"Woe to the friendWhose evil stars have urged him forth to claimOn such a day the hospitable rites!Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesyShall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopesWith dinner of roast chicken, savory pie,Or tart, or pudding; pudding he nor tartThat day shall eat; nor, though the husband tryMending what can't be helped to kindle mirthFrom cheer deficient, shall his consort's browCheer up propitious; the unlucky guestIn silence dines, and early slinks away."
"Woe to the friendWhose evil stars have urged him forth to claimOn such a day the hospitable rites!Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesyShall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopesWith dinner of roast chicken, savory pie,Or tart, or pudding; pudding he nor tartThat day shall eat; nor, though the husband tryMending what can't be helped to kindle mirthFrom cheer deficient, shall his consort's browCheer up propitious; the unlucky guestIn 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 humorand 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 ifAnte(b) is come, and also howEle(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 thatwas 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 spelleddrummy, being addressed to a lady who was probably fond of warlike instruments, and who had a singular predilection for acanon. 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. ButHardius, a contemporary critic, contends, with more probability, that it ought to be writtenDrome, 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.ColmanusandHoratius Strawberryensisinsist that it ought to be writtenDromo, 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 writtenAunty. But here, again, are various readings. Philologists of yet greater name affirm that it was meant to designatepre-eminence, and therefore ought to be writtenante, 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 spelledanti; 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 forantelope, and is emblematically used to express an elegant and slender animal, or that it is an elongation ofant, theemblem of virtuous citizenship."
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 spelleddrummy, being addressed to a lady who was probably fond of warlike instruments, and who had a singular predilection for acanon. 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. ButHardius, a contemporary critic, contends, with more probability, that it ought to be writtenDrome, 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.ColmanusandHoratius Strawberryensisinsist that it ought to be writtenDromo, 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 writtenAunty. But here, again, are various readings. Philologists of yet greater name affirm that it was meant to designatepre-eminence, and therefore ought to be writtenante, 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 spelledanti; 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 forantelope, and is emblematically used to express an elegant and slender animal, or that it is an elongation ofant, theemblem 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
"Ben Jonson has a play calledThe 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' tothat 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, andhigh 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 leastexigeanteof 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."
"She is a gifted personage, having, besides her great talents, conversation the leastexigeanteof 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:
"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 thesensible 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.")
"Here I am again sitting with a pen in my hand, impelled by a desire for writing, yet with nothing particularto 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:"
Heigh for ould Ireland! Oh, would you require a landWhere men by nature are all quite the thing,Where pure inspiration has taught the whole nationTo 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 withwhiskey, 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 collegeThemselves 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 fellowsWill thaw into rapture at each lovely dame.There, too, sans apology, tea, tarts, tautology,Are given with zoölogy, to grave and gay;Thus fun and philosophy, supping and sophistrySend all to England home, happy and gay.
Heigh for ould Ireland! Oh, would you require a landWhere men by nature are all quite the thing,Where pure inspiration has taught the whole nationTo 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 withwhiskey, 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 collegeThemselves 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 fellowsWill thaw into rapture at each lovely dame.There, too, sans apology, tea, tarts, tautology,Are given with zoölogy, to grave and gay;Thus fun and philosophy, supping and sophistrySend 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."
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 thenecessariesof life, and she playfully gives a list of articles that would be included in that word:
"An inventory clearOf 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 fewWho can refuse? they're but the sex's due."
"An inventory clearOf 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 fewWho 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 feminineJohnsonese, 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 scanSome idiosyncrasy that marks thee outA defunct pillow-case."
"Methinks I scanSome idiosyncrasy that marks thee outA 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:
A NEW ENGLAND BALLAD.
Stout Joshua was a farmer's son,And a pondering he satOne night when the fagots crackling burned,And purred the tabby cat.Joshua was a well-grown youth,As one might plainly seeBy the sleeves that vainly tried to reachHis hands upon his knee.His splay-feet stood all parrot-toedIn cowhide shoes arrayed,And his hair seemed cut across his browBy rule and plummet laid.And what was Joshua pondering on,With his widely staring eyes,And his nostrils opening sensiblyTo ease his frequent sighs?Not often will a lover's lipsThe 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'tairnestor 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,Andcast sheep's eyesat me."Josh said no more, but straight went outAnd 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 aftWith twice twelve bloody eyes.The next night was the happy timeWhen 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 wallDisplay their dainty line;While the new ribbon decks the waistOf many a waiting lass,Who steals a conscious look of prideToward her answering glass.In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;Of Joshua thought not she,But of a hearty sailor ladAcross 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 aimAnd 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 smiledBetween each tender aim,And still the cold and bloody ballsIn frightful quickness came.Until poor Nancy flew with screams,To shun the amorous sport,And Joshua found tocast sheep's eyesWas not the way to court.
Stout Joshua was a farmer's son,And a pondering he satOne night when the fagots crackling burned,And purred the tabby cat.
Joshua was a well-grown youth,As one might plainly seeBy the sleeves that vainly tried to reachHis hands upon his knee.
His splay-feet stood all parrot-toedIn cowhide shoes arrayed,And his hair seemed cut across his browBy rule and plummet laid.
And what was Joshua pondering on,With his widely staring eyes,And his nostrils opening sensiblyTo ease his frequent sighs?
Not often will a lover's lipsThe 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'tairnestor 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,Andcast sheep's eyesat me."
Josh said no more, but straight went outAnd 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 aftWith twice twelve bloody eyes.
The next night was the happy timeWhen 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 wallDisplay their dainty line;
While the new ribbon decks the waistOf many a waiting lass,Who steals a conscious look of prideToward her answering glass.
In pensive mood sat Nancy Bell;Of Joshua thought not she,But of a hearty sailor ladAcross 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 aimAnd 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 smiledBetween each tender aim,And still the cold and bloody ballsIn frightful quickness came.
Until poor Nancy flew with screams,To shun the amorous sport,And Joshua found tocast sheep's eyesWas 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 theNew Mirror, an appeal which he called "very clever, adroit, and fanciful."
"You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this season.Suchbeautiful 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 exquisitebalzarines, to be seen any day at Stewart's and elsewhere. Well, you know (this youmustknow) 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 sofathis morning to read theNew 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 theNew Mirrorso 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 theNew MirrorPAY for acceptable articles, maybe not.Comprenez vous?Oh, I do hope that beautifulbalzarinelike Bel's will not be gone before another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the nextMirror; 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,
"You know the shops in Broadway are very tempting this season.Suchbeautiful 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 exquisitebalzarines, to be seen any day at Stewart's and elsewhere. Well, you know (this youmustknow) 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 sofathis morning to read theNew 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 theNew Mirrorso 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 theNew MirrorPAY for acceptable articles, maybe not.Comprenez vous?Oh, I do hope that beautifulbalzarinelike Bel's will not be gone before another Saturday! You will not forget to answer me in the nextMirror; 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! Onconditionthat 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 andbalzarine, we will pay the bills. Write us thereafter a sketch of Bel and yourself as cleverly done as thisletter, 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.
"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 getout, '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 topieces 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'soagreeable! 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.
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 aredown 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 youdosee, 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 trunkhad 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; "theycan'tcome;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 thecompany. 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! wecan't stayhere!" 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 asight of wearin 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 babiesstrike incon 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!Iwon't sleep on one of those top shelves,Iknow. 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 abonnet, 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 whatisa 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 anydangerin 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 andstare. 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,toedtheir 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 sleepso much togetherin 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 forpleasure, to take a good stock both of patience and clean towels with them, for we think that they will find abundant need for both.
"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 usedad nauseamfor 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 encyclopædia 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," mustwait for that encyclopædia. 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.
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 hewasasleep—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 bymagiqueto fiery land."
Fairy-land, probably. But Miss Lucinda did not perceive theéquivoque.
"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.