 'interest,' he brought
only one word that chimed with my train of thought.
"'Interest?' exclaimed I, starting from my reverie. 'What per cent,
sir?'
"'Ma'am?' exclaimed my attendant, in the greatest possible amazement.
"'How much per cent, sir?' said I, repeating my question.
"His reply was lost on my ear save: 'Madam, at any rate do not trifle
with my feelings.'
"'At any rate, did you say? Then take six per cent; that is the easiest
to calculate.'"
Her style, too, has gone out of fashion; but in its day it was thought
very amusing.
* * * * *
Mrs. Stowe needs no introduction, and she is another of those from whom
we quote little, because she could contribute so much, and one does not
know where to choose. Her "Sam Lawson" is, perhaps, the most familiar of
her odd characters and talkers.
SAM LAWSON'S SAYINGS.
"Well, Sam, what did you think of the sermon?" said Uncle Bill.
"Well," said Sam, leaning over the fire with his long, bony hands
alternately raised to catch the warmth, and then dropped with an utter
laxness when the warmth became too pronounced, "Parson Simpson's a smart
man; but I tell ye, it's kind o' discouragin'. Why, he said our state
and condition by natur war just like this: We war clear down in a well
fifty feet deep, and the sides all round nothin' but glare ice; but we
war under immediate obligations to get out, 'cause we war free,
voluntary agents. But nobody ever had got out, and nobody would, unless
the Lord reached down and took 'em. And whether he would or not nobody
could tell; it was all sovereignty. He said there warn't one in a
hundred, not one in a thousand, not one in ten thousand, that would be
saved. 'Lordy massy,' says I to myself, 'ef that's so they're any of 'em
welcome to my chance.' And so I kind o' ris up and come out, 'cause I'd
got a pretty long walk home, and I wanted to go round by South Pond and
inquire about Aunt Sally Morse's toothache."...
"This 'ere Miss Sphyxy Smith's a rich old gal, and 'mazin' smart to
work," he began. "Tell you, she holds all she gets. Old Sol, he told me
a story 'bout her that was a pretty good un."
"What was it?" said my grandmother.
"Wal, ye see, you 'member old Parson Jeduthun Kendall that lives up in
Stonytown; he lost his wife a year ago last Thanksgivin', and he thought
'twar about time he hed another; so he comes down and consults our
Parson Lothrop. Says he: 'I want a good, smart, neat, economical woman,
with a good property. I don't care nothin' about her bein' handsome. In
fact, I ain't particular about anything else,' says he. Wal, Parson
Lothrop, says he: 'I think, if that's the case, I know jest the woman to
suit ye. She owns a clear, handsome property, and she's neat and
economical; but she's no beauty!' 'Oh, beauty is nothin' to me,' says
Parson Kendall; and so he took the direction. Wal, one day he hitched up
his old one-hoss shay, and kind o' brushed up, and started off
a-courtin'. Wal, the parson come to the house, and he war tickled to
pieces with the looks o' things outside, 'cause the house is all well
shingled and painted, and there ain't a picket loose nor a nail wantin'
nowhere.
"'This 'ere's the woman for me,' says Parson Kendall. So he goes up and
raps hard on the front door with his whip-handle. Wal, you see, Miss
Sphyxy she war jest goin' out to help get in her hay. She had on a pair
o' clompin' cowhide boots, and a pitchfork in her hand, jest goin' out,
when she heard the rap. So she come jest as she was to the front door.
Now, you know Parson Kendall's a little midget of a man, but he stood
there on the step kind o' smilin' and genteel, lickin' his lips and
lookin' _so_ agreeable! Wal, the front door kind o' stuck--front doors
generally do, ye know, 'cause they ain't opened very often--and Miss
Sphyxy she had to pull and haul and put to all her strength, and finally
it come open with a bang, and she 'peared to the parson, pitchfork and
all, sort o' frownin' like.
"'What do you want?' says she; for, you see, Miss Sphyxy ain't no ways
tender to the men.
"'I want to see Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says he, very civil, thinking she
war the hired gal.
"'I'm Miss Asphyxia Smith,' says she. 'What do you want o' me?'
"Parson Kendall he jest took one good look on her, from top to toe.
'NOTHIN',' says he, and turned right round and went down the steps like
lightnin'."
* * * * *
Years ago Mrs. Stowe published some capital stories of New England life,
which were collected in a little volume called "The Mayflower," a book
which is now seldom seen, and almost unknown to the present generation.
From this I take her "Night in a Canal-Boat." Extremely effective when
read with enthusiasm and proper variety of tone. I quote it as a boon
for the boys and girls who are often looking for something "funny" to
read aloud.
THE CANAL-BOAT.
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
Of all the ways of travelling which obtain among our locomotive nation,
this said vehicle, the canal-boat, is the most absolutely prosaic and
inglorious. There is something picturesque, nay, almost sublime, in the
lordly march of your well-built, high-bred steamboat. Go take your stand
on some overhanging bluff, where the blue Ohio winds its thread of
silver, or the sturdy Mississippi tears its path through unbroken
forests, and it will do your heart good to see the gallant boat walking
the waters with unbroken and powerful tread, and, like some fabled
monster of the wave, breathing fire and making the shores resound with
its deep respirations. Then there is something mysterious--even
awful--in the power of steam. See it curling up against a blue sky some
rosy morning, graceful, floating, intangible, and to all appearance the
softest and gentlest of all spiritual things, and then think that it is
this fairy spirit that keeps all the world alive and hot with motion;
think how excellent a servant it is, doing all sorts of gigantic works,
like the genii of old; and yet, if you let slip the talisman only for a
moment, what terrible advantage it will take of you! and you will
confess that steam has some claims both to the beautiful and the
terrible! For our own part, when we are down among the machinery of a
steamboat in full play, we conduct ourselves very reverently, for we
consider it as a very serious neighborhood, and every time the steam
whizzes with such red-hot determination from the escape-valve, we start
as if some of the spirits were after us. But in a canal-boat there is no
power, no mystery, no danger; one cannot blow up, one cannot be
drowned--unless by some special effort; one sees clearly all there is in
the case--a horse, a rope, and a muddy strip of water--and that is all.
Did you ever try it, reader? If not, take an imaginary trip with us,
just for experiment. "There's the boat!" exclaims a passenger in the
omnibus, as we are rolling down from the Pittsburg Mansion House to the
canal. "Where?" exclaim a dozen of voices, and forthwith a dozen heads
go out of the window. "Why, down there, under that bridge; don't you see
those lights?" "What, that little thing!" exclaims an inexperienced
traveller; "dear me! we can't half of us get into it!" "We! indeed,"
says some old hand in the business; "I think you'll find it will hold us
and a dozen more loads like us." "Impossible!" say some. "You'll see,"
say the initiated; and as soon as you get out you _do_ see, and hear,
too, what seems like a general breaking loose from the Tower of Babel,
amid a perfect hail-storm of trunks, boxes, valises, carpet-bags, and
every describable and indescribable form of what a Westerner calls
"plunder."
"That's my trunk!" barks out a big, round man. "That's my bandbox!"
screams a heart-stricken old lady, in terror for her immaculate Sunday
caps. "Where's my little red box? I had two carpet-bags and a--My trunk
had a scarle--Halloo! where are you going with that portmanteau?
Husband! Husband! do see after the large basket and the little
hair-trunk--Oh, and the baby's little chair!" "Go below, go below, for
mercy's sake, my dear; I'll see to the baggage." At last the feminine
part of creation, perceiving that, in this particular instance, they
gain nothing by public speaking, are content to be led quietly under
hatches; and amusing is the look of dismay which each new-comer gives to
the confined quarters that present themselves. Those who were so
ignorant of the power of compression as to suppose the boat scarce large
enough to contain them and theirs, find, with dismay, a respectable
colony of old ladies, babies, mothers, big baskets, and carpet-bags
already established. "Mercy on us!" says one, after surveying the little
room, about ten feet long and six feet high, "where are we all to sleep
to-night?" "Oh, me, what a sight of children!" says a young lady, in a
despairing tone. "Pooh!" says an initiated traveller, "children! scarce
any here; let's see: one; the woman in the corner, two; that child with
the bread and butter, three; and then there's that other woman with two.
Really, it's quite moderate for a canal-boat. However, we can't tell
till they have all come."
"All! for mercy's sake, you don't say there are any more coming!"
exclaim two or three in a breath; "they _can't_ come; _there is not
room_!"
Notwithstanding the impressive utterance of this sentence the contrary
is immediately demonstrated by the appearance of a very corpulent
elderly lady with three well-grown daughters, who come down looking
about them most complacently, entirely regardless of the unchristian
looks of the company. What a mercy it is that fat people are always
good-natured!
After this follows an indiscriminate raining down of all shapes, sizes,
sexes, and ages--men, women, children, babies, and nurses. The state of
feeling becomes perfectly desperate. Darkness gathers on all faces. "We
shall be smothered! we shall be crowded to death! we _can't stay_ here!"
are heard faintly from one and another; and yet, though the boat grows
no wider, the walls no higher, they do live, and do stay there, in spite
of repeated protestations to the contrary. Truly, as Sam Slick says,
"there's a _sight of wear_ in human natur'!"
But meanwhile the children grow sleepy, and divers interesting little
duets and trios arise from one part or another of the cabin.
"Hush, Johnny! be a good boy," says a pale, nursing mamma, to a great,
bristling, white-headed phenomenon, who is kicking very much at large in
her lap.
"I won't be a good boy, neither," responds Johnny, with interesting
explicitness; "I want to go to bed, and so-o-o-o!" and Johnny makes up a
mouth as big as a tea-cup, and roars with good courage, and his mamma
asks him "if he ever saw pa do so," and tells him that "he is mamma's
dear, good little boy, and must not make a noise," with various
observations of the kind, which are so strikingly efficacious in such
cases. Meanwhile the domestic concert in other quarters proceeds with
vigor. "Mamma, I'm tired!" bawls a child. "Where's the baby's
nightgown?" calls a nurse. "Do take Peter up in your lap, and keep him
still." "Pray get out some biscuits to stop their mouths." Meanwhile
sundry babies strike in _con spirito_, as the music-books have it, and
execute various flourishes; the disconsolate mothers sigh, and look as
if all was over with them; and the young ladies appear extremely
disgusted, and wonder "what business women have to be travelling round
with children."
To these troubles succeeds the turning-out scene, when the whole caravan
is ejected into the gentlemen's cabin, that the beds may be made. The
red curtains are put down, and in solemn silence all the last mysterious
preparations begin. At length it is announced that all is ready.
Forthwith the whole company rush back, and find the walls embellished by
a series of little shelves, about a foot wide, each furnished with a
mattress and bedding, and hooked to the ceiling by a very suspiciously
slender cord. Direful are the ruminations and exclamations of
inexperienced travellers, particularly young ones, as they eye these
very equivocal accommodations. "What, sleep up there! _I_ won't sleep on
one of those top shelves, _I_ know. The cords will certainly break." The
chambermaid here takes up the conversation, and solemnly assures them
that such an accident is not to be thought of at all; that it is a
natural impossibility--a thing that could not happen without an actual
miracle; and since it becomes increasingly evident that thirty ladies
cannot all sleep on the lowest shelf, there is some effort made to
exercise faith in this doctrine; nevertheless all look on their
neighbors with fear and trembling; and when the stout lady talks of
taking a shelf, she is most urgently pressed to change places with her
alarmed neighbor below. Points of location being after a while adjusted,
comes the last struggle. Everybody wants to take off a bonnet, or look
for a shawl, to find a cloak, or get a carpet-bag, and all set about it
with such zeal that nothing can be done. "Ma'am, you're on my foot!"
says one. "Will you please to move, ma'am?" says somebody, who is
gasping and struggling behind you. "Move!" you echo. "Indeed, I should
be very glad to, but I don't see much prospect of it." "Chambermaid!"
calls a lady who is struggling among a heap of carpet-bags and children
at one end of the cabin. "Ma'am!" echoes the poor chambermaid, who is
wedged fast in a similar situation at the other. "Where's my cloak,
chambermaid?" "I'd find it, ma'am, if I could move." "Chambermaid, my
basket!" "Chambermaid, my parasol!" "Chambermaid, my carpet-bag!"
"Mamma, they push me so!" "Hush, child; crawl under there and lie still
till I can undress you." At last, however, the various distresses are
over, the babies sink to sleep, and even that much-enduring being, the
chambermaid, seeks out some corner for repose. Tired and drowsy, you are
just sinking into a doze, when bang! goes the boat against the sides of
a lock; ropes scrape, men run and shout; and up fly the heads of all the
top-shelfites, who are generally the more juvenile and airy part of the
company.
"What's that! what's that!" flies from mouth to mouth; and forthwith
they proceed to awaken their respective relations. "Mother! Aunt Hannah!
do wake up; what is this awful noise?" "Oh, only a lock." "Pray, be
still," groan out the sleepy members from below.
"A lock!" exclaim the vivacious creatures, ever on the alert for
information; "and what _is_ a lock, pray?"
"Don't you know what a lock is, you silly creatures. Do lie down and go
to sleep."
"But say, there ain't any _danger_ in a lock, is there?" respond the
querists. "Danger!" exclaims a deaf old lady, poking up her head.
"What's the matter? There hain't nothing burst, has there?" "No, no,
no!" exclaim the provoked and despairing opposition party, who find that
there is no such thing as going to sleep till they have made the old
lady below and the young ladies above understand exactly the philosophy
of a lock. After a while the conversation again subsides; again all is
still; you hear only the trampling of horses and the rippling of the
rope in the water, and sleep again is stealing over you. You doze, you
dream, and all of a sudden you are startled by a cry, "Chambermaid! wake
up the lady that wants to be set ashore." Up jumps chambermaid, and up
jump the lady and two children, and forthwith form a committee of
inquiry as to ways and means. "Where's my bonnet?" says the lady, half
awake and fumbling among the various articles of that name. "I thought I
hung it up behind the door." "Can't you find it?" says the poor
chambermaid, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Oh, yes, here it is," says
the lady; and then the cloak, the shawl, the gloves, the shoes, receive
each a separate discussion. At last all seems ready, and they begin to
move off, when lo! Peter's cap is missing. "Now, where can it be?"
soliloquizes the lady. "I put it right here by the table-leg; maybe it
got into some of the berths." At this suggestion the chambermaid takes
the candle, and goes round deliberately to every berth, poking the light
directly in the face of every sleeper. "Here it is," she exclaims,
pulling at something black under one pillow. "No, indeed, those are my
shoes," says the vexed sleeper. "Maybe it's here," she resumes, darting
upon something dark in another berth. "No, that's my bag," responds the
occupant. The chambermaid then proceeds to turn over all the children on
the floor, to see if it is not under them. In the course of which
process they are most agreeably waked up and enlivened; and when
everybody is broad awake, and most uncharitably wishing the cap, and
Peter too, at the bottom of the canal, the good lady exclaims, "Well, if
this isn't lucky; here I had it safe in my basket all the time!" And she
departed amid the--what shall I say? execrations!--of the whole company,
ladies though they be.
Well, after this follows a hushing up and wiping up among the juvenile
population, and a series of remarks commences from the various shelves
of a very edifying and instructive tendency. One says that the woman did
not seem to know where anything was; another says that she has waked
them all up; a third adds that she has waked up all the children, too;
and the elderly ladies make moral reflections on the importance of
putting your things where you can find them--being always ready; which
observations, being delivered in an exceedingly doleful and drowsy tone,
form a sort of sub-bass to the lively chattering of the upper-shelfites,
who declare that they feel quite awake--that they don't think they shall
go to sleep again to-night, and discourse over everything in creation,
until you heartily wish you were enough related to them to give them a
scolding.
At last, however, voice after voice drops off; you fall into a most
refreshing slumber; it seems to you that you sleep about a quarter of an
hour, when the chambermaid pulls you by the sleeve. "Will you please to
get up, ma'am? We want to make the beds." You start and stare. Sure
enough, the night is gone. So much for sleeping on board canal-boats!
Let us not enumerate the manifold perplexities of the morning toilet in
a place where every lady realizes most forcibly the condition of the old
woman who lived under a broom: "All she wanted was elbow-room." Let us
not tell how one glass is made to answer for thirty fair faces, one ewer
and vase for thirty lavations; and--tell it not in Gath--one towel for a
company! Let us not intimate how ladies' shoes have, in a night,
clandestinely slid into the gentlemen's cabin, and gentlemen's boots
elbowed, or, rather, _toed_ their way among ladies' gear, nor recite the
exclamations after runaway property that are heard.
"I can't find nothing of Johnny's shoe!" "Here's a shoe in the
water-pitcher--is this it?" "My side-combs are gone!" exclaims a nymph
with dishevelled curls. "Massy! do look at my bonnet!" exclaims an old
lady, elevating an article crushed into as many angles as there are
pieces in a mince-pie. "I never did sleep _so much together_ in my
life," echoes a poor little French lady, whom despair has driven into
talking English.
But our shortening paper warns us not to prolong our catalogue of
distresses beyond reasonable bounds, and therefore we will close with
advising all our friends, who intend to try this way of travelling for
_pleasure_, to take a good stock both of patience and clean towels with
them, for we think that they will find abundant need for both.
CHAPTER IV.
"SAMPLES" HERE AND THERE.
Next comes Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland with her Western sketches. Many
will remember her laughable description of "Borrowing Out West," with
its two appropriate mottoes: "Lend me your ears," from Shakespeare, and
from Bacon: "Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely."
"'Mother wants your sifter,' said Miss Ianthe Howard, a young lady of
six years' standing, attired in a tattered calico thickened with dirt;
her unkempt locks straggling from under that hideous substitute for a
bonnet so universal in the Western country--a dirty cotton
handkerchief--which is used _ad nauseam_ for all sorts of purposes.
"'Mother wants your sifter, and she says she guesses you can let her
have some sugar and tea, 'cause you've got plenty.' This excellent
reason, ''cause you've got plenty,' is conclusive as to sharing with
neighbors.
"Sieves, smoothing-irons, and churns run about as if they had legs; one
brass kettle is enough for a whole neighborhood, and I could point to a
cradle which has rocked half the babies in Montacute.
"For my own part, I have lent my broom, my thread, my tape, my spoons,
my cat, my thimble, my scissors, my shawl, my shoes, and have been asked
for my combs and brushes, and my husband for his shaving apparatus and
pantaloons."
Mrs. Whither, whose "Widow Bedott" is a familiar name, resembles Mrs.
Kirkland in her comic portraitures, which were especially good of their
kind, and never betrayed any malice. The "Bedott Papers" first appeared
in 1846, and became popular at once. They are good examples of what they
simply profess to be: an amusing series of comicalities.
I shall not quote from them, as every one who enjoys that style of humor
knows them by heart. It would be as useless as copying "Now I lay me
down to sleep," or "Mary had a little lamb," for a child's collection of
verses!
* * * * *
There are many authors whom I cannot represent worthily in these brief
limits. When, encouraged by the unprecedented popularity of this
venture, I prepare an encyclopaedia of the "Wit and Humor of American
Women," I can do justice to such writers as "Gail Hamilton" and Miss
Alcott, whose "Transcendental Wild Oats" cannot be cut. Rose Terry Cooke
thinks her "Knoware" the only funny thing she has ever done. She is
greatly mistaken, as I can soon prove. "Knoware" ought to be printed by
itself to delight thousands, as her "Deacon's Week" has already done. To
search for a few good things in the works of my witty friends is
searching not for the time-honored needle in a hay-mow, but for two or
three needles of just the right size out of a whole paper of needles.
"The Insanity of Cain," by Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, an inimitable satire
on the feebleness of our jury system and the absurd pretence of
"temporary insanity," must wait for that encyclopaedia. And her "Miss
Molony on the Chinese Question" is known and admired by every one,
including the Prince of Wales, who was fairly convulsed by its fun, when
brought out by our favorite elocutionist, Miss Sarah Cowell, who had the
honor of reading before royalty.
I regretfully omit the "Peterkin Letters," by Lucretia P. Hale, and time
famous "William Henry Letters," by Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz. The very best
bit from Miss Sallie McLean would be how "Grandma Spicer gets Grandpa
Ready for Sunday-school," from the "Cape Cod Folks;" but why not save
space for what is not in everybody's mouth and memory? This is equally
true of Mrs. Cleaveland's "No Sects in Heaven," which, like Arabella
Wilson's "Sextant," goes the rounds of all the papers every other year
as a fresh delight.
Marietta Holley, too, must be allowed only a brief quotation. "Samantha"
is a family friend from Mexico to Alaska. Mrs. Metta Victoria Victor,
who died recently, has written an immense amount of humorous sketches.
Her "Miss Slimmens," the boarding-house keeper, is a marked character,
and will be remembered by many.
I will select a few "samples," unsatisfactory because there is so much
more just as good, and then give room for others less familiar.
MISS LUCINDA'S PIG.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
"You don't know of any poor person who'd like to have a pig, do you?"
said Miss Lucinda, wistfully.
"Well, the poorer they was, the quicker they'd eat him up, I guess--ef
they could eat such a razor-back."
"Oh, I don't like to think of his being eaten! I wish he could be got
rid of some other way. Don't you think he might be killed in his sleep,
Israel?"
"I think it's likely it would wake him up," said he, demurely. "Killin'
's killin', and a critter can't sleep over it 's though 'twas the
stomachache. I guess he'd kick some, ef he _was_ asleep--and screech
some, too!"
"Dear me!" said Miss Lucinda, horrified at the idea. "I wish he could be
sent out to run in the woods. Are there any good woods near here,
Israel?"
"I don't know but what he'd as lieves be slartered to once as to starve
an' be hunted down out in the lots. Besides, there ain't nobody as I
knows of would like a hog to be a-rootin' round among their turnips and
young wheat."
"Well, what I shall do with him I don't know!" despairingly exclaimed
Miss Lucinda. "He was such a dear little thing when you bought him,
Israel! Do you remember how pink his pretty little nose was--just like a
rosebud--and how bright his eyes were, and his cunning legs? And now
he's grown so big and fierce! But I can't help liking him, either."
"He's a cute critter, that's sartain; but he does too much rootin' to
have a pink nose now, I expect; there's consider'ble on 't, so I guess
it looks as well to have it gray. But I don't know no more'n you do what
to do abaout it."
"If I could only get rid of him without knowing what became of him!"
exclaimed Miss Lucinda, squeezing her forefinger with great earnestness,
and looking both puzzled and pained.
"If Mees Lucinda would pairmit?" said a voice behind her.
She turned round to see Monsieur Leclerc on his crutches, just in the
parlor-door.
"I shall, mees, myself dispose of piggie, if it please. I can. I shall
have no sound; he shall to go away like a silent snow, to trouble you no
more, never!"
"Oh, sir, if you could! But I don't see how!"
"If mees was to see, it would not be to save her pain. I shall have him
to go by _magique_ to fiery land."
Fairy-land, probably. But Miss Lucinda did not perceive the _equivoque_.
"Nor yet shall I trouble Meester Israyel. I shall have the aid of myself
and one good friend that I have; and some night, when you rise of the
morning, he shall not be there."
Miss Lucinda breathed a deep sigh of relief.
"I am greatly obliged--I mean, I shall be," said she.
"Well, I'm glad enough to wash my hands on 't," said Israel. "I shall
hanker arter the critter some, but he's a-gettin' too big to be handy;
'n it's one comfort about critters, you ken git rid on 'em somehaow when
they're more plague than profit. But folks has got to be let alone,
excep' the Lord takes 'em; an' He generally don't see fit."--_From
Somebody's Neighbors._
A GIFT HORSE.
BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.
"Well, he no need to ha' done it, Sary. I've told him more'n four times
he hadn't ought to pull a gun tow'rds him by the muzzle on't. Now he's
up an' did it once for all."
"He won't never have no chance to do it again, Scotty, if you don't
hurry up after the doctor," said Sary, wiping her eyes on her dirty
calico apron, thereby adding an effective shadow under their redness.
"Well, I'm a-goin', ain't I? But ye know yerself 'twon't do to go so fur
on eend, 'thout ye're vittled consider'ble well."
So saying, he fell to at the meal she had interrupted, hot potatoes,
cold pork, dried venison, and blueberry pie vanishing down his throat
with an alacrity and dispatch that augured well for the thorough
"vittling" he intended, while Sary went about folding chunks of boiled
ham, thick slices of brown bread, solid rounds of "sody biskit," and
slab-sided turnovers in a newspaper, filling a flat bottle with whiskey,
and now and then casting a look at the low bed where young Harry
McAlister lay, very much whiter than the sheets about him, and quite as
unconscious of surroundings, the blood oozing slowly through such
bandages as Scott Peck's rude surgery had twisted about a gunshot-wound
in his thigh, and brought to close tension by a stick thrust through the
folds, turned as tight as could be borne, and strapped into place by a
bit of coarse twine.
It was a long journey paddling up the Racquette River, across creek and
carry, with the boat on his back, to the lakes, and then from Martin's
to "Harri'tstown," where he knew a surgeon of repute from a great city
was spending his vacation. It was touch-and-go with Harry before Scott
and Dr. Drake got back. Sary had dosed him with venison-broth, hot and
greasy, weak whiskey and water, and a little milk (only a little), for
their cow was old and pastured chiefly on leaves and twigs, and she only
came back to the shanty when she liked or needed to come, so their milk
supply was uncertain, and Sary dared not leave her patient long enough
to row to the end of Tupper's Lake, where the nearest cow was kept. But
youth has a power of recovery that defies circumstance, and Dr. Drake
was very skilful. Long weeks went by, and the green woods of July had
brightened and faded into October's dim splendor before Harry McAlister
could be carried up the river and over to Bartlett's, where his mother
had been called to meet him. She was a widow, and he her only child;
and, though she was rather silly and altogether unpractical, she had a
tender, generous heart, and was ready to do anything possible for Scott
and Sarah Peck to show her gratitude for their kindness to her boy. She
did not consult Harry at all. He had lost much blood from his accident
and recovered strength slowly. She kept everything like thought or
trouble out of his way as far as she could, and when the family
physician found her heart was set on taking him to Florida for the
winter, because he looked pale and her grandmother's aunt had died of
consumption, Dr. Peet, like a wise man, rubbed his hands together,
bowed, and assured her it would be the very thing. But something must be
done for the Pecks before she went away. It occurred to her how
difficult it must be for them to row everywhere in a small boat. A horse
would be much better. Even if the roads were not good they could ride,
Sarah behind Scott. And so useful in farming, too. Her mind was made up
at once. She dispatched a check for three hundred dollars to Peter Haas,
her old coachman, who had bought a farm in Vermont with his savings, and
retired, with the cook for his wife, into the private life of a farmer.
Mrs. McAlister had much faith in Peter's knowledge of horses and his
honesty. She wrote him to buy a strong, steady animal, and convey it to
Scott Peck, either sending him word to come up to Bartlett's after it,
or taking it down the river; but, at any rate, to make sure he had it.
If the check would not pay all expenses, he was to draw on her for more.
Peter took the opportunity to get rid of a horse he had no use for in
winter; a beast restive as a racer when not in daily use, but strong
enough for any work, and steady enough if he had work. Two hundred and
fifty dollars was the price now set on his head, though Peter had bought
him for seventy-five, and thought him dear at that. The remaining fifty
was ample for expenses; but Peter was a prudent German and liked a
margin. There was no difficulty in getting the horse as far as Martin's,
and by dint of patient insistence Peter contrived to have him conveyed
to Bartlett's; but here he rested and sent a messenger down to Scott
Peck, while he himself returned to Bridget at the farm, slowly cursing
the country and the people as he went his way, for his delays and
troubles had been numerous.
"Gosh!" said Scott Peck, when he stepped up to the log-house that served
for the guides, unknowing what awaited him, for the messenger had not
found him at home, but left word he was to come to Bartlett's for
something, and the first thing he saw was this gray horse.
"What fool fetched his hoss up here?"
The guides gathered about the door of their hut, burst into a loud
cackle of laughter; even the beautiful hounds in their rough kennel
leaped up and bayed.
"W-a-a-l;" drawled lazy Joe Tucker, "the feller 't owns him ain't
nobody's fool. Be ye, Scotty?"
"Wha-t!" ejaculated Scott.
"It's your'n, man, sure as shootin'!" laughed Hearty Jack, Joe Tucker's
brother.
"Mine? Jehoshaphat! Blaze that air track, will ye? I'm lost, sure."
"Well, Bartlett's gone out Keeseville way, so't kinder was lef' to me to
tell ye. 'Member that ar chap that shot hisself in the leg down to your
shanty this summer?"
"Well, I expect I do, seein' I ain't more'n a hundred year old,"
sarcastically answered Scott.
"He's cleared out South-aways some'eres, and his ma consaited she was
dredful obleeged to ye; 'n I'm blessed if she didn't send an old Dutch
feller up here fur to fetch ye that hoss fur a present. He couldn't
noways wait to see ye pus'nally, he sed, fur he mistrusted the' was
snows here sometimes 'bout this season. Ho! ho! ho!"
"Good land!" said Scott, sitting down on a log, and putting his hands in
his pockets, the image of perplexity, while the men about him roared
with fresh laughter. "What be I a-goin' to do with the critter?" he
asked of the crowd.
"Blessed if I know," answered Hearty Jack.
"Can't ye get him out to 'Sable Falls or Keeseville 'n sell him fur what
he'll fetch?" suggested Joe Tucker.
"I can't go now, noways. Sary's wood-pile's nigh gin out, 'n there was a
mighty big sundog yesterday; 'nd moreover I smell snow. It'll be suthin'
to git hum as 'tis. Mabbe Bartlett'll keep him a spell."
"No, he won't; you kin bet your head. His fodder's a-runnin' short for
the hornid critters. He's bought some up to Martin's, that's a-comin'
down dyrect; but 'tain't enough. He's put to't for more. Shouldn't
wonder ef he had to draw from North Elby when sleddin' sets in."
"Well, I dono's there's but one thing for to do; fetch him hum somehow
or 'nother; 'nd there's my boat over to the carry!"
"You'd better tie the critter on behind an' let him wade down the
Racket!"
Another shout of laughter greeted this proposal.
"I s'all take ze boat for you!" quietly said a little brown
Canadian--Jean Poiton. "I am go to Tupper to-morrow. I have one hunt to
make. I can take her."
"Well said, Gene. I'll owe you a turn. But, fur all, how be I goin' to
get that animile 'long the trail?"
"I dono!" answered Joe Tucker. "I expect, if it's got to be did, you'll
fetch it somehow. But I'm mighty glad 'tain't my job!"
Scott Peck thought Joe had good reason for joy in that direction before
he had gone a mile on his homeward way! The trail was only a trail,
rough, devious, crossed with roots of trees, brushed with boughs of fir
and pine, and the horse was restive and unruly. By nightfall he had gone
only a few miles, and when he had tied the beast to a tree and covered
him with a blanket brought from Bartlett's for the purpose, and strapped
on his own back all the way, the light of the camp-fire startled the
horse so that Scott was forced to blind him with a comforter before he
would stand still. Then in the middle of the night, a great owl hooting
from the tree-top just above him was a fresh scare, and but that the
strap and rope both were new and strong he would have escaped. Scott
listened to his rearing, trampling, snorts, and wild neigh with the
composure of a sleepy man; but when he awoke at daylight, and found
four inches of snow had fallen during the night, he swore.
This was too much. Even to his practised woodcraft it seemed impossible
to get the horse safe to his clearing without harm. It was only by dint
of the utmost care and patience, the greatest watchfulness of the way,
that he got along at all. Every rod or two he stumbled, and all but fell
himself. Here and there a loaded hemlock bough, weighed out of its
uprightness by the wet snow, snapped in his face and blinded him with
its damp burden; and he knew long before nightfall that another night in
the woods was inevitable. He could feed the horse on young twigs of
beech and birch; fresh moss, and new-peeled bark (fodder the animal
would have resented with scorn under any other conditions); but hunger
has no law concerning food. Scott himself was famished; but his pipe and
tobacco were a refuge whose value he knew before, and his charge was
tired enough to be quiet this second night; so the man had an
undisturbed sleep by his comfortable fire. It was full noon of the next
day when he reached his cabin. Jean Poiton had tied his boat to its
stake, and gone on without stopping to speak to Sarah; so her surprise
was wonderful when she saw Scott emerge from the forest, leading a gray
creature, with drooping head and shambling gait, tired and dispirited.
"Heaven's to Betsey, Scott Peck! What hev you got theer?"
"The devil!" growled Scott.
Sary screamed.
"Do hold your jaw, gal, an' git me su'thin' hot to eat 'n drink. I'm
savager'n an Injin. Come, git along." And, tying his horse to a stump,
the hungry man followed Sarah into the house and helped himself out of
a keg in the corner to a long, reviving draught.
"Du tell!" said Sarah, when the pork began to frizzle in the pan. "What
upon airth did you buy a hoss for?" (She had discovered it was a horse.)
"Buy it! I guess not. I ain't no such blamed fool as that comes to. That
feller you nussed up here a spell back, he up an' sent it roun' to
Bartlett's, for a present to me."
"Well! Did he think you was a-goin' to set up canawl long o' Racket?"
"I expect he calc'lated I'd go racin'," dryly answered Scott.
"But what be ye a-goin' to feed him with?" said Sary, laying venison
steaks into the pan.
"Lord knows! I don't. Shut up, Sary! I'm tuckered out with the beast.
I'd ruther still-hunt three weeks on eend than fetch him in from
Sar'nac, now I tell ye. Ain't them did enough? I could eat a raw bear."
Sary laughed and asked no more questions till the ravenous man had
satisfied himself with the savory food; but, if she had asked them,
Scott would have had no answer, for his mind was perplexed to the last
degree. He fed the beast for a while on potatoes; but that was taking
the bread out of his own mouth, though he supplemented it with now and
then a boat-load of coarse, frost-killed grass, but the horse grew more
and more gaunt and restive. His eyes glared with hunger and fury. He
kicked out one side of the cowshed and snapped at Scott whenever he came
near him. Want of use and food had restored him to the original savagery
of his race. Hitherto Scott had never acknowledged Mrs McAlister's gift;
but Sary, who had a vague idea of good manners, caught from the picture
papers and occasional dime novels the tribe of Adirondack travellers
strew even in such a wilderness, kept pecking at him.
"Ta'n't no more'n civil to say thank ye, to the least," she said, till
Scott's temper gave way.
"Stop a-pesterin' of me! I've hed too much. I ain't a speck thankful!
I'm mightily t'other thing, whatever 'tis. Write to her yourself, if
you're a mind tu. You can make a better fist at it, anyways. Comes as
nateral to women to lie as sap to run. I'll be etarnally blessed ef I
touch paper for to do it." And he flung out of the door with a bang.
Of course Sary wrote the letter, which one balmy day electrified Harry
and his mother as they sat basking in Southern sunshine:
"MIS MACALLISTUR: This is fur to say wee is reel
obliged to ye fur the HOSS."
"Good gracious, mother! Did you send them a horse?" ejaculated Harry.
"Why, my dear, I wanted to show my sense of their kindness, and I could
not offer these people money. I thought a horse would be so useful!"
"Useful! in the Adirondack woods!" And Harry burst into a fit of
laughter that scarcely permitted his mother to go on; but at last she
proceeded:
"But Scotty and me ain't ackwainted So to speak with
Hoss ways; he seems kinder Hum-sick if you may say that
of a Cretur. We air etarnally gratified to You for sech
a Valewble Pressent, but if you was Wiling we shood
Like to swapp it of in spring fur a kow, ourn Being
some in years.
"yours to Command, SARY PECK."
But long before Mrs. McAlister's permission to "swap" the horse reached
Scott Peck, the creature took his destiny into his own hands. Scott had
gone away on a desperate errand, to fetch some sort of food for the poor
creature, whose bones stared him in the face, and Sary went out one
morning to give him her potato-peelings and some scraps of bread, when,
suddenly, he jerked his head fiercely, snapped his halter in two, and
wheeled round upon the frightened woman, rearing, snorting, and showing
his long, yellow teeth. Sary fled at once and barred the door behind
her; but neither she nor Scott ever saw their "gift horse" again. For
aught I know he still roams the Adirondack forest, and maybe personates
the ghostly and ghastly white deer of song and legend. Who can tell? But
he was lifted off Scott Peck's shoulders, and all Scott said by way of
epitaph on the departed, when he came home to find his white steed gone,
was, "Hang presents!"
* * * * *
"Samantha Allen" will now have "a brief opportunity for remark."
Admire her graphic description of the excitement Josiah caused by
voting, at a meeting of the "Jonesville Creation Searchers," for his own
spouse as a delegate from Jonesville to the "Sentinel." She reports
thus:
"It was a fearful time, but right where the excitement was raining most
fearfully I felt a motion by the side of me, and my companion got up and
stood on his feet and says, in _pretty_ firm accents, though _some_
sheepish:
"'_I_ did, and there's where I stand now; _I_ vote for _Samantha_!'
"And then he sot down again. Oh, the fearful excitement and confusion
that rained down again! The president got up and tried to speak; the
editor of the _Auger_ talked wildly; Shakespeare Bobbet talked to
himself incoherently, but Solomon Cypher's voice drowned 'em all out, as
he kep' a-smitin' his breast and a hollerin' that he wasn't goin' to be
infringed upon, or come in contract with _no_ woman!
"No female woman needn't think she was the equal of man; and I should go
as a woman or stay to home. I was so almost wore out by their talk, that
I spoke right out, and, says I, '_Good land!_ how did you _s'pose_ I was
a-goin'?'
"The president then said that he meant, if I went I mustn't look upon
things with the eye of a 'Creation Searcher' and a man (here he p'inted
his forefinger right up in the air and waved it round in a real free and
soarin' way), but look at things with the eye of a private investigator
and a _woman_ (here he p'inted his finger firm and stiddy right down
into the wood-box and a pan of ashes). It war impressive--VERY."
MISS SLIMMENS SURPRISED.
_A Terrible Accident._
BY METTA VICTORIA VICTOR.
"Dora! Dora! Dora! wake up, wake up, I say! Don't you smell something
burning? Wake up, child! Don't you smell fire? Good Lord! so do I. I
thought I wasn't mistaken. The room's full of smoke. Oh, dear! what'll
we do? Don't stop to put on your petticoat. We'll all be burned to
death. Fire! fire! fire! fire!
"Yes, there is! I don't know where! It's all over--our room's all in a
blaze, and Dora won't come out till she gets her dress on. Mr. Little,
you _shan't_ go in--I'll hold you--you'll be killed just to save that
chit of a girl, when--I--I--He's gone--rushed right into the flames. Oh,
my house! my furniture! all my earnings! Can't anything be done? Fire!
fire! fire! Call the fire-engines! ring the dinner-bell! Be quiet! How
can I be quiet? Yes, it is all in flames. I saw them myself! Where's my
silver spoons? Oh, where's my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle? Let me
be! I'm going out in the street before it's too late! Oh, Mr. Grayson!
have you got water? have you found the place? are they bringing water?
"Did you say the fire was out? Was that you that spoke, Mr. Little? I
thought you were burned up, sure; and there's Dora, too. How did they
get it out? My clothes-closet was on fire, and the room, too! We would
have been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn't waked up! But it's
all out now, and no damage done, but my dresses destroyed and the carpet
spoiled. Thank the Lord, if that's the worst! But it _ain't_ the worst.
Dora, come along this minute to my room. I don't care if it is cold, and
wet, and full of smoke. Don't you see--don't you see I'm in my
night-clothes? I never thought of it before. I'm ruined, ruined
completely! Go to bed, gentlemen; get out of the way as quick as you can
Dora, shut the door. Hand me that candle; I want to look at myself in
the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have seen me in this
fix! I'd rather have perished in the flames. It's the very first night
I've worn these flannel night-caps, and to be seen in 'em! Good
gracious! how old I do look! Not a spear of hair on my head scarcely,
and this red nightgown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the
tumbler, and the paint all washed off my face, and scarred besides! It's
no use! I never, never can again make any of _those_ men believe that
I'm only twenty-five, and I felt so sure of some of them.
"Oh, Dora Adams! _you_ needn't look pale; you've lost nothing. I'll
warrant Mr. Little thought you never looked so pretty as in that ruffled
gown, and your hair all down over your shoulders. He says you were
fainting from the smoke when he dragged you out. You must be a little
fool to be afraid to come out looking _that_ way. They say that new
boarder is a drawing-master, and I seen some of his pictures yesterday;
he had some such ridiculous things. He'll caricature me for the
amusement of the young men, I know. Only think how my portrait would
look taken to-night! and he'll have it, I'm sure, for I noticed him
looking at me--the first that reminded me of my situation after the fire
was put out. Well, there's but one thing to be done, and that's to put a
bold face on it. I can't sleep any more to-night; besides, the bed's
wet, and it's beginning to get daylight. I'll go to work and get myself
ready for breakfast, and I'll pretend to something--I don't know just
what--to get myself out of this scrape, if I can....
"Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning! We had quite a fright last
night, didn't we? Dora and I came pretty near paying dear for a little
frolic. You see, we were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves,
and I was all fixed up for to represent an old woman, and had put on a
gray wig and an old flannel gown that I found, and we'd set up pretty
late, having some fun all to ourselves; and I expect Dora must have been
pretty sleepy when she was putting some of the things away, and set fire
to a dress in the closet without noticing it. I've lost my whole
wardrobe, nigh about, by her carelessness; but it's such a mercy we
wasn't burned in our bed that I don't feel to complain so much on that
account. Isn't it curious how I got caught dressed up like my
grandmother? We didn't suppose we were going to appear before so large
an audience when we planned out our little frolic. What character did
Dora assume? Really, Mr. Little, I was so scared last night that I
disremember. She took off _her_ rigging before she went to bed. Don't
you think I'd personify a pretty good old woman, gentlemen--ha! ha!--for
a lady of my age? What's that, Mr. Little? You wish I'd make you a
present of that nightcap, to remember me by? Of course; I've no further
use for it. Of course I haven't. It's one of Bridget's, that I borrowed
for the occasion, and I've got to give it back to her. Have some coffee,
Mr. Grayson--do! I've got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help
yourself to some of the beefsteak. It's a very cold morning--fine
weather out of doors. Eat all you can, all of you. Have you any profiles
to take yet, Mr. Gamboge? I _may_ make up my mind to set for mine before
you leave us; I've always thought I should have it taken some time. In
character? He! he! Mr. Little, you're so funny! But you'll excuse _me_
this morning, as I had such a fright last night. I must go and take up
that wet carpet."
CHAPTER V.
A BRACE OF WITTY WOMEN.
By the courtesy of Harper Brothers I am allowed to give you "Aunt
Anniky's Teeth," by Sherwood Bonner. The illustrations add much, but the
story is good enough without pictures.
AUNT ANNIKY'S TEETH.
BY SHERWOOD BONNER.
Aunt Anniky was an African dame, fifty years old, and of an imposing
presence. As a waffle-maker she possessed a gift beyond the common, but
her unapproachable talent lay in the province of nursing. She seemed
born for the benefit of sick people. She should have been painted with
the apple of healing in her hand. For the rest, she was a funny,
illiterate old darkey, vain, affable, and neat as a pink.
On one occasion my mother had a dangerous illness. Aunt Anniky nursed
her through it, giving herself no rest, night nor day, until her patient
had come "back to de walks an' ways ob life," as she expressed the dear
mother's recovery. My father, overjoyed and grateful, felt that we owed
this result quite as much to Aunt Anniky as to our family doctor, so he
announced his intention of making her a handsome present, and, like King
Herod, left her free to choose what it should be. I shall never forget
how Aunt Anniky looked as she stood there smiling and bowing, and
bobbing the funniest little courtesies all the way down to the ground.
And you would never guess what it was the old woman asked for.
"Well, Mars' Charles," said she (she had been one of our old servants,
and always called my father 'Mars' Charles'), "to tell you de livin'
trufe, my soul an' body is a-yearnin' fur a han'sum chany set o' teef."
"A set of teeth!" said father, surprised enough. "And have you none left
of your own?"
"I has gummed it fur a good many ye'rs," said Aunt Anniky, with a sigh;
"but not wishin' ter be ongrateful ter my obligations, I owns ter havin'
five nateral teef. But dey is po' sogers; dey shirks battle. One ob
dem's got a little somethin' in it as lively as a speared worm, an' I
tell you when anything teches it, hot or cold, it jest makes me _dance_!
An' anudder is in my top jaw, an' ain't got no match fur it in de bottom
one; an' one is broke off nearly to de root; an' de las' two is so
yaller dat I's ashamed ter show 'em in company, an' so I lif's my
turkey-tail ter my mouf every time I laughs or speaks."
Father turned to mother with a musing air. "The curious student of
humanity," he remarked, "traces resemblances where they are not
obviously conspicuous. Now, at the first blush, one would not think of
any common ground of meeting for our Aunt Anniky and the Empress
Josephine. Yet that fine French lady introduced the fashion of
handkerchiefs by continually raising delicate lace _mouchoirs_ to her
lips to hide her bad teeth. Aunt Anniky lifts her turkey-tail! It
really seems that human beings should be classed by _strata_, as if
they were metals in the earth. Instead of dividing by nations, let us
class by quality. So we might find Turk, Jew, Christian, fashionable
lady and washerwoman, master and slave, hanging together like cats on a
clothes-line by some connecting cord of affinity--"
"In the mean time," said my mother, mildly, "Aunt Anniky is waiting to
know if she is to have her teeth."
"Oh, surely, surely!" cried father, coming out of the clouds with a
start. "I am going to the village to-morrow, Anniky, in the spring
wagon. I will take you with me, and we will see what the dentist can do
for you."
"Bless yo' heart, Mars' Charles!" said the delighted Anniky; "you're
jest as good as yo' blood and yo' name, and mo' I _couldn't_ say."
The morrow came, and with it Aunt Anniky, gorgeously arrayed in a
flaming red calico, a bandanna handkerchief, and a string of carved
yellow beads that glittered on her bosom like fresh buttercups on a
hill-slope.
I had petitioned to go with the party, for, as we lived on a plantation,
a visit to the village was something of an event. A brisk drive soon
brought us to the centre of "the Square." A glittering sign hung
brazenly from a high window on its western side, bearing, in raised
black letters, the name, "Doctor Alonzo Babb."
Dr. Babb was the dentist and the odd fish of our village. He beams in my
memory as a big, round man, with hair and smiles all over his face, who
talked incessantly, and said things to make your blood run cold.
"Do you see this ring?" he said, as he bustled about, polishing his
instruments and making his preparations for the sacrifice of Aunt
Anniky. He held up his right hand, on the forefinger of which glistened
a ring the size of a dog-collar. "Now, what d'ye s'pose that's made of?"
"Brass," suggested father, who was funny when not philosophical.
"_Brass!_" cried Dr. Babb, with a withering look; "it's virgin gold,
that ring is. And where d'ye s'pose I found the gold?"
My father ran his hands into his pockets in a retrospective sort of way.
"In the mouths of my patients, every grain of it," said the dentist,
with a perfectly diabolical smack of the lips. "Old fillings--plugs, you
know--that I saved, and had made up into this shape. Good deal of
sentiment about such a ring as this."
"Sentiment of a mixed nature, I should say," murmured my father, with a
grimace.
"Mixed--rather! A speck here, a speck there. Sometimes an eye, oftener a
jaw, occasionally a front. More than a hundred men, I s'pose, have
helped in the cause."
"Law, doctor! you beats de birds, you does," cries Aunt Anniky, whose
head was as flat as the floor, where her reverence should have been.
"You know dey snatches de wool from ebery bush to make deir nests."
"Lots of company for me, that ring is," said the doctor, ignoring the
pertinent or impertinent interruption. "Often as I sit in the twilight,
I twirl it around and around, a-thinking of the wagon-loads of food it
has masticated, the blood that has flowed over it, the groans that it
has cost! Now, old lady, if you will sit just here."
He motioned Aunt Anniky to the chair, into which she dropped in a limp
sort of way, recovering herself immediately, however, and sitting bolt
upright in a rigid attitude of defiance. Some moments of persuasion were
necessary before she could be induced to lean back and allow Dr. Babb's
fingers on her nose while she breathed the laughing-gas; but, once
settled, the expression faded from her countenance almost as quickly as
a magic-lantern picture vanishes. I watched her nervously, my attention
divided between her vacant-looking face and a dreadful picture on the
wall. It represented Dr. Babb himself, minus the hair, but with double
the number of smiles, standing by a patient from whose mouth he had
apparently just extracted a huge molar that he held triumphantly in his
forceps. A gray-haired old gentleman regarded the pair with benevolent
interest. The photograph was entitled, "His First Tooth."
"Attracted by that picture?" said Dr. Alonzo, affably, his fingers on
Aunt Anniky's pulse. "My par had that struck off the first time I ever
got a tooth out. That's par with the gray hair and the benediction
attitude. Tell you, he was proud of me! I had such an awful tussle with
that tooth! Thought the old fellow's jaw was _bound_ to break! But I got
it out, and after that my par took me with him round the
country--starring the provinces, you know--and I practised on the
natives."
By this time Aunt Anniky was well under the influence of the gas, and in
an incredibly short space of time her five teeth were out. As she came
to herself I am sorry to say she was rather silly, and quite mortified
me by winking at Dr. Babb in the most confidential manner, and
repeating, over and over again: "Honey, yer ain't harf as smart as yer
thinks yer is!"
After a few weeks of sore gums, Aunt Anniky appeared, radiant with her
new teeth. The effect was certainly funny. In the first place, blackness
itself was not so black as Aunt Anniky. She looked as if she had been
dipped in ink and polished off with lamp-black. Her very eyes showed but
the faintest rim of white. But those teeth were white enough to make up
for everything. She had selected them herself, and the little ridiculous
milk-white things were more fitted for the mouth of a Titania than for
the great cavern in which Aunt Anniky's tongue moved and had its being.
The gums above them were black, and when she spread her wide mouth in a
laugh, it always reminded me of a piano-lid opening suddenly and showing
all the black and white ivories at a glance. Aunt Anniky laughed a good
deal, too, after getting her teeth in, and declared she had never been
so happy in her life. It was observed, to her credit, that she put on no
airs of pride, but was as sociable as ever, and made nothing of taking
out her teeth and handing them around for inspection among her curious
and admiring visitors. On that principle of human nature which glories
in calling attention to the weakest part, she delighted in tough meats,
stale bread, green fruits, and all other eatables that test the biting
quality of the teeth. But finally destruction came upon them in a way
that no one could have foreseen. Uncle Ned was an old colored man who
lived alone in a cabin not very far from Aunt Anniky's, but very
different from her in point of cleanliness and order. In fact, Uncle
Ned's wealth, apart from a little corn crop, consisted in a lot of fine
young pigs, that ran in and out of the house at all times, and were
treated by their owner as tenderly as if they had been his children.
One fine day the old man fell sick of a fever, and he sent in haste for
Aunt Anniky to come and nurse him. He agreed to give her a pig in case
she brought him through; should she fail to do so, she was to receive no
pay. Well, Uncle Ned got well, and the next thing we heard was that he
refused to pay the pig. My father was usually called on to settle all
the disputes in the neighborhood; so one morning Anniky and Ned appeared
before him, both looking very indignant.
"I'd jes' like ter tell yer, Mars' Charles," began Uncle Ned, "ob de
trick dis miser'ble ole nigger played on me."
"Go on, Ned," said my father, with a resigned air.
"Well, it wuz de fift night o' de fever," said Uncle Ned, "an' I wuz
a-tossin' an' a-moanin', an' old Anniky jes' lay back in her cheer an'
snored as ef a dozen frogs wuz in her throat. I wuz a-perishin' an'
a-burnin' wid thirst, an' I hollered to Anniky; but Lor'! I might as
well 'a hollered to a tombstone! It wuz ice I wanted; an' I knowed dar
wuz a glass somewhar on my table wid cracked ice in it. Lor'! Lor'! how
dry I wuz! I neber longed fer whiskey in my born days ez I panted fur
dat ice. It wuz powerful dark, fur de grease wuz low in de lamp, an' de
wick spluttered wid a dyin' flame. But I felt aroun', feeble like an'
slow, till my fingers touched a glass. I pulled it to me, an' I run my
han' in an' grabbed de ice, as I s'posed, an' flung it in my mouf, an'
crunched, an' crunched--"
Here there was an awful pause. Uncle Ned pointed his thumb at Anniky,
looked wildly at my father, and said, in a hollow voice: "_It wuz
Anniky's teef!_"
My father threw back his head and laughed as I had never heard him
laugh. Mother from her sofa joined in. I was doubled up like a
jack-knife in the corner. But as for the principals in the affair,
neither of their faces moved a muscle. They saw no joke. Aunt Anniky, in
a dreadful, muffled, squashy sort of voice, took up the tale:
"Nexsh ting I knowed, Marsh Sharles, somebody's sheizin' me by de head,
a-jammin' it up 'gin de wall, a-jawin' at me like de Angel Gabriel at de
rish ole sinners in de bad plashe--an' dar wash ole Ned a-spittin' like
a black cat, an' a-howlin' so dreadful dat I tought he wash de debil;
an' when I got de light, dar wash my beautiful chany teef a-flung
aroun', like scattered seed-corn, on de flo', an' Ned a-swarin' he'd
have de law o' me."
"An' arter all dat," broke in Uncle Ned, "she pretends to lay a claim
fur my pig. But I says no, sir; I don't pay nobody nothin' who's played
me a trick like dat."
"Trick!" said Aunt Anniky, scornfully, "whar's de trick? Tink I wanted
yer ter eat my teef? An' furder-mo', Marsh Sharles, dar's jes' dis about
it: when dat night set in dar warn't no mo' hope fur old Ned dan fur a
foundered sheep. Laws-a-massy! dat's why I went ter sleep. I wanted ter
hev strengt' ter put on his burial clo'es in de mornin'. But don' yer
see, Marsh Sharles, dat when he got so mad it brought on a sweat dat
_broke de fever_! It saved him! But, fur all dat, arter munchin' an'
manglin' my chany teef, he has de imperdence ob tryin' to 'prive me ob
de pig I honestly 'arned."
It was a hard case. Uncle Ned sat there a very image of injured dignity,
while Aunt Anniky bound a red handkerchief around her mouth and fanned
herself with her turkey-tail.
"I am sure I don't know how to settle the matter," said father,
helplessly. "Ned, I don't see but that you'll have to pay up."
"Neber, Mars' Charles, neber."
"Well, suppose you get married?" suggested father, brilliantly. "That
will unite your interests, you know."
Aunt Anniky tossed her head. Uncle Ned was old, wizened, wrinkled as a
raisin, but he eyed Anniky over with a supercilious gaze, and said with
dignity: "Ef I wanted ter marry, I could git a likely young gal."
All the four points of Anniky's turban shook with indignation. "Pay me
fur dem chany teef!" she hissed.
Some visitors interrupted the dispute at this time, and the two old
darkies went away.
A week later Uncle Ned appeared with rather a sheepish look.
"Well, Mars' Charles," he said, "I's about concluded dat I'll marry
Anniky."
"Ah! is that so?"
"'Pears like it's de onliest way I kin save my pigs," said Uncle Ned,
with a sigh. "When she's married she boun' ter _'bey_ me. Women 'bey
your husbands; dat's what de good Book says."
"Yes, she will _bay_ you, I don't doubt," said my father, making a pun
that Uncle Ned could not appreciate.
"An' ef ever she opens her jaw ter me 'bout dem ar teef," he went on,
"I'll _mash_ her."
Uncle Ned tottered on his legs like an unscrewed fruit-stand, and I had
my own opinion as to his "mashing" Aunt Anniky. This opinion was
confirmed the next day when father offered her his congratulations. "You
are old enough to know your own mind," he remarked.
"I's ole, maybe," said Anniky, "but so is a oak-tree, an' it's
vigorous, I reckon. I's a purty vigorous sort o' growth myself, an' I
reckon I'll have my own way with Ned. I'm gwine ter fatten dem pigs o'
hisn, an' you see ef I don't sell 'em nex' Christmas fur money 'nouf ter
git a new string o' chany teef."
"Look here, Anniky," said father, with a burst of generosity, "you and
Ned will quarrel about those teeth till the day of doom, so I will make
you a wedding present of another set, that you may begin married life in
harmony."
Aunt Anniky expressed her gratitude. "An' _dis_ time," she said, with
sudden fury, "I sleeps wid 'em _in_."
The teeth were presented, and the wedding preparations began. The
expectant bride went over to Ned's cabin and gave it such a clearing up
as it had never had. But Ned did not seem happy. He devoted himself
entirely to his pigs, and wandered about looking more wizened every day.
Finally he came to our gate and beckoned to me mysteriously.
"Come over to my house, honey," he whispered, "an' bring a pen an' ink
an' a piece o' paper wid yer. I wants yer ter write me a letter."
I ran into the house for my little writing-desk, and followed Uncle Ned
to his cabin.
"Now, honey," he said, after barring the door carefully, "don't you ax
me no questions, but jes' put down de words dat comes out o' my mouf on
dat ar paper."
"Very well, Uncle Ned, go on."
"Anniky Hobbleston," he began, "dat weddin' ain't a-gwine ter come off.
You cleans up too much ter suit me. I ain't used ter so much water
splashin' aroun'. Dirt is warmin'. 'Spec I'd freeze dis winter if you
wuz here. An' you got too much tongue. Besides, I's got anudder wife
over in Tipper. An' I ain't a-gwine ter marry. As fur havin' de law, I's
a leavin' dese parts, an' I takes der pigs wid me. Yer can't fin' _dem_,
an' yer can't fin' _me_. _Fur I ain't a-gwine ter marry._ I wuz born a
bachelor, an' a bachelor will I represent myself befo' de judgment-seat.
If you gives yer promise ter say no mo' 'bout dis marryin' business,
p'r'aps I'll come back some day. So no mo' at present, from your humble
worshipper,
"NED CUDDY."
"Isn't that last part rather inconsistent?" said I, greatly amused.
"Yes, honey, if yer says so; an' it's kind o' soothin' to de feelin's of
a woman, yer know."
I wrote it all down and read it aloud to Uncle Ned.
"Now, my chile," he said, "I'm a-gwine ter git on my mule as soon as der
moon rises, an' drive my pigs ter Col' Water Gap, whar I'll stay an'
fish. Soon as I am well gone, you take dis letter ter Anniky; but
_min'_, don't tell whar I's gone. An' if she takes it all right, an'
promises ter let me alone, you write me a letter, an' I'll git de fust
Methodis' preacher I run across in der woods ter read it ter me. Den, ef
it's all right, I'll come back an' weed yer flower-garden fur yer as
purty as preachin'."
I agreed to do all uncle Ned asked, and we parted like conspirators. The
next morning Uncle Ned was missing, and, after waiting a reasonable time
I explained the matter to my parents, and went over with his letter to
Aunt Anniky.
"Powers above!" was her only comment as I got through the remarkable
epistle. Then, after a pause to collect her thoughts, she seized me by
the shoulder, saying: "Run to yo' pappy, honey, quick, an' ax him ef
he's gwine ter stick ter his bargain 'bout de teef. Yer know he pintedly
said dey wuz a _weddin'_ gif'."
Of course my father sent word that she must keep the teeth, and my
mother added a message of sympathy, with a present of a
pocket-handkerchief to dry Aunt Anniky's tears.
"But it's all right," said that sensible old soul, opening her piano-lid
with a cheerful laugh. "Bless you, chile, it wuz de teef I wanted, not
de man! An', honey, you jes' sen' word to dat shif'less old nigger, ef
you know whar he's gone, to come back home and git his crap in de
groun'; an', as fur as _I'm_ consarned, yer jes' let him know dat I
wouldn't pick him up wid a ten-foot pole, not ef he wuz to beg me on his
knees till de millennial day."--_From "Dialect Tales," published in 1883
by Harper Brothers._
* * * * *
It is not easy to tell what satire is, or where it originated. "In
Eden," says Dryden, "the husband and wife excused themselves by laying
the blame on each other, and gave a beginning to those conjugal
dialogues in prose which poets have perfected in verse." Whatever it may
be, we know it when it cuts us, and Sherwood Bonner's hit on the Radical
Club of Boston was almost inexcusable.
She was admitted as a guest, and her subsequent ridicule was a violation
of all good breeding. But like so many wicked things it is captivating,
and while you are shocked, you laugh. While I hold up both hands in
horror, I intend to give you an idea of it; leaving out the most
personal verses.
THE RADICAL CLUB.
BY SHERWOOD BONNER.
Dear friends, I crave attention to some facts that I shall mention
About a Club called "Radical," you haven't heard before;
Got up to teach the nation was this new light federation,
To teach the nation how to think, to live, and to adore;
To teach it of the heights and depths that all men should explore;
Only this and nothing more.
It is not my inclination, in this brief communication,
To produce a false impression--which I greatly would deplore--
But a few remarks I'm makin' on some notes a chiel's been takin,'
And, if I'm not mistaken, they'll make your soul upsoar,
As you bend your eyes with eagerness to scan these verses o'er;
Truly this and something more.
And first, dear friends, the fact is, I'm sadly out of practice,
And may fail in doing justice to this literary bore;
But when I do begin it, I don't think 'twill take a minute
To prove there's nothing in it (as you've doubtless heard before),
But a free religious wrangling club--of this I'm very sure--
Only this and nothing more!
'Twas a very cordial greeting, one bright morning of their meeting;
Such eager salutations were never heard before.
After due deliberation on the importance of the occasion,
To begin the organization, Mr. Pompous took the floor
With an air quite self-complacent, strutted up and took the floor,
As he'd often done before!
With an air of condescension he bespoke their close attention
To an essay from a Wiseman versed in theologic lore;
He himself had had the pleasure of a short glance at the treasure,
And in no stinted measure said we had a treat in store;
Then he waved his hand to Wiseman and resigned to him the floor;
Only this and nothing more.
Quick and nervous, short and wiry, with a look profound, yet fiery,
Mr. Wiseman now stepped forward and eyed us darkly o'er,
Then an arm-chair, quaint and olden, gay with colors green and golden,
By the pretty hostess rolled in from its place behind the door,
Was offered to the reader, in the centre of the floor,
And he took the chair be sure.
Then with arguments elastic, and a voice and eye sarcastic,
Mr. Wiseman into flinders the Holy Bible tore;
And he proved beyond all question that the God of Moses' mention
Was a fraudulent invention of some Hebrews, three or four,
And the Son of God's ascension an imaginary soar!
Only this and nothing more.
Each member then admitted that his part was well acquitted,
For his strong, impassioned reasoning had touched them to the core;
He felt sure, as he surveyed them through his specs, that
he had "played" them,
And was proud that he had made them all astonished by his lore;
Not a continental cared he for the fruits such lessons bore,
So he bowed and left the floor.
Then a Colonel, cold and smiling, with a stately air beguiling,
Who punctuates his paragraphs on Newport's sounding shore,
Said his friend was wise and witty, and yet it seemed a pity
To destroy in this old city the belief it had before
In the ancient superstitions of the days of yore.
This he said, and something more.
Orthodoxy, he lamented, thought the Christian world demented,
Yet still he felt a rev'rence as he read the Bible o'er,
And he thought the modern preacher, though a poor stick for a teacher,
Or a broken reed, like Beecher, ought to have his claims looked o'er,
And the "tyranny of science" was indeed, he felt quite sure,
_Our_ danger more and more.
His remarks our pulses quicken, when a British Lion, stricken
With his wondrous self-importance--he knew everything and more--
Said he _loathed_ such moderation; and he made his declaration
That, in spite of all creation, he found no God to adore;
And his voice was like the ocean as its surges loudly roar;
Only this and nothing more.
* * * * *
But the interest now grew lukewarm, for an ancient Concord book-worm
With authoritative tramping, forward came and took the floor,
And in Orphic mysticisms talked of life and light and prisms,
And the Infinite baptisms on a transcendental shore,
And the concrete metaphysic, till we yawned in anguish sore;
But still he kept the floor.
Then uprose a kindred spirit almost ready to inherit
The rare and radiant Aiden that he begged us to adore;
His smile was beaming brightly, and his soft hair floated whitely
Round a face as fair and sightly as a pious priest's of yore;
And we forgave the arguments worn out years before,
For we loved this saintly bore.
* * * * *
Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer,
Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore,
Said she had no "views" of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us,
But that she thought 'twould please us to look her figure o'er,
For she wore no bustles _anywhere_, and corsets, she felt sure,
Should squeeze her _nevermore_.
This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion
Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar;
But that no emancipation could come unto our nation
Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore
Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,
Plain behind and plain before!
Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,
And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,
When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed
the _Index_ teaching,
And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore
The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;
Truly this, but something more!
Then with eyes as bright as Phoebus, and hair dark as Erebus,
A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;
In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,
But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,
And indorsed the _Index_ editor in every word he swore,
And then--said nothing more.
Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber
(And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),
Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,
The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;
But a bad _gold_ in his 'ead _bust_ stop his saying _bore_,
And we all cried _encore_.
* * * * *
Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal
Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,
With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,
Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o'er and o'er
The old, old vexing questions of the _why_ and the _wherefore_,
And taught us--nothing more.
There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,
And at first 'twas my intention, but at present I forbear;
There's young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,
And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;
If you could only see them, you'd laugh till you were sore,
And then you'd laugh some more.
But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,
For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o'er;
In their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable scheming
For a sinful world's redeeming, common sense flies out the door,
And the long-drawn dissertations come to--words and nothing more;
Only words, and nothing more.
* * * * *
Mary Clemmer Hudson has spoken of Phoebe Cary as "the wittiest woman
in America." But she truly adds:
"A flash of wit, like a flash of lightning, can only be remembered, it
cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel lies in its spontaneity and
evanescence; its power is in being struck from the present. Divorced
from that, the keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. We read
over the few remaining sentences which attempt to embody the repartees
and _bon mots_ of the most famous wits of society, such as Beau Nash,
Beau Brummel, Madame du Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu; we wonder at the
poverty of these memorials of their fame. Thus it must be with Phoebe
Cary. Her most brilliant sallies were perfectly unpremeditated, and by
herself never repeated or remembered. When she was in her best moods
they came like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so
suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were delighted, and
afterward found it difficult to single out any distinct flash or
separate meteor from the multitude.... This most wonderful of her gifts
can only be represented by a few stray sentences gleaned here and there
from the faithful memories of loving friends....
"One tells how, at a little party, where fun rose to a great height, one
quiet person was suddenly attacked by a gay lady with the question: 'Why
don't you laugh? You sit there just like a post!'
"'There! she called you a post; why don't you rail at her?' was Phoebe's
quick exclamation.
"Mr. Barnum mentioned to her that the skeleton man and the fat woman
then on exhibition in his 'greatest show on earth' were married.
"'I suppose they loved through thick and thin,' was her comment.
"'On one occasion, when Phoebe was at the Museum looking about at the
curiosities,' says Mr. Barnum, 'I preceded her and had passed down a
couple of steps. She, intently watching a big anaconda in a case at the
top of the stairs, walked off, not noticing them, and fell. I was just
in time to catch her in my arms and save her from a good bruising'.
"'I am more lucky than that first woman was who fell through the
influence of the serpent,' said Phoebe, as she recovered herself.
"And when asked by some one at a dinner-party what brand of champagne
they kept, she replied: 'Oh, we drink Heidsieck, but we keep Mum.'
"Again, a certain well-known actor, then recently deceased, and more
conspicuous for his professional skill than for his private virtues, was
discussed. 'We shall never,' remarked some one, 'see ---- again.'
"'No,' quietly responded Phoebe, 'not unless we go to the pit.'"
These stray shots may not fairly represent Miss Cary's brilliancy, but
we are grateful for what has been preserved, meagre as it would seem to
those who had the privilege of knowing her intimately and enjoying those
Sunday evening receptions, where, unrestrained and happy, every one was
at his best.
Her verses on the subject of Woman's Rights, as discussed in masculine
fashion, with masculine logic, by Chanticleer Dorking, are capital, and
her parodies, shockingly literal, have been widely copied. Enjoy these
as given in her life, written by Mary Clemmer.
CHAPTER VI.
GINGER-SNAPS.
I will now offer you some good things of various degrees of humor. I do
not feel it necessary to impress their merits upon you, for they speak
for themselves Here is a quaint bit of satire from a bright Boston
woman, which those on her side of the vexed Indian question will enjoy:
THE INDIAN AGENT.
BY LOUISA HALL.
He was a long, lean man, with a sad expression, as if weighed down by
pity for poor humanity. His heart was evidently a great many sizes too
large for him. He yearned to enfold all tribes and conditions of men in
his encircling arms. He surveyed his audience with such affectionate
interest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their pockets.
A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the majority knew that this
artifice would not save them, and they rather enjoyed it as a species of
harmless dissipation. They liked to be talked into a state of
exhilaration which obliged them to give without thinking much about it,
and they felt very good and benevolent afterward. So they cheered the
agent enthusiastically, as a signal for him to begin, and he came
forward bowing, while the three red brothers who accompanied him
remained seated on the platform. He appeared to smile on every one
present as he said:
"Friends and Fellow-Citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you these
chiefs of the Laughing Dog Nation. Twenty-five years ago this tribe was
one of the fiercest on our Western plains. Snarling Bear, the most noted
chief of his tribe, was a great warrior. Fifty scalps adorned his
wigwam. Some of them had once belonged to his best friends. He was
murdered while in the prime of life by a white man whose wife he had
accidentally shot at the door of her cabin. He was one of the first to
welcome the white men and adopt the improvements they brought with them.
When he became sufficiently civilized to understand that polygamy was
unlawful, he separated from his oldest wife. Her scalp was carefully
preserved among those of the great warriors he had conquered. His son,
Flying Deer, who is with us to-day, will address you in his own
language, which I shall interpret for you. The last twenty years have
made a great change in their condition. These men are not savages, but
educated gentlemen. They are all graduates of Tomahawk College, at
Bloody Mountain, near the Gray Wolf country. They are chiefs of their
tribes, each one holding a position equal to the Governor of our own
State. Their influence at the West is great. Last year they sent a small
party of missionaries to the highlands of the Wolf country, where the
women and children pasture the ponies during the dry season. Not one of
these noble men ever returned. Unfortunately for the success of this
mission, the Gray Wolf warriors were at home. The medicine man's dreams
had been unfavorable, and they dared not set out on their annual hunt.
This year they will send a larger party well armed.
"These devoted men have left their Western homes and come here to assure
you of their confidence in your affection, and the love and gratitude
they feel toward you. They come to ask for churches and schools, that
their children may grow up like yours. But these things require money.
On account of the great scarcity of stone in the Rocky Mountains, and
the necessity of preserving standing timber for the Indian
hunting-grounds, all building materials for churches and school-houses
must be carried from the East at great expense. The door-steps of the
third orthodox Kickapoo church cost one hundred and fifty dollars. But
it is money well invested. The gradual decrease of crime at the West has
convinced the most sceptical that a great work can be done among these
people. The number of murders committed in this country last year was
one hundred and twenty-five; this year only one hundred and
twenty-three.
"Although a great deal has been done for these people, you will be
surprised to learn how much remains to be done. I need not tell you that
every dollar intrusted to me will be spent, and I hope you will live to
see the result of your generosity.
"I wish to build at least fifteen churches and school-houses before the
cold weather sets in. The cost of building has been greatly lessened by
employing native workmen, who are capable of designing and erecting
simple edifices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, and
the expense of light and heat will be paid by the congregation.
"We have at least twenty-five well-qualified native teachers, who will
require no salary beyond the necessary expense of food and clothing.
"A few boarding-houses must be built and tastefully furnished. We have a
large number of Laughing Dog widows, who would gladly take charge of
such establishments.
"The native committee will make a careful selection of such matrons as
are most capable of guiding and encouraging young people.
"All money for the benefit of these people has been used with the
strictest economy; and will be while I retain the agency. I have secured
a slender provision for my declining years, and shall return to spend my
days with my adopted people.
"But I will let these men who once owned this great country speak for
themselves. Flying Deer, who will now address you, is about forty years
of age. He lives with his wife and ten children near the agency, at a
place called Humanketchet."
Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, though rapidly.
"O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw choo kibbe showain nemeshin. Dawmasse
choochugah goo waugh; kawboo. Nokka brewis goo, honowin nudwag moonoo
shugh kawmun menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gessonwon goo.
Nahna naskeen oza yenadisse mayben mudjo, kenemoosha. Wawconassee
nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, wabenas ogu winemon jabs. Ahmuck wana
wayroossen chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, kewadoda
shenghen kad goo tagamengow."
"He says, my friends, that he has always loved and trusted the white
people. He says that since he has seen the great cities and towns of the
East, he loves his white brothers more than before. His red brothers,
White Crow and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love you.
He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot and scalp them if
they continue friendly to the whites. He asks for powder, guns, and
ponies, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. He wants to
convince you that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The
assistance you are about to give will only be required for a short time.
They will soon become self-supporting, and relieve the Government of a
heavy tax. They thank you for the kindness you have shown, and for the
generous collection which will now be taken up.
"Will some friend close the doors while we give every one an opportunity
to contribute to this good cause? Remember that he who shutteth up his
ears to the cry of the poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be
heard. Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham at the
door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial tokens of your regard
will cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose.
"In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank you."
* * * * *
If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. Lippincott.
MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
No! I wouldn't demane myself, Bridget,
Like you, in disputin' with men--
Would I fly in the face of the blissed
Apostles, an' Father Maginn?
It isn't the talent I'm wantin'--
Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,
Made a beautiful last spache and confession
When they hanged him in ould Tipperary.
So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin'
About Womins' Rights, and all that!
Sure all the rights I want is the one right,
To be a good helpmate to Pat;
For he's a good husband--and niver
Lays on me the weight of his hand
Except when he's far gone in liquor,
And I nag him, you'll plase understand.
Thrue for ye, I've one eye in mournin',
That's becaze I disputed his right,
To tak' and spind all my week's earnin's
At Tim Mulligan's wake, Sunday night.
But it's sildom when I've done a washin',
He'll ask for more'n half of the pay;
An' he'll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,
That's like a swate mornin' in May!
Now where, if I rin to convintions,
Will be Patrick's home-comforts and joys?
Who'll clane up his broghans for Sunday,
Or patch up his ould corduroys.
If we tak' to the polls, night and mornin',
Our dilicate charms will all flee--
The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,
The down from the pache--don't you see?
We'll soon tak' to shillalahs and shindies
Whin we get to be sovereign electors,
And turn all our husbands' hearts from us,
Thin what will we do for protectors?
We'll have to be crowners an' judges,
An' such like ould malefactors,
Or they'll make Common Councilmin of us;
Thin where will be our char-acters?
Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin'!
For sure as the blissed sun rolls,
We'll land in the State House or Congress,
Thin what will become of our sowls?
* * * * *
Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.
DOCHTHER O'FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.
I.
I'm Barney O'Flannigan, lately from Cork;
I've crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.
'Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;
I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.
Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache
In yer jints afther dancin' a jig at a wake?
Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?
Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?
Whin ye're walkin' the shtrates are yez likely to fall?
Don't whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?
Sure 'tis botherin' nonsinse to sit down and wape
Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.
Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt
But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!
Thin don't yez be gravin' no more;
Arrah! quit all yer sighin' forlorn;
Here's Barney O'Flannigan right to the fore,
And bedad! he's a gintleman born!
II.
Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don't yez be scairt!
Have yez batin' and lumberin' thumps at the hairt,
Wid ossification, and acceleration,
Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,
Wid liver inflation and hapitization,
Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,
Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,
Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,
Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,
Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,
Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,
Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?
Be the powers! but I'll bring all yer woes to complation,
Onless yer in love--thin yer past all salvation!
Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!
Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn;
Here's the man all yer haling potations to pour,
And ye'll prove him a gintleman born
III.
Sure, me frinds, 'tis the wondherful luck I have had
In the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.
All the hundhreds I've cured 'tis not aisy to shpake,
And if any sowl dies, faith I'm in at the wake;
There was Misthriss O'Toole was tuck down mighty quare,
That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;
And phat was the matther? Ye'll like for to hare;
'Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.
Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,
(Och, murther! but didn't she howl at the pain!)
Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,
And troth she shtopped howlin', and lay like a lamb.
Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,
I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.
Och! niver be gravin' no more!
Phat use av yer sighin' forlorn?
Me patients are proud av me midical lore--
They'll shware I'm a gintleman born.
IV.
Well, Misthriss O'Toole was tuck betther at once,
For she riz up in bed and cried: "Paddy, ye dunce!
Give the dochther a dhram." So I sat at me aise
A-brewin' the punch jist as fine as ye plaze.
Thin I lift a prascription all written down nate
Wid ametics and diaphoretics complate;
Wid anti-shpasmodics to kape her so quiet,
And a toddy so shtiff that ye'd all like to thry it.
So Paddy O'Toole mixed 'em well in a cup--
All barrin' the toddy, and that be dhrunk up;
For he shwore 'twas a shame sich good brandy to waste
On a double quotidian faverish taste;
And troth we agrade it was not bad to take,
Whin we dhrank that same toddy nixt night--at the wake!
Arrah! don't yez be gravin' no more,
Wid yer moanin' and sighin' forlorn;
Here's Barney O'Flannigan thrue to the core
Av the hairt of a gintleman born!
V.
There was Michael McDonegan down wid a fit
Caught av dhrinkin' cowld watther--whin tipsy--a bit.
'Twould have done yer hairt good to have heard him cry out
For a cup of potheen or a tankard av shtout,
Or a wee dhrap av whiskey, new out av the shtill;--
And the shnakes that he saw--troth 'twas jist fit to kill!
It was Mania Pototororum, bedad!
Holy Mither av Moses! the divils he had!
Thin to scare 'em away we surroonded his bed,
Clapt on forty laches and blisthered his head,
Bate all the tin pans and set up sich a howl,
That the last fiery divil ran off, be me sowl!
And we writ on his tombsthone, "He died av a shpell
Caught av dhrinkin' cowld watther shtraight out av a well."
Now don't yez be gravin' no more,
Surrinder yer sighin' forlorn!
'Twill be fine whin ye cross to the Stygian shore,
To be sint by a gintleman born.
VI.
There was swate Ellen Mulligan, sazed wid a cough,
And ivery one said it would carry her off.
"Whisht," says I, "thrust to me, now, and don't yez go crazy;
If the girlie must die, sure I'll make her die aisy!"
So I sairched through me books for the thrue diathesis
Of morbus dyscrasia tuburculous phthasis;
And I boulsthered her up wid the shtrongest av tonics.
Wid iron and copper and hosts av carbonics;
Wid whiskey served shtraight in the finest av shtyle,
And I grased all her inside wid cod-liver ile!
And says she (whin she died), "Och, dochther, me honey,
'Tis you as can give us the worth av our money;
And begorra, I'll shpake to the divil this day
Not to kape yez a-waitin' too long for yer pay."
So don't yez be gravin' no more!
To the dogs wid yer sighin' forlorn!
Here's dhrugs be the handful and pills be the score,
And to dale thim a gintleman born.
VII.
There was Teddy Maloney who bled at the nose
Afther blowin' the fife; and mayhap ye'd suppose
'Twas no matther at all; but the books all agrade
Twas a serious visceral throuble indade;
Wid the blood swimmin' roond in a circle elliptic,
The Schneidarian membrane was wantin' a shtyptic;
The anterior nares were nadin' a plug,
And Teddy himself was in nade av a jug.
Thin I rowled out a big pill av sugar av lead,
And I dosed him, and shtood him up firm on his head,
And says I: "Now, me lad, don't be atin' yer lingth,
But dhrink all ye plaze, jist to kape up yer shtringth."
Faith! His widdy's a jewel! But whisht! don't ye shpake!
She'll be Misthriss O'Flannigan airly nixt wake.
Coom, don't yez be gravin' no more!
Shmall use av yer sighin' forlorn;
For yer widdies, belike, whin their mournin' is o'er,
May marry some gintleman born.
VIII.
Ould Biddy O'Cardigan lived all alone,
And she felt mighty nate wid a house av her own--
Shwate-smellin' and houlsome, swaped clane wid a rake,
Wid two or thray pigs jist for company's sake.
Well, phat should she get but the malady vile
Av cholera-phobia-vomitus-bile!
And she sint straight for me: "Dochther Barney, me lad,"
Says she, "I'm in nade av assistance, bedad!
Have yez niver a powdher or bit av a pill?
Me shtomick's a rowlin'; jist make it kape shtill!"
"I'm the boy can do that," says I; "hould on a minit,
Here's me midicine-chist wid me calomel in it,
And I'll make yez a bowle full av rid pipper tay
So shtrong ye'll be thinkin' the divil's to pay,"
Now don't yez be gravin' no more!
Be quit wid yer sighin' forlorn,
Wid shtrychnine and vitriol and opium galore,
Behould me--a gintleman born.
IX.
Wid a gallon av rum thin a flip I created,
Shwate, wid musthard and shpice; and the poker I hated
As rid as a guinea jist out av the mint--
And into her shtomick, begorra, it wint!
Och, niver belave me, but didn't she roar!
I'd have kaped her alive wid a quart or two more;
And the thray little pigs in that house av her own
Wouldn't now be a-shtarvin' and shqualin' alone.
And that gossoon, her boy--the shpalpeen altogither!--
Would niver have shworn that I murdhered his mither.
Troth, for sayin' that same, but I served him a thrick,
Whin I met him by chance wid a bit av a shtick.
Faith, I dochthered him well till the cure I complated,
And, be jabers! there's one man alive that I thrated!
So don't yez be gravin' no more;
To the dogs wid yez sighin' forlorn!
Arrah! knock whin ye're sick at O'Flannigan's door,
And die for a gintleman born!
--_Scribner's Magazine._ 1880.
* * * * *
Or, if one prefers to laugh at the experience of a "culled" brother,
what can be found more irresistible than this?
THE OLD-TIME RELIGION.
BY JULIA PICKERING.
_Brother Simon._ I say, Brover Horace, I hearn you give Meriky de
terriblest beating las' nite. What you and she hab a fallin'-out about?
_Brother Horace._ Well, Brover Simon, you knows yourself I never has no
dejection to splanifying how I rules my folks at home, and 'stablishes
order dar when it's p'intedly needed; and 'fore gracious! I leab you to
say dis time ef 'twant needed, and dat pow'ful bad.
You see, I'se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, an' hain't
never had no use for new fandangles, let it be what it mout; 'ligion,
polytix, bisness--don't ker what. Ole Horace say: "De ole way am de bes'
way, an' you niggers dat's all runnin' teetotleum crazy 'bout ebery new
gimerack dat's started, better jes' stay whar you is and let them things
alone." But dey won't do it; no 'mount of preaching won't sarve um. And
dat is jes' at this partickeler pint dat Meriky got dat dressin'. She
done been off to Richmun town, a-livin' in sarvice dar dis las' winter,
and Saturday a week ago she camed home ter make a visit. Course we war
all glad to see our darter. But you b'l'eve dat gal hadn't turned stark
bodily naked fool? Yes, sir; she wa'n't no more like de Meriky dat went
away jes' a few munts ago dan chalk's like cheese. Dar she come in wid
her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from squattin', an' her ha'r
a-danglin' right in her eyes, jes' for all de worl' like a ram
a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you think dat nigger hain't forgot how
to talk! She jes' rolled up her eyes ebery oder word, and fanned and
talked like she 'spected to die de nex' breff. She'd toss dat mush-head
ob hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. 'Stead ob she call-in' ob me
"daddy" and her mudder "mammy," she say: "Par and mar, how can you bear
to live in sech a one-hoss town as this? Oh! I think I should die." And
right about dar she hab all de actions ob an' old drake in a
thunder-storm. I jes' stared at dat gal tell I make her out, an' says I
to myself: "It's got to come;" but I don't say nothin' to nobody 'bout
it--all de same I knowed it had to come fus' as las'. Well, I jes' let
her hab more rope, as de sayin' is, tell she got whar I 'cluded war
'bout de end ob her tedder. Dat was on last Sunday mornin', when she
went to meetin' in sich a rig, a-puttin' on airs, tell she couldn't keep
a straight track. When she camed home she brung kumpny wid her, and, ob
course, I couldn't do nuthin' then; but I jes' kept my ears open, an' ef
dat gal didn't disquollify me dat day, you ken hab my hat. Bimeby dey
all gits to talkin' 'bout 'ligion and de churches, and den one young
buck he step up, an' says he: "Miss Meriky, give us your 'pinion 'bout
de matter." Wid dat she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an'
says she: "I takes no intelligence in sich matters; dey is all too
common for _me_. Baptisses is a foot or two below _my_ grade. I 'tends
de 'Pisclopian Church whar I resides, an' 'specs to jine dat one de nex'
anniversary ob de bishop. Oh! dey does eberything so lovely, and in so
much style. I declar' nobody but common folks in de city goes to de
Babtiss Church. It made me sick 't my stomuck to see so much shoutin'
and groanin' dis mornin'; 'tis so ungenteel wid us to make so much
sarcumlocutions in meetin'." And thar she went a-giratin' 'bout de
preacher a-comin' out in a white shirt, and den a-runnin' back and
gittin' on a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de
preacher outen a book, and a-bowin' ob deir heads, and a-saying long
rigmaroles o' stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, and were dat mad at de
gal I jes' couldn't see nuffin' in dat room. Well, I jes' waited tell
the kumpny riz to go, and den I steps up, and says I: "Young folks, you
needn't let what Meriky told you 'bout dat church put no change inter
you. She's sorter out ob her right mine now, but de nex' time you comes
she'll be all right on dat and seberal oder subjicks;" and den dey
stared at Meriky mighty hard and goed away.
Well, I jes' walks up to her, and I says: "Darter," says I, "what chu'ch
are dat you say you gwine to jine?" And says she, very prompt like: "De
'Pisclopian, pa." And says I: "Meriky, I'se mighty consarned 'bout you,
kase I knows your mine ain't right, and I shall jes' hab to bring you
roun' de shortest way possible." So I retch me a fine bunch of hick'ries
I done prepared for dat 'casion. And den she jumped up, and says she:
"What make you think I loss my senses?" "Bekase, darter, you done forgot
how to walk and to talk, and dem is sure signs." And wid dat I jes' let
in on her tell I 'stonished her 'siderably. 'Fore I were done wid her
she got ober dem dying a'rs, and jumped as high as a hopper-grass.
Bimeby she 'gins to holler: "Oh, Lordy, daddy! daddy! don't give me no
more."
And says I: "You're improvin', dat's a fac'; done got your natural voice
back. What chu'ch does you 'long to, Meriky?" And says she, a-cryin':
"I don't 'long to none, par."
Well, I gib her anodder leetle tetch, and says I: "What chu'ch does you
'long to, darter?" And says she, all choked like: "I doesn't 'long to
none."
Den I jes' make dem hick'ries ring for 'bout five minutes, and den I
say: "What chu'ch you 'longs to now, Meriky?" And says she, fairly
shoutin': "Baptiss; I'se a deep-water Baptiss." "Berry good," says I.
"You don't 'spect to hab your name tuck offen dem chu'ch books?" And
says she: "No, sar; I allus did despise dem stuck-up 'Pisclopians; dey
ain't got no 'ligion nohow."
Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good genteel thrashin'
in all your days. I boun' she won't neber stick her nose in dem
new-fandangle chu'ches no more. Why, she jes' walks as straight dis
morning, and looks as peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll
be a-singin' before night dat good ole hyme she usened to be so fond ob.
You knows, Brover Simon, how de words run:
"Baptis, Baptis is my name,
My name is written on high;
'Spects to lib and die de same,
My name is written on high."
_Brother Simon._ Yes, dat she will, I be boun'; ef I does say it, Brover
Horace, you beats any man on church guberment an' family displanement ob
anybody I ever has seen.
_Brother Horace._ Well, Brover, I does my bes'. You mus' pray for me, so
dat my han's may be strengthened. Dey feels mighty weak after dat
conversion I give dat Meriky las' night.--_Scribner's Monthly_,
_Bric-a-Brac_, 1876.
* * * * *
If it is unadulterated consolation that you need, try
AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.
BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.
How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick, and I stepped in to
cheer you up a little. My friends often say: "It's such a comfort to see
you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so
lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs: "Perhaps
it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."
You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't
tell. You think you are getting better, but there was poor Mrs. Jones
sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden
she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash.
Parthenia is young to bring the baby up by hand. But you must be
careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret
about anything. Of course, things can't go on jest as if you were
down-stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was
sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was
letting your little Jimmy down from the veranda-roof in a
clothes-basket.
Gracious goodness, what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of
'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she
isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a
burglar. No doubt she'll let him take the impression of the door-key in
wax, and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at
Bobble Hill all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget
so; it will be bad for the baby.
Poor, little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell
whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb, or a cripple at that age. It
might be _all_, and you'd never know it.
Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though; _that_
ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything dreadful
the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral
down the street as I came along.
How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should
think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with
sun-stroke. You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day.
Anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life every
time you take one. Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling
with danger.
Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time!
Dear! dear!
Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac
Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.
Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I sha'n't
think my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep.
Good-by. How pale you look, Cornelia! I don't believe you have a good
doctor. Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look so well
as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once.
If I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up a little.
* * * * *
Mrs. Dallas, who lives in New York City, is a regular correspondent of
the New York _Ledger_, having taken Fanny Fern's place on that widely
circulated paper, is a prominent member of "Sorosis," and her Tuesday
evening receptions draw about her some of the brightest society of that
cosmopolitan centre.
All these selections are prizes for the long-suffering elocutionist who
is expected to entertain his friends with something new,
laughter-provoking, and fully up to the mark.
* * * * *
Mrs. Ames, of Brooklyn, known to the public as "Eleanor Kirk," has
revealed in her "Thanksgiving Growl" a bit of honest experience,
refreshing with its plain Saxon and homely realism, which, when recited
with proper spirit, is most effective.
A THANKSGIVING GROWL.
Oh, dear! do put some more chips on the fire,
And hurry up that oven! Just my luck--
To have the bread slack. Set that plate up higher!
And for goodness' sake do clear this truck
Away! Frogs' legs and marbles on my moulding-board!
What next I wonder? John Henry, wash your face;
And do get out from under foot, "Afford more
Cream?" Used all you had? If that's the case,
Skim all the pans. Do step a little spryer!
I wish I hadn't asked so many folks
To spend Thanksgiving. Good gracious! poke the fire
And put some water on. Lord, how it smokes!
I never was so tired in all my life!
And there's the cake to frost, and dough to mix
For tarts. I can't cut pumpkin with this knife!
Some women's husbands know enough to fix
The kitchen tools; but, for all mine would care,
I might tear pumpkin with my teeth. John Henry,
If you don't plant yourself on that 'ere chair,
I'll set you down so hard that you'll agree
You're stuck for good. Them cranberries are sour,
And taste like gall beside. Hand me some flour,
And do fly round. John Henry, wipe your nose!
I wonder how 'twill be when I am dead?
"How my nose'll be?" Yes, how _your nose'll_ be,
And how _your back_'ll be. If that ain't red
I'll miss my guess. I don't expect you'll see--
You nor your father neither--what I've done
And suffered in this house. As true's I live
Them pesky fowl ain't stuffed! The biggest one
Will hold two loaves of bread. Say, wipe that sieve,
And hand it here. You are the slowest poke
In all Fairmount. Lor'! there's Deacon Gubben's wife!
She'll be here to-morrow. That pan can soak
A little while. I never in my life
Saw such a lazy critter as she is.
If she stayed home, there wouldn't be a thing
To eat. You bet she'll fill up here! "It's riz?"
Well, so it has. John Henry! Good king!
How did that boy get out? You saw him go
With both fists full of raisins and a pile
Behind him, and you never let me know!
There! you've talked so much I clean forgot the rye.
I wonder if the Governor had to slave
As I do, if he would be so pesky fresh about
Thanksgiving Day? He'd been in his grave
With half my work. What, get along without
An Indian pudding? Well, that would be
A novelty. No friend or foe shall say
I'm close, or haven't as much variety
As other folks. There! I think I see my way
Quite clear. The onions are to peel. Let's see:
Turnips, potatoes, apples there to stew,
This squash to bake, and lick John Henry!
And after that--I really think I'm through.
CHAPTER VII.
PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY.
Mrs. Alice Wellington Rollins, in those interesting articles in the
_Critic_ which induced me to look further, says:
"We claim high rank for the humor of women because it is almost
exclusively of this higher, imaginative type. A woman rarely tells an
anecdote, or hoards up a good story, or comes in and describes to you
something funny that she has seen. Her humor is like a flash of
lightning from a clear sky, coming when you least expect it, when it
could not have been premeditated, and when, to the average
consciousness, there is not the slightest provocation to humor,
possessing thus in the very highest degree that element of surprise
which is not only a factor in all humor, but to our mind the most
important factor. You tell her that you cannot spend the winter with her
because you have promised to spend it with some one else, and she
exclaims: 'Oh, Ellen! why were you not born twins!' She has, perhaps,
recently built for herself a most charming home, and coming to see
yours, which happens to be just a trifle more luxurious and charming,
she remarks as she turns away: 'All I can say is, when you want to see
_squalor_, come and visit me in Oxford Street!' She puts down her heavy
coffee-cup of stone-china with its untasted coffee at a little country
inn, saying, with a sigh: 'It's no use; I can't get at it; it's like
trying to drink over a stone wall.' She writes in a letter: 'We parted
this morning with mutual satisfaction; that is, I suppose we did; I know
my satisfaction was mutual enough for two.' She asks her little restless
daughter in the most insinuating tones if she would not like to sit in
papa's lap and have him tell her a story; and when the little daughter
responds with a most uncompromising 'no!' turns her inducement into a
threat, and remarks with severity: 'Well, be a good girl, or you will
have to!' She complains, when you have kept her waiting while you were
buying undersleeves, that you must have bought 'undersleeves enough for
a centipede.' You ask how poor Mr. X---- is--the disconsolate widower
who a fortnight ago was completely prostrated by his wife's death, and
are told in calm and even tones that he is 'beginning to take notice.'
You tell her that one of the best fellows in the class has been unjustly
expelled, and that the class are to wear crape on their left arms for
thirty days, and that you only hope that the President will meet you in
the college-yard and ask why you wear it; to all of which she replies
soothingly, 'I wouldn't do that, Henry; for the President might tell you
not to mourn, as your friend was not lost, only _gone before_.' You tell
her of your stunned sensation on finding some of your literary work
complimented in the _Nation_, and she exclaims: 'I should think so! It
must be like meeting an Indian and seeing him put his hand into his
no-pocket to draw out a scented pocket-handkerchief, instead of a
tomahawk.' Or she writes that two Sunday-schools are trying to do all
the good they can, but that each is determined at any cost to do more
good than the other."
* * * * *
I have selected several specimens of this higher type of humor.
Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins was pre-eminently gifted in this direction. The
humor in her exquisite "New England Bygones" is so interwoven with the
simple pathos of her memories that it cannot be detached without
detriment to both. But I will venture to select three sketches from
OLD-TIME CHILD LIFE.
BY E.H. ARR.
Betsy had the reddest hair of any girl I ever knew. It was quite short
in front, and she had a way of twisting it, on either temple, into two
little buttons, which she fastened with pins. The rest of it she brought
quite far up on the top of her head, where she kept it in place with a
large-sized horn comb. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes,
in winter, were apt to be inflamed. She always seemed to have a mop in
her hand, and she had no respect for paint. She was as neat as old Dame
Safford herself, and was continually "straightening things out," as she
called it. Her temper, like her hair, was somewhat fiery; and when her
work did not suit her, she was prone to a gloomy view of life. If she
was to be believed, things were always "going to wrack and ruin" about
the house; and she had a queer way of taking time by the forelock. In
the morning it was "going on to twelve o'clock," and at noon it was
"going on to midnight."
She kept her six kitchen chairs in a row on one side of the room, and
as many flatirons in a line on the mantelpiece. Everything where she was
had, she said, to "stand just so;" and woe to the child who carried
crookedness into her straight lines! Betsy had a manner of her own, and
made a wonderful kind of a courtesy, with which her skirts puffed out
all around like a cheese. She always courtesied to Parson Meeker when
she met him, and said: "I hope to see you well, sir." Once she
courtesied in a prayer-meeting to a man who offered her a chair, and
told him, in a shrill voice, to "keep his setting," though she was "ever
so much obleeged" to him. This was when she was under conviction, and
Parson Meeker said he thought she had met with a change of heart. Father
Lathem's wife hoped so too, for then "there would be a chance of having
some Long-noses and Pudding-sweets left over in the orchard."
It was in time of the long drought, when fire ran over Grayface, and a
great comet appeared in the sky. Some of the people of Whitefield
thought the world was coming to an end. The comet stayed for weeks,
visible even at noon-day, stretching its tail from the zenith far toward
the western horizon, and at night staring in at windows with its eye of
fire. It was the talk of the people, who pondered over it with a
helpless wonder. I recall two Whitefield women as they stood, one
morning, bare-armed in a doorway, staring at and chattering about it.
One says they "might as well stop work" and "take it easy" while they
can. The other thinks the better way is to "keep on a stiddy jog until
it comes." They wish they knew "how near it is," and "what the tail
means anyway."
Betsy comes along with a pail, which she sets down, and then looks up to
the comet. The air is dense with smoke from Grayface, and the dry earth
is full of cracks. Betsy declares that it is "going on two months since
there has been any rain." Everything is "going to wrack and ruin," and
"if that thing up there should burst, there'll be an end to Whitefield."
Then she catches sight of me listening wide-mouthed, and she tells me
that I needn't suppose she is "going home to iron my pink muslin," for
she thinks the tail of the comet "has started, and is coming right down
to whisk it off from the line." I believe her, and distinctly remember
the terror that took hold of me as I rushed home and tore the pink
muslin from the line, lest it should be whisked off by the comet's tail.
When the drought broke, a single day's rain washed all the smoke from
the air. Directly, the tail of the comet began to fade, and all of a
sudden its fiery eye went out of the sky.
Some of the villagers thought it had "burst," others that it had "burned
out." Betsy said: "Whatever it was, it was a humbug;" and the wisest man
in Whitefield could neither tell whence it came nor whither it went. One
thing, however, was certain: Farmer Lathem said that never, since his
orchard began to bear, had he gathered such a crop of apples as he did,
despite the drought, in the year of the great comet.
MRS. MEEKER.
BY E.H. ARR.
When I read of Roman matrons I always think of Mrs. Meeker. Her features
were marked, and her eyes of deepest blue. She wore her hair combed
closely down over her ears, so that her forehead seemed to run up in a
point high upon her head: Its color was of reddish-brown, and, I am
sorry to say, so far as it was seen, it was not her own. It was called a
scratch, and Betsy said Mrs. Meeker "would look enough sight better if
she would leave it off." Whether any hair at all grew upon Mrs. Meeker's
head was a great problem with the village children, and nothing could
better illustrate the dignity of this woman than the fact that for more
than thirty years the whole neighborhood tried in vain to find out.
PARSON MEEKER.
BY E.H. ARR.
Every Sunday he preached two long sermons, each with five heads, and
each head itself divided. After the fifthly came an application, with an
exhortation at its close. The sermons were called very able, or, more
often, "strong discourses." I used to think this was because Mrs. Meeker
had stitched their leaves fast together. Betsy said they were just like
Deacon Saunders's breaking-up plough, "and went tearing right through
sin." The parson, when I knew him, was a little slow of speech and dull
of sight. He sometimes lost his place on his page. How afraid I used to
be lest, not finding it, he should repeat his heads! He always brought
himself up with a jerk, however, and sailed safely through to the
application.
When that came, Benny almost always gave me a jog with his elbow or
foot. Once he stuck a pin into my arm, which made me jump so that Deacon
Saunders, who sat behind, waked up with a loud snort. The deacon was
always talking about the sermons being "powerful in doctrine." When
Benny asked Betsy what doctrines were, she told him to "let doctrines
alone;" that they were "pizen things, only fit for hardened old
sinners."
* * * * *
There are many delightful articles which must be merely alluded to in
passing, as the "Old Salem Shops," by Eleanor Putnam, so delicate and
delicious that, once read, it will ever be a fragrant memory; Louise
Stockton's "Woman in the Restaurant" I want to give you, and Mrs.
Barrow's "Pennikitty People;" a chapter from Miss Baylor's "On This
Side," and the opening chapters of Miss Phelps's "Old Maids' Paradise;"
also the description of "Joppa," by Grace Denio Litchfield, in "Only an
Incident." There are others from which it is not possible to make
extracts. Miss Woolson's admirable "For the Major," though pathetic,
almost tragic, in its underlying feeling, is, at the same time, a story
of exquisite humor, from which, nevertheless, not a single sentence
could be quoted that would be called "funny." Her work, and that of
Frances Hodgson Burnett, as well as that of Miss Phelps and Mrs.
Spofford, shine with a silver thread of humor, worked too intimately
into the whole warp and woof to be extracted without injuring both the
solid material and the tinsel. To appreciate the point and delicacy of
their finest wit, you must read the whole story and grasp the entire
character or situation.
Mrs. E.W. Bellamy, a Southern lady, published in last year's _Atlantic
Monthly_ a sketch called "At Bent's Hotel," which ought to have a place
in this volume; but my publisher says authoritatively that there must be
a limit somewhere; so this gem must be included in--a second series!
* * * * *
There is so much truth as well as humor in the following article, that
it must be included. It gives in prose the agonies which Saxe told so
feelingly in verse:
A FATAL REPUTATION.
BY ISABEL FRANCES BELLOWS.
I am impelled to write this as an awful warning to young men and women
who are just entering upon life and its responsibilities. Years ago I
thoughtlessly took a false step, which at the time seemed trivial and of
little import, but which has since assumed colossal proportions that
threaten to overshadow much of the innocent happiness of my otherwise
placid existence. What wonder, then, that I try to avert this danger
from young and inexperienced minds who in their gay thoughtlessness rush
into the very jaws of the disaster, and before they are well aware find
they are entrapped for life, as there is no escape for those who have
thus brought their doom upon themselves.
I will try and relate how, like the Lady of Shalott, when I first began
to gaze upon the world of realities "the curse" came upon me. It was in
this wise:
I lived in my youth an almost cloistral life of seclusion and
self-absorption, from which I was suddenly shaken by circumstances, and
forced to mingle in the busy world; to which, after the first shock, I
was not at all averse, but found very interesting, and also--and there
was the weight that pulled me down--tolerably amusing. For I met some
curious people, and saw and heard some remarkable things; and as I went
among my friends I often used to give an account of my observations,
until at last I discovered that wherever I went, and under whatever
circumstances (except, of course, at the funeral of a member of the
family), I was expected to be amusing! I found myself in the same
relation to society that the clown bears to the circus-master who has
engaged him--he must either be funny or leave the troupe.
Now, I am unfortunate in having no particular accomplishments. I cannot
sing either the old songs or the new; neither am I a performer on divers
instruments. I can paint a little, but my paintings do not seem to rouse
any enthusiasm in the beholder, nor do they add an inspiring strain to
conversation. I can, indeed, make gingerbread and six different kinds of
pudding, but I hesitate to mention it, because the cook is far in
advance of me in all these particulars, not to mention numerous other
ways in which she excels. I have thus but one resource in life; and when
I give one or two instances of the humiliation and distress of mind to
which I have been subjected on its account I am sure I shall win a
sympathizing thought even from those who are more favored by nature, and
possibly save a few young spirits from the pain of treading in my
footsteps.
In the first place, I am not naturally witty. Epigrams do not rise
spontaneously to my lips, and it sometimes takes days and even weeks of
consideration after an opportunity of making one has occurred before the
appropriate words finally dawn upon me. By that time, of course, the
retort is what the Catholics call "a work of supererogation." I perhaps
possess a slight "sense of the humorous," which has undoubtedly given
rise to the fatal demand upon me, but I do not remember ever having been
very funny. There never was any danger of my experiencing difficulties
like Dr. Holmes on that famous occasion when he was as funny as he could
be. I have often been as funny as I could be, but the smallest of
buttons on the slenderest of threads never detached itself on my
account. I have never had to restrain my humorous remarks in the
slightest degree, but on the contrary have sometimes been driven into
making the most atrocious jokes, and even puns, because it was evident
something of the sort was expected from me--only, of course, something
better.
One occurrence of this kind will remain forever fixed in my memory. I
was invited to a picnic, that most ghastly device of the human mind for
playing at having a good time. At first I had declined to go, but it was
represented to me that no less than three families had company for whose
entertainment something must be done; that two young and interesting
friends of mine just about to be engaged to each other would be simply
inconsolable if the plan were given up; and, in short, that I should
show by not going an extremely hateful and unseemly spirit--"besides, it
wouldn't do to have it without you, my dear," continued my amiable
friend, "because you know you are always the life of the party." So I
sighed and consented.
The day arrived, and before nine o'clock in the morning the mercury
stood at ninety degrees in the shade. The cook overslept herself, and
breakfast was so late that William Henry missed the train into the city,
which didn't make it pleasanter for any of us. I had made an especially
delicate cake to take with me as my share of the feast, and while we
were at breakfast I heard a crash in the direction of the kitchen, and
hastening tremblingly to discover the origin of it I found the cake and
the plate containing it in one indistinguishable heap on the floor.
"It slipped between me two hands as if it was alive, bad luck to it,"
said the cook; "and it was meself that saw the heavy crack in the plate
before you set the cake onto it, mum!"
I took cookies and boiled eggs to the picnic.
The wreck had hardly been cleared away before my son and heir appeared
in the doorway with a hole of unimagined dimensions in his third worst
trousers. His second worst were already in the mending basket, so
nothing remained for me but to clothe him in his best suit and wonder
all day in which part of them I should find the largest hole when I came
home.
Lastly, I had just put on my hat, and was preparing to set forth, warm,
tired and demoralized, when my youngest, in her anxiety to bid me a
sufficiently affectionate farewell, lost her small balance, and came
rolling down-stairs after me. No serious harm was done, but it took
nearly an hour before I succeeded in soothing and comforting her
sufficiently to be able to leave her, with two brown-paper patches on
her head and elbow, in the care of the nurse.
When I arrived late, discouraged and with a headache, at the picnic
grounds, I found the assembled company sitting vapidly about among
mosquitoes and beetles, already looking bored to death, and I soon
perceived that it was expected of me to provide amusement and
entertainment for the crowd. I tried to rally, therefore, and proposed a
few games, which went off in a spiritless manner enough, and apparently
in consequence I began to be assailed with questions and remarks of a
reproachful character.
"Don't you feel well to-day?" "Has anything happened?" "You don't seem
as lively as usual!" No one took the slightest notice of my
explanations, until at last, goaded into desperation by one evil-minded
old woman, who asked me if it were true that my husband was involved in
the failure of Smith, Jones & Co., I launched out and became wildly and
disgracefully silly. Nothing seemed too foolish, too senseless to say if
it only answered the great purpose of keeping off the attack of personal
questions.
Thus the wretched day wore on, until at last it was time to go home, and
the first feeling approaching content was stealing into my weary bosom
as I gathered up my basket and shawls, when it was rudely dashed by the
following conversation, conducted by two ladies to whom I had been
introduced that day. They were standing at a little distance from the
rest of the company and from me, and evidently thought themselves far
enough away to talk quite loud, so that these words were plainly borne
to my ears:
"I hate to see people try to make themselves so conspicuous, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed; and to try to be funny when they haven't any fun in them."
"I can't imagine what Maria was thinking about to call her witty!"
"I know it. I should think such people had better keep quiet when they
haven't anything to say. I'm glad it's time to go home. Picnics are such
stupid things!"
What more was said I do not know, for I left the spot as quickly as
possible, making an inward resolution to avoid all picnics in the
future till I should arrive at my second childhood.
I cannot refrain from giving one other little instance of my sufferings
from this cause. I was again invited out; this time to a lunch party,
specially to meet the friend of a friend of mine. The very morning of
the day it was to take place I received a telegram stating that my
great-aunt had died suddenly in California. Now people don't usually
care much about their great-aunts. They can bear to be chastened in this
direction very comfortably; but I did care about mine. She had been very
kind to me, and though the width of a continent had separated us for the
last ten years her memory was still dear to me.
I sat down immediately to write a note excusing myself from my friend's
lunch party, when, just as I took the paper, it occurred to me that it
was rather a selfish thing to do. My friend's guests were invited, and
her arrangements all made; and as the visit of her friend was to be very
short the opportunity of our meeting would probably be lost. So I wrote
instead a note to the daughter of my great aunt, and when the time came
I went to the lunch party with a heavy heart. I had no opportunity of
telling my friend of the sad news I had received that morning, and I
suppose I may have been quiet; perhaps I even seemed indifferent, though
I tried not to be. I could not have been very successful, however, for I
was just going up-stairs to put on my
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