PROSE, BUT NOT PROSY.
Mrs. Alice Wellington Rollins, in those interesting articles in the
_Critic_ which induced me to look further, says:
"We claim high rank for the humor of women because it is almost
exclusively of this higher, imaginative type. A woman rarely tells an
anecdote, or hoards up a good story, or comes in and describes to you
something funny that she has seen. Her humor is like a flash of
lightning from a clear sky, coming when you least expect it, when it
could not have been premeditated, and when, to the average
consciousness, there is not the slightest provocation to humor,
possessing thus in the very highest degree that element of surprise
which is not only a factor in all humor, but to our mind the most
important factor. You tell her that you cannot spend the winter with her
because you have promised to spend it with some one else, and she
exclaims: 'Oh, Ellen! why were you not born twins!' She has, perhaps,
recently built for herself a most charming home, and coming to see
yours, which happens to be just a trifle more luxurious and charming,
she remarks as she turns away: 'All I can say is, when you want to see
_squalor_, come and visit me in Oxford Street!' She puts down her heavy
coffee-cup of stone-china with its untasted coffee at a little country
inn, saying, with a sigh: 'It's no use; I can't get at it; it's like
trying to drink over a stone wall.' She writes in a letter: 'We parted
this morning with mutual satisfaction; that is, I suppose we did; I know
my satisfaction was mutual enough for two.' She asks her little restless
daughter in the most insinuating tones if she would not like to sit in
papa's lap and have him tell her a story; and when the little daughter
responds with a most uncompromising 'no!' turns her inducement into a
threat, and remarks with severity: 'Well, be a good girl, or you will
have to!' She complains, when you have kept her waiting while you were
buying undersleeves, that you must have bought 'undersleeves enough for
a centipede.' You ask how poor Mr. X---- is--the disconsolate widower
who a fortnight ago was completely prostrated by his wife's death, and
are told in calm and even tones that he is 'beginning to take notice.'
You tell her that one of the best fellows in the class has been unjustly
expelled, and that the class are to wear crape on their left arms for
thirty days, and that you only hope that the President will meet you in
the college-yard and ask why you wear it; to all of which she replies
soothingly, 'I wouldn't do that, Henry; for the President might tell you
not to mourn, as your friend was not lost, only _gone before_.' You tell
her of your stunned sensation on finding some of your literary work
complimented in the _Nation_, and she exclaims: 'I should think so! It
must be like meeting an Indian and seeing him put his hand into his
no-pocket to draw out a scented pocket-handkerchief, instead of a
tomahawk.' Or she writes that two Sunday-schools are trying to do all
the good they can, but that each is determined at any cost to do more
good than the other."
* * * * *
I have selected several specimens of this higher type of humor.
Mrs. Ellen H. Rollins was pre-eminently gifted in this direction. The
humor in her exquisite "New England Bygones" is so interwoven with the
simple pathos of her memories that it cannot be detached without
detriment to both. But I will venture to select three sketches from
OLD-TIME CHILD LIFE.
BY E.H. ARR.
Betsy had the reddest hair of any girl I ever knew. It was quite short
in front, and she had a way of twisting it, on either temple, into two
little buttons, which she fastened with pins. The rest of it she brought
quite far up on the top of her head, where she kept it in place with a
large-sized horn comb. Her face was covered with freckles, and her eyes,
in winter, were apt to be inflamed. She always seemed to have a mop in
her hand, and she had no respect for paint. She was as neat as old Dame
Safford herself, and was continually "straightening things out," as she
called it. Her temper, like her hair, was somewhat fiery; and when her
work did not suit her, she was prone to a gloomy view of life. If she
was to be believed, things were always "going to wrack and ruin" about
the house; and she had a queer way of taking time by the forelock. In
the morning it was "going on to twelve o'clock," and at noon it was
"going on to midnight."
She kept her six kitchen chairs in a row on one side of the room, and
as many flatirons in a line on the mantelpiece. Everything where she was
had, she said, to "stand just so;" and woe to the child who carried
crookedness into her straight lines! Betsy had a manner of her own, and
made a wonderful kind of a courtesy, with which her skirts puffed out
all around like a cheese. She always courtesied to Parson Meeker when
she met him, and said: "I hope to see you well, sir." Once she
courtesied in a prayer-meeting to a man who offered her a chair, and
told him, in a shrill voice, to "keep his setting," though she was "ever
so much obleeged" to him. This was when she was under conviction, and
Parson Meeker said he thought she had met with a change of heart. Father
Lathem's wife hoped so too, for then "there would be a chance of having
some Long-noses and Pudding-sweets left over in the orchard."
It was in time of the long drought, when fire ran over Grayface, and a
great comet appeared in the sky. Some of the people of Whitefield
thought the world was coming to an end. The comet stayed for weeks,
visible even at noon-day, stretching its tail from the zenith far toward
the western horizon, and at night staring in at windows with its eye of
fire. It was the talk of the people, who pondered over it with a
helpless wonder. I recall two Whitefield women as they stood, one
morning, bare-armed in a doorway, staring at and chattering about it.
One says they "might as well stop work" and "take it easy" while they
can. The other thinks the better way is to "keep on a stiddy jog until
it comes." They wish they knew "how near it is," and "what the tail
means anyway."
Betsy comes along with a pail, which she sets down, and then looks up to
the comet. The air is dense with smoke from Grayface, and the dry earth
is full of cracks. Betsy declares that it is "going on two months since
there has been any rain." Everything is "going to wrack and ruin," and
"if that thing up there should burst, there'll be an end to Whitefield."
Then she catches sight of me listening wide-mouthed, and she tells me
that I needn't suppose she is "going home to iron my pink muslin," for
she thinks the tail of the comet "has started, and is coming right down
to whisk it off from the line." I believe her, and distinctly remember
the terror that took hold of me as I rushed home and tore the pink
muslin from the line, lest it should be whisked off by the comet's tail.
When the drought broke, a single day's rain washed all the smoke from
the air. Directly, the tail of the comet began to fade, and all of a
sudden its fiery eye went out of the sky.
Some of the villagers thought it had "burst," others that it had "burned
out." Betsy said: "Whatever it was, it was a humbug;" and the wisest man
in Whitefield could neither tell whence it came nor whither it went. One
thing, however, was certain: Farmer Lathem said that never, since his
orchard began to bear, had he gathered such a crop of apples as he did,
despite the drought, in the year of the great comet.
MRS. MEEKER.
BY E.H. ARR.
When I read of Roman matrons I always think of Mrs. Meeker. Her features
were marked, and her eyes of deepest blue. She wore her hair combed
closely down over her ears, so that her forehead seemed to run up in a
point high upon her head: Its color was of reddish-brown, and, I am
sorry to say, so far as it was seen, it was not her own. It was called a
scratch, and Betsy said Mrs. Meeker "would look enough sight better if
she would leave it off." Whether any hair at all grew upon Mrs. Meeker's
head was a great problem with the village children, and nothing could
better illustrate the dignity of this woman than the fact that for more
than thirty years the whole neighborhood tried in vain to find out.
PARSON MEEKER.
BY E.H. ARR.
Every Sunday he preached two long sermons, each with five heads, and
each head itself divided. After the fifthly came an application, with an
exhortation at its close. The sermons were called very able, or, more
often, "strong discourses." I used to think this was because Mrs. Meeker
had stitched their leaves fast together. Betsy said they were just like
Deacon Saunders's breaking-up plough, "and went tearing right through
sin." The parson, when I knew him, was a little slow of speech and dull
of sight. He sometimes lost his place on his page. How afraid I used to
be lest, not finding it, he should repeat his heads! He always brought
himself up with a jerk, however, and sailed safely through to the
application.
When that came, Benny almost always gave me a jog with his elbow or
foot. Once he stuck a pin into my arm, which made me jump so that Deacon
Saunders, who sat behind, waked up with a loud snort. The deacon was
always talking about the sermons being "powerful in doctrine." When
Benny asked Betsy what doctrines were, she told him to "let doctrines
alone;" that they were "pizen things, only fit for hardened old
sinners."
* * * * *
There are many delightful articles which must be merely alluded to in
passing, as the "Old Salem Shops," by Eleanor Putnam, so delicate and
delicious that, once read, it will ever be a fragrant memory; Louise
Stockton's "Woman in the Restaurant" I want to give you, and Mrs.
Barrow's "Pennikitty People;" a chapter from Miss Baylor's "On This
Side," and the opening chapters of Miss Phelps's "Old Maids' Paradise;"
also the description of "Joppa," by Grace Denio Litchfield, in "Only an
Incident." There are others from which it is not possible to make
extracts. Miss Woolson's admirable "For the Major," though pathetic,
almost tragic, in its underlying feeling, is, at the same time, a story
of exquisite humor, from which, nevertheless, not a single sentence
could be quoted that would be called "funny." Her work, and that of
Frances Hodgson Burnett, as well as that of Miss Phelps and Mrs.
Spofford, shine with a silver thread of humor, worked too intimately
into the whole warp and woof to be extracted without injuring both the
solid material and the tinsel. To appreciate the point and delicacy of
their finest wit, you must read the whole story and grasp the entire
character or situation.
Mrs. E.W. Bellamy, a Southern lady, published in last year's _Atlantic
Monthly_ a sketch called "At Bent's Hotel," which ought to have a place
in this volume; but my publisher says authoritatively that there must be
a limit somewhere; so this gem must be included in--a second series!
* * * * *
There is so much truth as well as humor in the following article, that
it must be included. It gives in prose the agonies which Saxe told so
feelingly in verse:
A FATAL REPUTATION.
BY ISABEL FRANCES BELLOWS.
I am impelled to write this as an awful warning to young men and women
who are just entering upon life and its responsibilities. Years ago I
thoughtlessly took a false step, which at the time seemed trivial and of
little import, but which has since assumed colossal proportions that
threaten to overshadow much of the innocent happiness of my otherwise
placid existence. What wonder, then, that I try to avert this danger
from young and inexperienced minds who in their gay thoughtlessness rush
into the very jaws of the disaster, and before they are well aware find
they are entrapped for life, as there is no escape for those who have
thus brought their doom upon themselves.
I will try and relate how, like the Lady of Shalott, when I first began
to gaze upon the world of realities "the curse" came upon me. It was in
this wise:
I lived in my youth an almost cloistral life of seclusion and
self-absorption, from which I was suddenly shaken by circumstances, and
forced to mingle in the busy world; to which, after the first shock, I
was not at all averse, but found very interesting, and also--and there
was the weight that pulled me down--tolerably amusing. For I met some
curious people, and saw and heard some remarkable things; and as I went
among my friends I often used to give an account of my observations,
until at last I discovered that wherever I went, and under whatever
circumstances (except, of course, at the funeral of a member of the
family), I was expected to be amusing! I found myself in the same
relation to society that the clown bears to the circus-master who has
engaged him--he must either be funny or leave the troupe.
Now, I am unfortunate in having no particular accomplishments. I cannot
sing either the old songs or the new; neither am I a performer on divers
instruments. I can paint a little, but my paintings do not seem to rouse
any enthusiasm in the beholder, nor do they add an inspiring strain to
conversation. I can, indeed, make gingerbread and six different kinds of
pudding, but I hesitate to mention it, because the cook is far in
advance of me in all these particulars, not to mention numerous other
ways in which she excels. I have thus but one resource in life; and when
I give one or two instances of the humiliation and distress of mind to
which I have been subjected on its account I am sure I shall win a
sympathizing thought even from those who are more favored by nature, and
possibly save a few young spirits from the pain of treading in my
footsteps.
In the first place, I am not naturally witty. Epigrams do not rise
spontaneously to my lips, and it sometimes takes days and even weeks of
consideration after an opportunity of making one has occurred before the
appropriate words finally dawn upon me. By that time, of course, the
retort is what the Catholics call "a work of supererogation." I perhaps
possess a slight "sense of the humorous," which has undoubtedly given
rise to the fatal demand upon me, but I do not remember ever having been
very funny. There never was any danger of my experiencing difficulties
like Dr. Holmes on that famous occasion when he was as funny as he could
be. I have often been as funny as I could be, but the smallest of
buttons on the slenderest of threads never detached itself on my
account. I have never had to restrain my humorous remarks in the
slightest degree, but on the contrary have sometimes been driven into
making the most atrocious jokes, and even puns, because it was evident
something of the sort was expected from me--only, of course, something
better.
One occurrence of this kind will remain forever fixed in my memory. I
was invited to a picnic, that most ghastly device of the human mind for
playing at having a good time. At first I had declined to go, but it was
represented to me that no less than three families had company for whose
entertainment something must be done; that two young and interesting
friends of mine just about to be engaged to each other would be simply
inconsolable if the plan were given up; and, in short, that I should
show by not going an extremely hateful and unseemly spirit--"besides, it
wouldn't do to have it without you, my dear," continued my amiable
friend, "because you know you are always the life of the party." So I
sighed and consented.
The day arrived, and before nine o'clock in the morning the mercury
stood at ninety degrees in the shade. The cook overslept herself, and
breakfast was so late that William Henry missed the train into the city,
which didn't make it pleasanter for any of us. I had made an especially
delicate cake to take with me as my share of the feast, and while we
were at breakfast I heard a crash in the direction of the kitchen, and
hastening tremblingly to discover the origin of it I found the cake and
the plate containing it in one indistinguishable heap on the floor.
"It slipped between me two hands as if it was alive, bad luck to it,"
said the cook; "and it was meself that saw the heavy crack in the plate
before you set the cake onto it, mum!"
I took cookies and boiled eggs to the picnic.
The wreck had hardly been cleared away before my son and heir appeared
in the doorway with a hole of unimagined dimensions in his third worst
trousers. His second worst were already in the mending basket, so
nothing remained for me but to clothe him in his best suit and wonder
all day in which part of them I should find the largest hole when I came
home.
Lastly, I had just put on my hat, and was preparing to set forth, warm,
tired and demoralized, when my youngest, in her anxiety to bid me a
sufficiently affectionate farewell, lost her small balance, and came
rolling down-stairs after me. No serious harm was done, but it took
nearly an hour before I succeeded in soothing and comforting her
sufficiently to be able to leave her, with two brown-paper patches on
her head and elbow, in the care of the nurse.
When I arrived late, discouraged and with a headache, at the picnic
grounds, I found the assembled company sitting vapidly about among
mosquitoes and beetles, already looking bored to death, and I soon
perceived that it was expected of me to provide amusement and
entertainment for the crowd. I tried to rally, therefore, and proposed a
few games, which went off in a spiritless manner enough, and apparently
in consequence I began to be assailed with questions and remarks of a
reproachful character.
"Don't you feel well to-day?" "Has anything happened?" "You don't seem
as lively as usual!" No one took the slightest notice of my
explanations, until at last, goaded into desperation by one evil-minded
old woman, who asked me if it were true that my husband was involved in
the failure of Smith, Jones & Co., I launched out and became wildly and
disgracefully silly. Nothing seemed too foolish, too senseless to say if
it only answered the great purpose of keeping off the attack of personal
questions.
Thus the wretched day wore on, until at last it was time to go home, and
the first feeling approaching content was stealing into my weary bosom
as I gathered up my basket and shawls, when it was rudely dashed by the
following conversation, conducted by two ladies to whom I had been
introduced that day. They were standing at a little distance from the
rest of the company and from me, and evidently thought themselves far
enough away to talk quite loud, so that these words were plainly borne
to my ears:
"I hate to see people try to make themselves so conspicuous, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed; and to try to be funny when they haven't any fun in them."
"I can't imagine what Maria was thinking about to call her witty!"
"I know it. I should think such people had better keep quiet when they
haven't anything to say. I'm glad it's time to go home. Picnics are such
stupid things!"
What more was said I do not know, for I left the spot as quickly as
possible, making an inward resolution to avoid all picnics in the
future till I should arrive at my second childhood.
I cannot refrain from giving one other little instance of my sufferings
from this cause. I was again invited out; this time to a lunch party,
specially to meet the friend of a friend of mine. The very morning of
the day it was to take place I received a telegram stating that my
great-aunt had died suddenly in California. Now people don't usually
care much about their great-aunts. They can bear to be chastened in this
direction very comfortably; but I did care about mine. She had been very
kind to me, and though the width of a continent had separated us for the
last ten years her memory was still dear to me.
I sat down immediately to write a note excusing myself from my friend's
lunch party, when, just as I took the paper, it occurred to me that it
was rather a selfish thing to do. My friend's guests were invited, and
her arrangements all made; and as the visit of her friend was to be very
short the opportunity of our meeting would probably be lost. So I wrote
instead a note to the daughter of my great aunt, and when the time came
I went to the lunch party with a heavy heart. I had no opportunity of
telling my friend of the sad news I had received that morning, and I
suppose I may have been quiet; perhaps I even seemed indifferent, though
I tried not to be. I could not have been very successful, however, for I
was just going up-stairs to put on my "things" to go home, when I heard
this little conversation in the dressing-room:
"It's too bad she wasn't more interesting to-day, but you never can tell
how it will be. She will do as she likes, and that's the end of it."
"Yes," said another voice, "I think she is rather a moody person anyway;
she won't say a word if she doesn't feel like it."
"'Sh--'sh--here she comes," said another, with the tone and look that
told me it was I of whom they were talking.
And so I adjure all youthful and hopeful persons, who have a tendency to
be funny, to keep it a profound secret from the world. Indulge in your
propensities to any extent in your family circle; keep your immediate
relatives, if you like, in convulsions of inextinguishable laughter all
the time; but when you mingle in society guard your secret with your
life. Never make a joke, and, if necessary, never take one; and by so
doing you shall peradventure escape that wrath to come to which I have
fallen an innocent victim, and which I doubt not will bring me to an
untimely end.--_The Independent._
* * * * *
And a few pages from Miss Murfree, who has shown such rare power in her
short character sketches.
A BLACKSMITH IN LOVE.
BY CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.
The pine-knots flamed and glistened under the great wash-kettle. A
tree-toad was persistently calling for rain in the dry distance. The
girl, gravely impassive, beat the clothes with the heavy paddle. Her
mother shortly ceased to prod the white heaps in the boiling water, and
presently took up the thread of her discourse.
"An' 'Vander hev got ter be a mighty suddint man. I hearn tell, when I
war down ter M'ria's house ter the quiltin', ez how in that sorter
fight an' scrimmage they hed at the mill las' month, he war powerful
ill-conducted. Nobody hed thought of hevin' much of a fight--thar hed
been jes' a few licks passed atwixt the men thar; but the fust finger ez
war laid on this boy, he jes' lit out, an' fit like a catamount. Right
an' lef' he lay about him with his fists, an' he drawed his
huntin'-knife on some of 'em. The men at the mill war in no wise pleased
with him."
"'Pears like ter me ez 'Vander air a peaceable boy enough, ef he ain't
jawed at an' air lef' be," drawled Cynthia.
Her mother was embarrassed for a moment. Then, with a look both sly and
wise, she made an admission--a qualified admission. "Waal,
wimmen--ef--ef--ef they air young an' toler'ble hard-headed _yit_, air
likely ter jaw _some_, ennyhow. An' a gal oughtn't ter marry a man ez
hev sot his heart on bein' lef' in peace. He is apt ter be a mighty sour
an' disapp'inted critter."
This sudden turn to the conversation invested all that had been said
with new meaning, and revealed a subtle diplomatic intention. The girl
seemed deliberately to review it as she paused in her work. Then, with a
rising flush: "I ain't studyin' 'bout marryin' nobody," she asserted
staidly. "I hev laid off ter live single."
Mrs. Ware had overshot the mark, but she retorted, gallantly reckless:
"That's what yer Aunt Malviny useter declar' fur gospel sure, when she
war a gal. An' she hev got ten chil'ren, an' hev buried two husbands;
an' ef all they say air true, she's tollin' in the third man now. She's
a mighty spry, good-featured woman, an' a fust-rate manager, yer Aunt
Malviny air, an' both her husbands lef' her suthin--cows, or wagons, or
land. An' they war quiet men when they war alive, an' stays whar they
air put now that they air dead; not like old Parson Hoodenpyle, what his
wife hears stumpin' round the house an' preachin' every night, though
she air ez deef ez a post, an' he hev been in glory twenty year--twenty
year an' better. Yer Aunt Malviny hed luck, so mebbe 'tain't no killin'
complaint fur a gal ter git ter talking like a fool about marryin' an'
sech. Leastwise I ain't minded ter sorrow."
She looked at her daughter with a gay grin, which, distorted by her
toothless gums and the wreathing steam from the kettle, enhanced her
witch-like aspect and was spuriously malevolent. She did not notice the
stir of an approach through the brambly tangles of the heights above
until it was close at hand; as she turned, she thought only of the
mountain cattle and to see the red cow's picturesque head and crumpled
horns thrust over the sassafras bushes, or to hear the brindle's
clanking bell. It was certainly less unexpected to Cynthia when a young
mountaineer, clad in brown jean trousers and a checked homespun shirt,
emerged upon the rocky slope. He still wore his blacksmith's leather
apron, and his powerful corded hammer-arm was bare beneath his
tightly-rolled sleeve. He was tall and heavily built; his sunburned face
was square, with a strong lower jaw, and his features were accented by
fine lines of charcoal, as if the whole were a clever sketch.
His black eyes held fierce intimations, but there was mobility of
expression about them that suggested changing impulses, strong but
fleeting. He was like his forge-fire; though the heat might be intense
for a time, it fluctuated with the breath of the bellows. Just now he
was meekly quailing before the old woman, whom he evidently had not
thought to find here. It was as apt an illustration as might be,
perhaps, of the inferiority of strength to finesse. She seemed an
inconsiderable adversary, as, haggard, lean, and prematurely aged, she
swayed on her prodding-stick about the huge kettle; but she was as a
veritable David to this big young Goliath, though she, too, flung hardly
more than a pebble at him.
"Laws-a-me!" she cried, in shrill, toothless glee; "ef hyar ain't
'Vander Price! What brung ye down hyar along o' we-uns, 'Vander?" she
continued, with simulated anxiety. "Hev that thar red heifer o' ourn
lept over the fence agin, an' got inter Pete's corn? Waal, sir, ef she
ain't the headin'est heifer!"
"I hain't seen none o' yer heifer, ez I knows on," replied the young
blacksmith, with gruff, drawling deprecation. Then he tried to regain
his natural manner. "I kem down hyar," he remarked, in an off-hand way,
"ter git a drink o' water." He glanced furtively at the girl, then
looked quickly away at the gallant red-bird, still gayly parading among
the leaves.
The old woman grinned with delight. "Now, ef that ain't s'prisin'," she
declared. "Ef we hed knowed ez Lost Creek war a-goin' dry over yander
a-nigh the shop, so ye an' Pete would hev ter kem hyar thirstin' fur
water, we-uns would hev brung suthin' down hyar ter drink out'n. We-uns
hain't got no gourd hyar, hev we, Cynthy?"
"'Thout it air the little gourd with the saft-soap in it," said Cynthia,
confused and blushing. Her mother broke into a high, loud laugh.
"Ye ain't wantin' ter gin 'Vander the soap-gourd ter drink out'n,
Cynthy! Leastwise, I ain't goin' ter gin it ter Pete. Fur I s'pose ef ye
hev ter kem a haffen mile ter git a drink, 'Vander, ez surely Pete'll
hev ter kem, too. Waal, waal, who would hev b'lieved ez Lost Creek would
go dry nigh the shop, an' yit be a-scuttlin' along like that
hyarabouts!" and she pointed with her bony finger at the swift flow of
the water.
He was forced to abandon his clumsy pretence of thirst. "Lost Creek
ain't gone dry nowhar, ez I knows on," he admitted, mechanically rolling
the sleeve of his hammer-arm up and down as he talked.
* * * * *
From Miss Woolson's story of "Anne," I give the pen-portrait of the
precise
"MISS LOIS."
"Codfish balls for breakfast on Sunday morning, of course," said Miss
Lois, "and fried hasty-pudding. On Wednesdays, a boiled dinner. Pies on
Tuesdays and Saturdays."
The pins stood in straight rows on her pincushion; three times each week
every room in the house was swept, and the floors, as well as the
furniture, dusted. Beans were baked in an iron pot on Saturday night,
and sweet-cake was made on Thursday. Winter or summer, through scarcity
or plenty, Miss Lois never varied her established routine, thereby
setting an example, she said, to the idle and shiftless. And certainly
she was a faithful guide-post, continually pointing out an industrious
and systematic way, which, however, to the end of time, no
French-blooded, French-hearted person will ever travel, unless dragged
by force. The villagers preferred their lake trout to Miss Lois's salt
codfish, their tartines to her corn-meal puddings, and their
_eau-de-vie_ to her green tea; they loved their disorder and their
comfort; her bar soap and scrubbing-brush were a horror to their eyes.
They washed the household clothes two or three times a year. Was not
that enough? Of what use the endless labor of this sharp-nosed woman,
with glasses over her eyes, at the church-house? Were not, perhaps, the
glasses the consequence of such toil? And her figure of a long leanness
also?
The element of real heroism, however, came into Miss Lois's life in her
persistent effort to employ Indian servants. Through long years had she
persisted, through long years would she continue to persist. A
succession of Chippewa squaws broke, stole, and skirmished their way
through her kitchen, with various degrees of success, generally in the
end departing suddenly at night with whatever booty they could lay their
hands on. It is but justice to add, however, that this was not much, a
rigid system of keys and excellent locks prevailing in the well-watched
household. Miss Lois's conscience would not allow her to employ
half-breeds, who were sometimes endurable servants; duty required, she
said, that she should have full-blooded natives. And she had them. She
always began to teach them the alphabet within three days after their
arrival, and the spectacle of a tearful, freshly-caught Indian girl,
very wretched in her calico dress and white apron, worn out with the
ways of the kettles and the brasses, dejected over the fish-balls, and
appalled by the pudding, standing confronted by a large alphabet on the
well-scoured table, and Miss Lois by her side with a pointer, was
frequent and even regular in its occurrence, the only change being in
the personality of the learners. No one of them had ever gone through
the letters, but Miss Lois was not discouraged.
THE CIRCUS AT DENBY.
BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT.
I cannot truthfully say that it was a good show; it was somewhat dreary,
now that I think of it quietly and without excitement. The creatures
looked tired, and as if they had been on the road for a great many
years. The animals were all old, and there was a shabby great elephant
whose look of general discouragement went to my heart, for it seemed as
if he were miserably conscious of a misspent life. He stood dejected and
motionless at one side of the tent, and it was hard to believe that
there was a spark of vitality left in him. A great number of the people
had never seen an elephant before, and we heard a thin, little old man,
who stood near us, say delightedly: "There's the old creatur', and no
mistake, Ann 'Liza. I wanted to see him most of anything. My sakes
alive, ain't he big!"
And Ann 'Liza, who was stout and sleepy-looking, droned out: "Ye-es,
there's consider'ble of him; but he looks as if he ain't got no
animation."
Kate and I turned away and laughed, while Mrs. Kew said, confidentially,
as the couple moved away: "_She_ needn't be a reflectin' on the poor
beast. That's Mis' Seth Tanner, and there isn't a woman in Deep Haven
nor East Parish to be named the same day with her for laziness. I'm glad
she didn't catch sight of me; she'd have talked about nothing for a
fortnight." There was a picture of a huge snake in Deep Haven, and I
was just wondering where he could be, or if there ever had been one,
when we heard a boy ask the same question of the man whose thankless
task it was to stir up the lions with a stick to make them roar. "The
snake's dead," he answered, good-naturedly. "Didn't you have to dig an
awful long grave for him?" asked the boy; but the man said he reckoned
they curled him up some, and smiled as he turned to his lions, that
looked as if they needed a tonic. Everybody lingered longest before the
monkeys, that seemed to be the only lively creatures in the whole
collection....
Coming out of the great tent was disagreeable enough, and we seemed to
have chosen the worst time, for the crowd pushed fiercely, though I
suppose nobody was in the least hurry, and we were all severely jammed,
while from somewhere underneath came the wails of a deserted dog. We had
not meant to see the side shows; but when we came in sight of the
picture of the Kentucky giantess, we noticed that Mrs. Kew looked at it
wistfully, and we immediately asked if she cared anything about going to
see the wonder, whereupon she confessed that she never heard of such a
thing as a woman's weighing six hundred and fifty pounds; so we all
three went in. There were only two or three persons inside the tent,
beside a little boy who played the hand-organ.
The Kentucky giantess sat in two chairs on a platform, and there was a
large cage of monkeys just beyond, toward which Kate and I went at once.
"Why, she isn't more than two thirds as big as the picture," said Mrs.
Kew, in a regretful whisper; "but I guess she's big enough; doesn't she
look discouraged, poor creatur'?" Kate and I felt ashamed of ourselves
for being there. No matter if she had consented to be carried round for
a show, it must have been horrible to be stared at and joked about day
after day; and we gravely looked at the monkeys, and in a few minutes
turned to see if Mrs. Kew were not ready to come away, when, to our
surprise, we saw that she was talking to the giantess with great
interest, and we went nearer.
"I thought your face looked natural the minute I set foot inside the
door," said Mrs. Kew; "but you've altered some since I saw you, and I
couldn't place you till I heard you speak. Why, you used to be spare. I
am amazed, Marilly! Where are your folks?"
"I don't wonder you are surprised," said the giantess. "I was a good
ways from this when you knew me, wasn't I? But father, he ran through
with every cent he had before he died, and 'he' took to drink, and it
killed him after a while; and then I begun to grow worse and worse, till
I couldn't do nothing to earn a dollar, and everybody was a-coming to
see me, till at last I used to ask 'em ten cents apiece, and I scratched
along somehow till this man came round and heard of me; and he offered
me my keep and good pay to go along with him. He had another giantess
before me, but she had begun to fall away considerable, so he paid her
off and let her go. This other giantess was an awful expense to him, she
was such an eater; now, I don't have no great of an appetite"--this was
said plaintively--"and he's raised my pay since I've been with him
because we did so well."...
"Have you been living in Kentucky long?" asked Mrs. Kew. "I saw it on
the picture outside."
"No," said the giantess; "that was a picture the man bought cheap from
another show that broke up last year. It says six hundred and fifty
pounds, but I don't weigh more than four hundred. I haven't been weighed
for some time past. Between you and me, I don't weigh as much as that,
but you mustn't mention it, for it would spoil my reputation and might
hinder my getting another engagement."
Then they shook hands in a way that meant a great deal, and when Kate
and I said good-afternoon, the giantess looked at us gratefully, and
said: "I'm very much obliged to you for coming in, young ladies."
"Walk in! Walk in!" the man was shouting as we came away. "Walk in and
see the wonder of the world, ladies and gentlemen--the largest woman
ever seen in America--the great Kentucky giantess!"
NEW YORK TO NEWPORT.
_A Trip of Trials_.
BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
The Jane Moseley was a disappointment--most Janes are. If they had
called her Samuel, no doubt she would have behaved better; but they
called her Jane, and the natural consequences of our mistakes cannot be
averted from ourselves or others. A band was playing wild strains of
welcome as we approached. Come and sail with us, it said--it is summer,
and the days are long. Care is of the land--here the waves flow, and the
winds blow, and captain smiles, and stewardess beguiles, and all is
music, music, music. How the wild, exultant strains rose and fell--but
everything rose and fell on that boat, as we found out afterward. Just
here a spirit of justice falls on me, like the gentle dew from heaven,
and forces me to admit that it rained like a young deluge; that it had
been raining for two days, and the bosom of the deep was heaving with
responsive sympathy; as what bosom would not on which so many tears had
been shed? Perhaps responsive sympathy was the secret of the Jane
Moseley's behavior; but I would her heart had been less tender. Then,
too, the passengers were few; and of course as we had to divide the roll
and tumble between us, there was a great deal for each one.
There was a Pretty Girl, and she had a sister who was not pretty. It
seemed to me that even the sad sea waves were kinder to the Pretty Girl,
such is the influence of youth and beauty. There were various men--heavy
swells I should call some of them, only that that would be slang; but
heavy swells were the order of the day. Then there was a benevolent old
lady who believed in everything--in the music, and the Jane Moseley, and
the long days, and the summer. There was another old lady of restless
mind, who evidently believed in nothing, hoped for nothing, expected
nothing. She tried all the lounges and all the corners, and found each
one a separate disappointment. There was a fat, fair one, of friendly
face, and beside her her grim guardian, a man so thin that you at once
cast him for the part of Starveling in this Midsummer Day's Dream of
Delusion.
We put out from shore--quite out of sight of shore, in short--and then
the perfidious music ceased. To the people on land it had sung, "Come
and make merry with us," but from us, trying in vain to make merry, it
withheld its deceitful inspiration. For the exceeding weight of sorrow
that presently settled down upon us it had no balm. When you are on a
pleasure trip it is unpleasant to be miserable; so I tried hard to shake
off the mild melancholy that began to steal over me. I said to myself, I
will not affront the great deep with my personal woes. I am but a woman,
yet perhaps on this so great occasion magnanimity of soul will be
possible even to me. I will consider my neighbors and be wise. At one
end of the long saloon a banquet-board was spread. Its hospitality was,
like the other attractions of the Jane Moseley, a perfidious pageant.
Nobody sought its soup or claimed its clams. One or two sad-eyed young
men made their way in that direction from time to time--after their
sea-legs, perhaps. From their gait when they came back I inferred they
did not find them. The human nature in the saloon became a weariness to
me. Even the gentle gambols of the dog Thaddeus, a sportive and spotted
pointer in whom I had been interested, failed to soothe my perturbed
spirits. De Quincey speaks somewhere of "the awful solitariness of every
human soul." No wonder, then, that I should be solitary among the
festive few on board the Jane Moseley--no wonder I felt myself darkly,
deeply, desperately blue. I thought I would go on deck. I clung to my
companion with an ardor which would have been flattering had it been
voluntary. My faltering steps were guided to a seat just within the
guards. I sat there thinking that I had never nursed a dear gazelle, so
I could not be quite sure whether it would have died or not, but I
thought it would. I mused on the changing fortunes of this unsteady
world, and the ingratitude of man. I thought it would be easier going to
the Promised Land if Jordan did not roll between. Rolling had long
ceased to be a pleasant figure of speech with me. How frail are all
things here below, how false, and yet how fair! My mind is naturally
picturesque. In the midst of my sadness the force of nature compelled me
to grope after an illustration. I could only think that my own foothold
was frail, that the Jane Moseley was false, that the Pretty Girl was
fair. A dizziness of brain resulted from this rhetorical effort. I
silently confided my sorrows to the sympathizing bosom of the sea. I was
soothed by the kindred melancholy of the sad sea waves. If the size of
the waves were remarkable, other sighs abounded also, and other things
waved--many of them.
True to my purpose of studying my fellow-beings, and learning wisdom by
observation, I surveyed the Pretty Girl and her sister, who had by that
time come on deck. They were surrounded by a group of audacious male
creatures, who surrounded most on the side where the Pretty Girl sat.
She did not look feeble. She was like the red, red rose. It was a
conundrum to me why so much greater anxiety should be bestowed upon her
health than upon her sister's. It needed some moral reflection to make
it out; but I concluded that pretty girls were, by some law of nature,
more subject to sea-sickness than plain ones; therefore, all these
careful cares were quite in order. I saw the two old ladies--the
benevolent one who had believed so implicitly in all things, but over
whose benign visage doubt had now begun to settle like a cloud; and the
other, who had hoped nothing from the first, and therefore over whom no
disappointment could prevail--and, seeing, I mildly wondered whether,
indeed, 'twere better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at
all.
My thoughts grew solemn. The green shores beyond the swelling flood
seemed farther off than ever. The Jane Moseley had promised to land us
at Newport pier at seven o'clock. It was already half-past seven; oh,
perfidious Jane! Darkness had settled upon the face of the deep. We went
inside. The sad-eyed young men had evidently been hunting for their
sea-legs again, in the neighborhood of the banqueting-table, where
nobody banqueted. Failing to find the secret of correct locomotion, they
had laid themselves down to sleep, but in that sleep at sea what dreams
did come, and how noisy they were! The dog Thaddeus walked by
dejectedly, sniffing at the ghost of some half-forgotten joy. At last
there rose a cry--Newport! The sleepers started to their feet. I started
to mine, but I discreetly and quietly sat down again. Was it Newport, at
last? Not at all. The harbor lights were gleaming from afar; and the cry
was of the bandmaster shouting to his emissaries, arousing fiddle and
flute and bassoon to their deceitful duty. They had played us out of
port--they would play us in again. They had promised us that all should
go merry as a marriage-bell, and--I would not be understood to complain,
but it had been a sad occasion. Now the deceitful strains rose and fell
again upon the salt sea wind. The many lights glowed and twinkled from
the near shore. We are all at play, come and play with us, screamed the
soft waltz music. It is summer, and the days are long, and trouble is
not, and care is banished. If the waves sigh, it is with bliss. Our
voyage is ended. It is sad that you did not sail with us, but we will
invite you again to-morrow, and the band shall play, and the crowd be
gay, and airs beguile, and blue skies smile, and all shall be music,
music, music. But I have sailed with you, on a summer day, bland master
of a faithless band; and I know how soon your pipes are dumb--I know the
tricks and manners of the clouds and the wind, and the swelling sea, and
Jane Moseley, the perfidious.
I must, after all, have strong local attachments, for when at last the
time came to land I left the ship with lingering reluctance. My feet
seemed fastened to the deck where I had made my brief home on the much
rolling deep. I had grown used to pain and resigned to fate. I walked
the plank unsteadily. I stood on shore amid the rain and the mist. A
hackman preyed upon me. I was put into an ancient ark and trundled on
through the queer, irresolute, contradictory old streets, beside the
lovely bay, all aglow with the lighted yachts, as a Southern swamp is
with fire-flies. A torchlight procession met and escorted me. To this
hour I am at a loss to know whether this attention was a delicate
tribute on the part of the city of Newport to a distinguished guest, or
a parting attention from the company who sail the Jane Moseley, and
advertise in the _Tribune_--a final subterfuge to persuade a tortured
passenger, by means of this transitory glory, that the sail upon a
summer sea had been a pleasure trip.--_Letter to New York Tribune._