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.