is what dainty people call a _spirituelle_. Motion—rapid motion—a smart,
quick, squirrel-like step, a pert, voluble tone—in short, a lively
girl—is my exquisite horror. I would as lief have a _diable petit_
dancing his infernal hornpipe on my cerebellum as to be in a room with
one. I have tried before now to school myself into liking these parched
peas of humanity. I have followed them with my eyes, and attended to
their rattle till I was as crazy as a fly in a drum. I have danced with
them, and romped with them in the country, and perilled the salvation of
my “white tights,” by sitting near them at supper. I swear off from this
moment. I do. I won’t—no—hang me if ever I show another small, lively,
_spry_ woman a civility.
Albina McLush is divine. She is like the description of the Persian
beauty by Hafiz: “Her heart is full of passion, and her eyes are full of
sleep.” She is the sister of Lurly McLush, my old college chum, who, as
early as his sophomore year, was chosen president of the Dolcefarniente
Society, no member of which was ever known to be surprised at
anything—(the college law of rising before breakfast excepted). Lurly
introduced me to his sister one day, as he was lying upon a heap of
turnips, leaning on his elbow with his head in his hand, in a green lane
in the suburbs. He had driven over a stump, and been tossed out of his
gig, and I came up just as he was wondering how in the d—l’s name he got
there. Albina sat quietly in the gig, and when I was presented,
requested me, with a delicious drawl, to say nothing about the
adventure—“it would be so troublesome to relate it to everybody!” I
loved her from that moment. Miss McLush was tall, and her shape, of its
kind, was perfect. It was not a fleshy one exactly, but she was large
and full. Her skin was clear, fine-grained and transparent; her temples
and forehead perfectly rounded and polished, and her lips and chin
swelling into a ripe and tempting pout, like the cleft of a burst
apricot. And then her eyes—large, languid, and sleepy—they languished
beneath their long, black fringes as if they had no business with
daylight—like two magnificent dreams, surprised in their jet embryos by
some bird-nesting cherub. Oh! it was lovely to look into them!
She sat usually upon a _fauteuil_, with her large, full arm embedded in
the cushion, sometimes for hours without stirring. I have seen the wind
lift the masses of dark hair from her shoulders, when it seemed like the
coming to life of a marble Hebe—she had been motionless so long. She was
a model for a goddess of sleep; as she sat with her eyes half-closed,
lifting up their superb lips slowly as you spoke to her, and dropping
them again with the deliberate motion of a cloud, when she had murmured
out her syllable of assent. Her figure, in a sitting posture, presented
a gentle declivity from the curve of her neck to the instep of the small
round foot lying on its side upon the ottoman. I remember a fellow
bringing her a plate of fruit one evening. He was one of your lively
men—a horrid monster, all right angles and activity. Having never been
accustomed to hold her own plate, she had not well extracted her whole
fingers from her handkerchief before he set it down in her lap. As it
began slowly to slide towards her feet, her hand relapsed into the
muslin folds, and she fixed her eyes upon it with a kind of indolent
surprise, drooping her lids gradually, till, as the fruit scattered over
the ottoman, they closed entirely, and a liquid jet line was alone
visible through the heavy lashes. There was an imperial indifference in
it worthy of Juno.
Miss McLush rarely walks. When she does it is with the deliberate
majesty of a Dido. Her small, plump feet melt to the ground like
snow-flakes, and her figure sways to the indolent motion of her limbs
with a glorious grace and yieldingness quite indescribable. She was
idling slowly up the Mall one evening, just at twilight, with a servant
at a short distance behind her, who, to while away the time between her
steps, was employing himself in throwing stones at the cows feeding upon
the common. A gentleman, with a natural admiration for her splendid
person, addressed her. He might have done a more eccentric thing.
Without troubling herself to look at him, she turned to her servant and
requested him, with a yawn of desperate _ennui_, to knock that fellow
down! John obeyed his orders; and, as his mistress resumed her lounge,
picked up a new handful of pebbles, and tossing one at the nearest cow,
loitered lazily after.
Such supreme indolence was irresistible. I gave in—I who never before
could summon energy to sigh—I to whom a declaration was but a synonym
for perspiration—I—who had only thought of love as a nervous complaint,
and of women but to pray for a good deliverance—I—yes—I knocked under.
Albina McLush! thou wert too exquisitely lazy. Human sensibilities
cannot hold out for ever.
I found her one morning sipping her coffee at twelve, with her eyes wide
open. She was just from the bath, and her complexion had a soft, dewy
transparency, like the cheek of Venus rising from the sea. It was the
hour, Lurly had told me, when she would be at the trouble of thinking.
She put away with her dimpled forefinger, as I entered, a cluster of
rich curls that had fallen over her face, and nodded to me like a
water-lily swaying to the wind when its cup is full of rain. “Lady
Albina,” said I, in my softest tone, “how are you to-day?”
“Beltina,” said she, addressing her maid in a voice as clouded and rich
as a south wind on an Æolian, “how am I to-day?”
The conversation fell into short sentences, and the dialogue became
monologue. I entered upon my declaration with the assistance of Beltina,
who supplied her mistress with cologne. I kept her attention alive
through the incipient circumstances. Symptoms were soon told. I came to
the avowal. Her hand lay reposing on the arm of the sofa, half buried in
a muslin _foulard_. I took it up. I pressed the cool, soft fingers to my
lips—unforbidden. I rose and looked into her eyes for confirmation.
Delicious creature! she was asleep.
I never have had courage to renew the subject. Miss McLush seems to have
forgotten it altogether. Upon reflection, too, I am convinced she would
not survive the excitement of the ceremony, unless, indeed, she should
sleep between the responses and the prayer. I am still devoted, however,
and if there should come a war or an earthquake, or if the millennium
should commence, as it is expected, in 1833, or if anything happens that
can keep her waking so long, I shall deliver a declaration abbreviated
for me by a scholar friend of mine, which he warrants may be articulated
in fifteen minutes—without fatigue.
_Nathaniel Parker Willis._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_A LONG TIME AGO._
(FROM ACT I. OF “THE WHITE FEATHER.” A RED INDIAN COMEDY.)
_Owosco._ Here, here, enough of this nonsense! Why should you sing about
that which you think peculiar to yourselves, when, as a matter of fact,
all tribes, nations, and classes are alike?
_Wanda._ But are you sure all are alike?
_Owosco._ Certainly. We are all tarred with the same stick.
_Sings_:
The same black tar,
By the same black stick,
No matter who we are,
Is laid on thick.
If poor, we’re marred,
If rich, we kick,
But we’re all of us tarred
With the same black stick.
If successful in our enterprise, our ways are never scanned,
We’re applauded by the populace, and praised by every tongue.
But if a fell disaster crown the efforts we have planned,
Our methods are at once condemned by old as well as young.
_All._
The same black tar,
By the same black stick,
No matter who we are,
Is laid on thick.
If poor, we’re marred,
If rich, we kick,
But we’re all of us tarred
With the same black stick.
_Owosco_ (_derisively_). Ah! here comes our worthy apology for a chief.
_Otsiketa._ And our equally worthy medicine man.
_Owosco._ They make a gay old couple. The one is about as useful as the
other.
[Illustration: “OLD CHIEF (TO MEDICINE MAN): ‘WHAT SHALL I SAY TO THESE
YOUNG MEN?’”] (_Enter Old Chief, closely followed by Medicine Man, both
old and ugly._)
_Old Chief sings_:
I’m chief of the tribe of the Wa-wa-ta-see,
As savage a savage as savage can be;
I’ve scalped and I’ve murdered full many a foe—
_Owosco._
Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.
_All._
Long, long ago, we had wars in the land,
And pillage and bloodshed on every hand;
With knife and with arrow, with war-club and bow,
We defended our country a long time ago.
_Old Chief._
In love-making nonsense I never took part;
Neither war-club nor squaw ever conquered my heart;
I forcibly reaped, but I never would sow—
_Owosco._
Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.
_All._
Long, long ago, we had wonderful chiefs,
Who gathered in scalp-locks as farmers do sheaves.
Much rather they’d fight than a-courting they’d go—
But that happened, thank goodness, a long time ago.
_Old Chief._
Young men, in my day, courted war’s cutting claws,
Nor wasted their time making love to the squaws;
Such fooling as that in those days did not go—
_Owosco._
Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.
_All._
What wonders the men were a long time ago,
How thankful we are that it now isn’t so!
Every day for amusement a-killing they’d go,
In the fearful, the awful, the long time ago.
_Otsiketa._ Say, old fellow, you must have been a great chap beyond all
our memories!
_Owosco._ I say, old chap, where did you ever manage to store all your
scalps?
_Old Chief_ (_to Medicine Man_). What shall I say to these young men?
They’re getting very inquisitive!
_Medicine Man._ I should not answer them. The proper thing to do is to
assume a dignified silence.
_Both sing._
When we’re attacked at any point,
Our knavery to hide,
We get ourselves behind a wall
Of silence dignified,
A wall without a hole or chink,
Behind it all is black as ink,
Where we’re obscure from those who think
Into our past to pry.
When at our deeds they wish to peek,
And interviewers mild and meek,
Attempt to make this couple speak,
They might as well not try.
_Medicine Man._
I never eased a human ill,
_Old Chief._
I never struck a blow;
_Both._
The potency of club or pill
We neither of us know.
But when our youth would question us,
We assume a lofty pride,
And wrap us up in a solemn cloak
Of silence dignified.
_John Barr._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_THE PROFESSOR UNDER CHLOROFORM._
[Illustration: “‘PROFESSOR,’ I SAID, ‘YOU ARE INEBRIATED.’”]
YOU haven’t heard about my friend the Professor’s first experiment in
the use of anæsthetics, have you?
He was mightily pleased with the reception of that poem of his about the
chaise. He spoke to me once or twice about another poem of similar
character he wanted to read me, which I told him I would listen to and
criticise.
One day, after dinner, he came in with his face tied up, looking very
red in the cheeks, and heavy about the eyes. “Hy ’r’ ye?” he said, and
made for an arm-chair, in which he placed first his hat and then his
person, going smack through the crown of the former, as neatly as they
do the trick at the circus.
The Professor jumped at the explosion as if he had sat down on one of
those small _calthrops_ our grandfathers used to sow round in the grass
when there were Indians about,—iron stars, each ray a rusty thorn an
inch and a half long,—stick through moccasins into feet,—cripple ’em on
the spot, and give ’em lock-jaw in a day or two.
At the same time he let off one of those big words which lie at the
bottom of the best man’s vocabulary, but perhaps never turn up in his
life,—just as every man’s hair _may_ stand on end, but in most men it
never does. After he had got calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of
manuscript, together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had
just been writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. A
certain suspicion had come into my mind that the Professor was not quite
right, which was confirmed by the way he talked; but I let him begin.
This is the way he read it:
“PRELUDE.
“I’m the fellah that tole one day
The tale of the won’erful one-hoss shay.
Wan’ to hear another? Say,—
Funny, wasn’t it? Made _me_ laugh,—
I’m too modest, I am, by half,—
Made me laugh ’s _though I sh’d split_,—
Cahn’ a fellah like fellah’s own wit?—
Fellah’s keep sayin’, ‘Well, now, that’s nice,
Did it once, but cahn’ do it twice,’—
Dön’ you believe thee ’z no more fat;
Lots in the kitch’n ’z good ’z that.
Fus’-rate throw, ’n’ no mistake,—
Han’ us the props for another shake;
Know I’ll try, ’n’ guess I’ll win;
Here sh’ goes for hit ’m ag’in!”
Here I thought it necessary to interpose. “Professor,” I said, “you are
inebriated. The style of what you call your ‘Prelude’ shows that it was
written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused. You
have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that
I was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton
your heart to. You smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.” I spoke
and paused; tender but firm.
Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor’s lids,—in
obedience to the principles of gravitation celebrated in that delicious
bit of bladdery bathos, “The very law that moulds a tear,” with which
the _Edinburgh Review_ attempted to put down Master George Gordon when
that young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous. One of
these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its
balance,—slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,—swelled
again,—rolled down a little further,—stopped,—moved on,—and at last fell
on the back of the Professor’s hand. He held it up for me to look at,
and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine.
I couldn’t stand it,—I always break down when folks cry in my face,—so I
hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him kindly what
was the matter with him, and what made him smell so dreadfully strong of
spirits. Upset his alcohol lamp,—he said,—and spilt the alcohol on his
legs. That was it. But what had he been doing to get his head into such
a state—had he really committed an excess? What was the matter? Then it
came out that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which
had left him in a very queer state, in which he had written the
“Prelude” given above, and under the influence of which he evidently was
still.
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_OUR TRAVELLED PARSON._
[Illustration: “I HANDED HIM THE TICKET, WITH A LITTLE BOW OF
DEFERENCE.”]
FOR twenty years and over, our good parson had been toiling,
To chip the bad meat from our hearts, and keep the good from spoiling;
But suddenly he wilted down, and went to looking sickly,
And the doctor said that something must be put up for him quickly.
So we kind o’ clubbed together, each according to his notion,
And bought a circular ticket, in the lands across the ocean;
Wrapped some pocket-money in it—what we thought would easy do him—
And appointed me committee-man, to go and take it to him.
I found him in his study, looking rather worse than ever;
And told him ’twas decided that his flock and he should sever.
Then his eyes grew big with wonder, and it seemed almost to blind ’em,
And some tears looked out o’ window, with some others close behind ’em!
But I handed him the ticket, with a little bow of deference,
And he studied quite a little ere he got the proper reference,
And then the tears that waited—great unmanageable creatures—
Let themselves quite out o’ window, and came climbing down his features.
* * * * *
I wish you could ha’ seen him when he came back, fresh and glowing,
His clothes all worn and seedy, and his face all fat and knowing;
I wish you could ha’ heard him, when he prayed for us who sent him,
Paying back with compound int’rest every dollar that we’d lent him!
’Twas a feast to true believers—’twas a blight on contradiction—
To hear one just from Calvary talk about the crucifixion;
’Twas a damper on those fellows who pretended they could doubt it,
To have a man who’d been there stand and tell ’em all about it!
Why every foot of Scripture, whose location used to stump us,
Was now regularly laid out with the different points o’ compass;
When he undertook a subject, in what nat’ral lines he’d draw it!
He would paint it out so honest that it seemed as if you saw it.
And the way he went for Europe! oh, the way he scampered through it!
Not a mountain but he clim’ it—not a city but he knew it;
There wasn’t any subject to explain, in all creation,
But he could go to Europe, and bring back an illustration!
So we crowded out to hear him, quite instructed and delighted;
’Twas a picture-show, a lecture, and a sermon—all united;
And my wife would rub her glasses, and serenely pet her Test’ment,
And whisper, “That ere ticket was a splendid good investment.”
* * * * *
Now, after six months’ travel, we was most of us all ready
To settle down a little, so’s to live more staid and steady;
To develop home resources, with no foreign cares to fret us,
Using house-made faith more frequent; but our parson wouldn’t let us!
To view the same old scenery, time and time again he’d call us—
Over rivers, plains, and mountains he would any minute haul us;
He slighted our soul-sorrows, and our spirits’ aches and ailings,
To get the cargo ready for his regular Sunday sailings!
Why, he’d take us off a-touring, in all spiritual weather,
Till we at last got home-sick and sea-sick all together!
And “I wish to all that’s peaceful,” said one free-expressioned brother,
“That the Lord had made one cont’nent, an’ then never made another!”
* * * * *
Sometimes, indeed, he’d take us into old, familiar places,
And pull along quite nat’ral, in the good old Gospel traces:
But soon my wife would shudder, just as if a chill had got her,
Whispering, “Oh, my goodness gracious! he’s a-takin’ to the water!”
And it wasn’t the same old comfort, when he called around to see us;
On some branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us;
All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronise us,
And with oft-repeated stories still endeavours to surprise us.
* * * * *
And the sinners got to laughing; and that finally galled and stung us,
To ask him, wouldn’t he kindly once more settle down among us?
Didn’t he think that more home produce would improve our soul’s
digestions?
They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions.
I found him in his garden, trim an’ buoyant as a feather;
He shook my hand, exclaiming, “This is quite Italian weather!
How it ’minds me of the evenings when, your distant-hearts caressing,
Upon my dear good brothers, I invoked God’s choicest blessing!”
* * * * *
I went and told the brothers, “No; I cannot bear to grieve him;
He’s so happy in his exile, it’s the proper place to leave him.
I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it;
But I cannot take it from him; if _you_ want to, go and do it.”
Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to enfold him,
* * * * *
And he looked so hurt and humbled, that I knew that they had told him.
Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal;
But every word and sentence was pre-eminently local!
Still, the sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it;
’Twas a grief to see him steer it—’twas a pain to hear him word it.
“When I was abroad”—was maybe half-a-dozen times repeated;
But that sentence seemed to choke him, and was always uncompleted.
As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten,
But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten;
He would look off to the eastward, with a wistful, weary sighing,
And ’twas whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was dying.
* * * * *
The coffin lay ’mid garlands, smiling sad as if they knew us;
The patient face within it preached a final sermon to us;
Our parson _had_ gone touring—on a trip he’d long been earning—
In that wonderland, whence tickets are not issued for returning!
O tender, good heart-shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half-parted,
Told of scenery that burst on you, just the minute that you started!
Could you preach once more among us, you might wander, without fearing;
You could give us tales of glory that we’d never tire of hearing!
_Will Carleton._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_A RAILROAD “RECUSSANT.”_
A FRIEND of ours, sojourning during the past summer in one of the
far-off “shore-towns” of Massachusett’s Bay, was not a little amused one
day at the querulous complainings of “one” of the “oldest inhabitants”
against railroads; his experience in which consisted in having seen the
end of one laid out, and at length the cars running upon it. Taking out
his old pipe, on a pleasant summer afternoon, and looking off upon the
ocean, and the ships far off and out at sea with the sun upon their
sails, he said: “_I_ don’t think much o’ railroads: they aint no kind o’
_justice_ into ’em. Neöw what kind o’ justice is it, when railroads
takes one man’s upland and carts it over in wheel-barrers onto another
man’s _ma’sh_? What kind o’ ’commodation be they? You can’t go when you
_want_ to go; you got to go when the bell rings, or the noisy whistle
blows. I tell yeöw it’s payin’ tew much for the whistle. Ef you live a
leetle ways off the dee-pot, you got to pay to _git_ to the railroad;
and ef you want to go any wheres else ’cept just to the eend on it, you
got to pay to go a’ter you git _there_. What kind o’ ’commodation is
_that_? Goin’ round the country tew, murderin’ folks, runnin’ over
cattle, sheep, and hogs, and settin’ fire to bridges, and every now and
then burnin’ up the woods. Mrs. Robbins, down to Cod-p’int, says—and she
ought to know, for she’s a pious woman, and belongs to the lower
church—she says to me, no longer ago than day-’fore yesterday, that
she’d be cuss’d if she didn’t _know_ that they sometimes run over
critters _a-purpose_. They did a likely shoat o’ her’n, and never paid
for’t, ’cause they was a ‘corporation,’ they said. What kind o’
’commodation is that? Besides, now I’ve lived here, clus to the dee-pot,
ever sence the road started to run, and seen ’em go out and come in; but
_I_ never could see that they went so d—d _fast_, nuther!”
[Illustration: “I DON’T THINK MUCH O’ RAILROADS.”]
_L. Gaylord Clark._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_AN UNMARRIED FEMALE._
[Illustration: “BETSEY HAIN’T HANDSOME.”]
I SUPPOSE we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was
sayin’ a few days ago to Betsey Bobbet, a neighbourin’ female of
ours—“Every station-house in life has its various skeletons. But we ort
to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on to
handle.” Betsey hain’t married, and she don’t seem to be contented. She
is awful opposed to wimmin’s rights—she thinks it is wimmin’s only spear
to marry, but as yet she can’t find any man willin’ to lay holt of that
spear with her. But you can read in her daily life, and on her eager,
willin’ countenance, that she fully realises the sweet words of the
poet, “While there is life there is hope.”
Betsey hain’t handsome. Her cheek-bones are high, and she bein’ not much
more than skin and bone they show plainer than they would if she was in
good order. Her complexion (not that I blame her for it) hain’t good,
and her eyes are little and sot way back in her head. Time has seen fit
to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly
suffered her to keep, but she has got the best white ivory teeth money
will buy; and two long curls fastened behind each ear, besides frizzles
on the top of her head; and if she wasn’t naturally bald, and if the
curls was the colour of her hair, they would look well. She is awful
sentimental; I have seen a good many that had it bad, but of all the
sentimental creeters I ever did see, Betsey Bobbet is the
sentimentalest; you couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of her with a cheeze
press.
As I said, she is awful opposed to wimmin’s havin’ any right, only the
right to get married. She holds on to that right as tight as any single
woman I ever see, which makes it hard and wearyin’ on the single men
round here.