Books: Masterpieces Of American Wit And Humor

T >> Thomas L. Masson (Editor) >> Masterpieces Of American Wit And Humor

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Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence
Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,
They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway--
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist;
And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain.
Thou art a wayward being--well--come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.
Go! 'Twas a just reward that met thy crime-
But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch;
To worship--not approach--that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired-
Murmur'd thy admiration and retired.

Thou'rt welcome to the town--but why come here
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,
And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enrich'd by gen'rous wine and costly meat;
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud,
Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,
The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows.
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now
The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow;
And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings,
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

John Carver

COUNTRY BURIAL-PLACES

In passing through New England, a stranger will be struck with the
variety, in taste and feeling, respecting burial-places. Here and
there may be seen a solitary grave, in a desolate and dreary pasture
lot, and anon under the shade of some lone tree, the simple stone
reared by affection to the memory of one known and loved by the
humble fireside only. There, on that gentle elevation, sloping green
and beautiful toward the south, is a family enclosure adorned with
trees and filled with the graves of the household. How many breaking
hearts have there left the loved till that bright morning! Here in
this garden, beside the vine-covered arbor and amidst the shrubbery
which her own hand planted, is the monument to the faithful wife and
loving mother. How appropriate! How beautiful! And to the old
landholders of New England, what motive to hold sacred from the hand
of lucre so strong as the ground loved by the living as the burial-
place of _their_ dead!

Apropos to burying in gardens, I heard a story of an old man who was
bent on interring his wife in his garden, despite of the opposition
of all his neighbors to his doing so. Indeed, the old fellow avowed
this as his chief reason and to all their entreaties and deprecations
and earnest requests he still declared he would do it. Finding
everything they could do to be of no avail, the people bethought
themselves of a certain physician, who was said to have great
influence over the old man, and who owned an orchard adjoining the
very garden; so, going to him in a body, they besought him to attempt
to change the determination of his obstinate friend. The doctor
consented to do so and went. After offering his condolence on the
loss of his wife, and proffering any aid he might be able to render
at the funeral, the doctor said, "I understand you intend to bury
your deceased wife in your garden."

"Yes," answered the old man, "I do. And the more people object the
more I'm determined to do it!"

"Right!" replied the doctor, with an emphatic shake of the head,
"Right! I applaud the deed. I'd bury her there, if I was you. The
boys are always stealing the pears from my favorite tree that
overhangs your garden, and by and by you'll die, Uncle Diddie, and
they'll bury you there, too, and then I'm sure that the boys will
never dare steal another pear."

"No! I'll be hanged if I bury her there," said the old man in great
wrath. "I'll bury her in the graveyard."

New England can boast her beautiful places of sculpture, but as a
common thing they are too much neglected, and attractive only to the
lover of oddities and curious old epitaphs. Occasionally you may see
a strangely shaped tomb, or as in a well-known village, a knocker
placed on the door of his family vault by some odd specimen of
humanity. When asked the reason for doing so singular a thing, he
gravely replied that "when the old gentleman should come to claim his
own, the tenants might have the pleasure of saying, 'not at home,' or
of fleeing out of the back door."

In passing through these neglected grounds you will often find some
touchingly beautiful scriptural allusion--some apt quotation or some
emblem so lovely and instructive that the memory of it will go with
you for days. Here in a neglected spot and amid a cluster of raised
stones is the grave of the stranger clergyman's child, who died on
its journey. The inscription is sweet when taken in connection with
the portion of sacred history from which the quotation is made: "Is
it well with the child? And she answered, It is well." Again, the
only inscription is an emblem--a butterfly rising from the chrysalis.
Glorious thought, embodied in emblem so singular! "Sown in
corruption, raised in incorruption!"

Then come you to some strangely odd, as for instance:

"Here lies John Auricular,
Who in the ways of the Lord walked perpendicular"

Again:

"Many a cold wind o'er my body shall roll
While in Abraham's bosom I'm feasting my soul"

appropriate certainly, as the grave was on a cold northeast slope of
one of our bleak hills. Again, a Dutchman's epitaph for his twin
babes:

"Here lies two babes, dead as two nits,
Who shook to death mit ague fits.
They was too good to live mit me.
So God He took 'em to live mit He."

There is the grave of a young man who, dying suddenly, was eulogized
with this strange aim at the sublime:

"He lived,
He died!"

Not a hundred miles from Boston is a gravestone the epitaph upon
which, to all who knew the parties, borders strongly upon the
burlesque. A widower who within a few months buried his wife and
adopted daughter, the former of whom was all her life long a thorn in
his flesh, and whose death could not but have been a relief, wrote
thus: "They were lovely and beloved in their lives, and in death were
not divided." Poor man! Well _he_ knew how full of strife and
sorrow an evil woman can make life! He was worn to a shadow before
her death, and his hair was all gone. Many of the neighbors thought
surely that _he_ well knew what had become of it, especially as
it disappeared by the handful. But the grave covers all faults; and
those who knew her could only hope that she might rest from her
labors and her works follow her!

On a low, sandy mound far down on the Cape rises a tall slate stone,
with fitting emblems and epitaphs as follows:

"Here lies Judy and John
That lovely pair,
John was killed by a whale,
And Judy sleeps here."

--Sketches of New England.

Danforth Marble

THE HOOSIER AND THE SALT-PILE

"I'm sorry," says Dan, as he knocked the ashes from his regalia, as
he sat in a small crowd over a glass of sherry at Florence's, New
York, one evening. "I'm sorry that the stages are disappearing so
rapidly; I never enjoyed traveling so well as in the slow coaches.
I've made a good many passages over the Alleghanies, and across Ohio,
from Cleveland to Columbus and Cincinnati, all over the South, down
East, and up North, in stages, and I generally had a good time.

"When I passed over from Cleveland to Cincinnati, the last time, in a
stage, I met a queer crowd--such a _corps_, such a time you never did
see; I never was better amused in my life. We had a good team--
spanking horses, fine coaches, and one of them _drivers_ you read of.
Well, there was nine 'insiders,' and I don't believe there ever was a
stageful of Christians ever started before so chuck full of music.

"There was a beautiful young lady going to one of the Cincinnati
academies; next to her sat a Jew peddler--for Cowes and a market;
wedging him in was a dandy blackleg, with jewelry and chains around
his breast and neck--enough to hang him. There was myself and an old
gentleman with large spectacles, gold-headed cane, and a jolly,
soldiering-iron-looking nose; by him was a circus rider whose breath
was enough to breed yaller fever and could be felt just as easy as
cotton velvet! A cross old woman came next, and whose _look_ would
have given any reasonable man the double-breasted blues before
breakfast; alongside of her was a rale backwoods preacher, with the
biggest and ugliest mouth ever got up since the flood. He was flanked
by the low comedian of the party, an Indiana Hoosier, 'gwine down to
Orleans to get an army contract' to supply the forces then in Mexico
with beef.

"We rolled along for some time; nobody seemed inclined to 'open.' The
old aunty sot bolt upright, looking crab-apples and persimmons at the
Hoosier and the preacher; the young lady dropped the green curtain of
her bonnet over her pretty face, and leaned back in her seat, to nod
and dream over japonicas and jumbles, pantalettes and poetry; the old
gentleman, proprietor of the Bardolph 'nose,' looked out at the
'corduroy' and swashes; the gambler fell off into a doze, and the
circus covey followed suit, leaving the preacher and me _vis-a-vis_
and saying nothing to nobody. 'Indiany,' he stuck his mug out at the
window and criticized the cattle we now and then passed. I was
wishing somebody would give the conversation a start, when 'Indiany'
made a break:

"'This ain't no great stock country,' says he to the old gentleman
with the cane.

"'No, sir,' was the reply. 'There's very little grazing here; the
range is nearly wore out.'

"Then there was nothing said again for some time. Bimeby the Hoosier
opened again:

"'It's the d----est place for 'simmon trees and turkey buzzards I
ever did see!'

"The old gentleman with the cane didn't say nothing, and the preacher
gave a long groan. The young lady smiled through her veil, and the
old lady snapped her eyes and looked sideways at the speaker.

"'Don't make much beef here, I reckon,' says the Hoosier.

"'No,' says the gentleman.

"'Well, I don't see how in h-ll they all manage to get along in a
country whar thar ain't no ranges and they don't make no beef. A man
ain't considered worth a cuss in Indiany what hasn't got his brand on
a hundred head.'

"'Yours is a great beef country, I believe,' says the old gentleman.

"'Well, sir, it ain't anything else. A man that's got sense enuff to
foller his own cow-bell with us ain't in no danger of starvin'. I'm
gwine down to Orleans to see if I can't git a contract out of Uncle
Sam to feed the boys what's been lickin' them infernal Mexicans so
bad. I s'pose you've seed them cussed lies what's been in the papers
about the Indiany boys at Bony Visty.'

"'I've read some accounts of the battle,' says the old gentleman,
`that didn't give a very flattering account of the conduct of some of
our troops.'

"With that the Indiany man went into a full explanation of the
affair, and, gittin' warmed up as he went along, begun to cuss and
swear like he'd been through a dozen campaigns himself. The old
preacher listened to him with evident signs of displeasure, twistin'
and groanin' till he couldn't stand it no longer.

"'My friend,' says he, 'you must excuse me, but your conversation
would be a great deal more interesting to me--and I'm sure would
please the company much better--if you wouldn't swear so terribly.
It's very wrong to swear and I hope you'll have respect for our
feelings if you hain't no respect for your Maker.'

"If the Hoosier had been struck with thunder and lightnin' he
couldn't have been more completely tuck a-back. He shut his mouth
right in the middle of what he was sayin' and looked at the preacher,
while his face got as red as fire.

"'Swearin',' says the preacher, 'is a terrible bad practice, and
there ain't no use in it nohow. The Bible says, "swear not at all,"
and I s'pose you know the Commandments about swearin'?'

"The old lady sort of brightened up--the preacher was her `duck of a
man'; the old fellow with the `nose' and cane let off a few `umph,
ah! umphs.' But 'Indiany' kept shady; he appeared to be _cowed_ down.

"'I know,' says the preacher, 'that a great many people swear without
thinkin', and some people don't believe the Bible.'

"And then he went on to preach a regular sermon agin swearing, and to
quote Scripture like he had the whole Bible by heart. In the course
of his argument he undertook to prove the Scriptures to be true, and
told us all about the miracles and prophecies, and their fulfilment.
The old gentleman with the cane took a part in the conversation, and
the Hoosier listened without ever opening his head.

"'I've just heard of a gentleman,' says the preacher, 'that's been to
the Holy Land and went over the Bible country. It's astonishin' to
hear what wonderful things he has seen. He was at Sodom and Gomorrow,
and seen the place whar Lot's wife fell!'

"'Ah,' says the old gentleman with the cane.

"'Yes,' says the preacher, 'he went to the very spot; and what's the
remarkablest thing of all, he seen the pillar of salt what she was
turned into!'

"'Is it possible!' says the old gentleman.

"'Yes, sir; he seen the salt, standin' thar to this day.'

"'What!' says the Hoosier,'real genewine, good salt?'

"'Yes, sir; a pillar of salt, jest as it was when that wicked woman
was punished for her disobedience.'

"All but the gambler, who was snoozing in the corner of the coach,
looked at the preacher--the Hoosier with an expression of countenance
that plainly told that his mind was powerfully convicted of an
important fact.

"'Right out in the open air?' he asked.

"'Yes, standin' right in the open field, whar she fell.'

"'Well, sir,' says 'Indiany,' 'all I've got to say is, _if she'd
dropped in our parts, the cattle would have licked her up afore
sundown!_'

"The preacher raised both his hands at such an irreverent remark, and
the old gentleman laughed himself into a fit of asthmatics; what he
didn't get over till he came to the next change of horses. The
Hoosier had played the mischief with the gravity of the whole party;
even the old maid had to put her handkerchief to her face, and the
young lady's eyes were filled with tears for half an hour afterward.
The old preacher hadn't another word to say on the subject; but
whenever we came to any place or met anybody on the road, the circus
man cursed the thing along by asking what was the price of salt."

Anne Bache

THE QUILTING

The day is set, the ladies met,
And at the frame are seated;
In order plac'd, they work in haste,
To get the quilt completed.
While fingers fly, their tongues they ply,
And animate their labors,
By counting beaux, discussing clothes,
Or talking of their neighbors.

"Dear, what a pretty frock you've on--"
"I'm very glad you like it."
"I'm told that Miss Micomicon
Don't speak to Mr. Micat."
"I saw Miss Bell the other day,
Young Green's new gig adorning--"
"What keeps your sister Ann away?"
"She went to town this morning."

"'Tis time to roll"--"my needle's broke--"
"So Martin's stock is selling;"-
"Louisa's wedding-gown's bespoke--"
"Lend me your scissors, Ellen."
"_That_ match will never come about--"
"Now don't fly in a passion;"
"Hair-puffs, they say, are going out--"
"Yes, curls are all in fashion."

The quilt is done, the tea begun-
The beaux are all collecting;
The table's cleared, the music heard-
His partner each selecting.
The merry band in order stand,
The dance begins with vigor;
And rapid feet the measure beat,
And trip the mazy figure.

Unheeded fly the moments by,
Old Time himself seems dancing,
Till night's dull eye is op'd to spy
The steps of morn advancing.
Then closely stowed, to each abode,
The carriages go tilting;
And many a dream has for its theme
The pleasures of the Quilting.

Fitz-Greene Halleck

A FRAGMENT

His shop is a grocer's--a snug, genteel place,
Near the corner of Oak Street and Pearl;
He can dress, dance, and bow to the ladies with grace,
And ties his cravat with a curl.

He's asked to all parties--north, south, east and west,
That take place between Chatham and Cherry,
And when he's been absent full oft has the "best
Society" ceased to be merry.

And nothing has darkened a sky so serene,
Nor disordered his beauship's Elysium,
Till this season among our _elite_ there has been
What is called by the clergy "a schism."

'Tis all about eating and drinking--one set
Gives sponge-cake, a few kisses or so,
And is cooled after dancing with classic sherbet
"Sublimed" [see Lord Byron] "with snow."

Another insists upon punch and _perdrix_,
Lobster salad, champagne, and, by way
Of a novelty only, those pearls of our sea,
Stewed oysters from Lynn-Haven Bay.

Miss Flounce, the young milliner, blue-eyed and bright,
In the front parlor over her shop,
"Entertains," as the phrase is, a party to-night
Upon peanuts and ginger pop.

And Miss Fleece, who's a hosier and not quite as young,
But is wealthier far than Miss Flounce,
She "entertains" also to-night, with cold tongue,
Smoked herring and cherry bounce.

In praise of cold water the Theban bard spoke,
He of Teos sang sweetly of wine;
Miss Flounce is a Pindar in cashmere and cloak,
Miss Fleece an Anacreon divine.

The Montagues carry the day in Swamp Place,
In Pike Street the Capulets reign;
A _limonadiere_ is the badge of one race,
Of the other a flask of champagne.

Now as each the same evening her _soiree_ announces,
What better, he asks, can be done,
Than drink water from eight until ten with the Flounces,
And then wine with the Fleeces till one!

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS

"Beside the nuptial curtain bright,"
The Bard of Eden sings;
"Young Love his constant lamp will light
And wave his purple wings."
But raindrops from the clouds of care
May bid that lamp be dim,
And the boy Love will pout and swear,
'Tis then no place for him.

So mused the lovely Mrs. Dash;
'Tis wrong to mention names;
When for her surly husband's cash
She urged in vain her claims.
"I want a little money, dear,
For Vandervoort and Flandin,
Their bill, which now has run a year,
To-morrow mean to hand in."

"More?" cried the husband, half asleep,
"You'll drive me to despair";
The lady was too proud to weep,
And too polite to swear.
She bit her lip for very spite,
He felt a storm was brewing,
And dream'd of nothing else all night,
But brokers, banks, and ruin.

He thought her pretty once, but dreams
Have sure a wondrous power,
For to his eye the lady seems
Quite alter'd since that hour;
And Love, who on their bridal eve,
Had promised long to stay;
Forgot his promise, took French leave,
And bore his lamp away.

Charles F. Browne ("Artemus Ward")

ONE OF MR. WARD'S BUSINESS LETTERS

To the Editor of the--

_Sir:_ I'm movin along--slowly along--down tords your place. I
want you should rite me a letter, saying how is the show bizness in
your place. My show at present consists of three moral Bares, a
Kangaroo (a amoozin little Raskal--'twould make you larf yourself to
deth to see the little cuss jump up and squeal), wax figgers of G.
Washington, Gen. Tayler, John Bunyan, Capt. Kidd, and Dr. Webster in
the act of killin Dr. Parkman, besides several miscellanyus moral wax
statoots of celebrated piruts & murderers, &c., ekalled by few &
exceld by none. Now, Mr. Editor, scratch orf a few lines sayin how is
the show bizniss down to your place. I shall hav my hanbills dun at
your offiss. Depend upon it. I want you should git my hanbills up in
flamin stile. Also git up a tremenjus excitemunt in yr. paper 'bowt
my onparaleled Show. We must fetch the public sumhow. We must wurk on
their feelins. Cum the moral on em strong. If it's a temperance
community, tell em I sined the pledge fifteen minits arter Ise born,
but on the contery, ef your peple take their tods, say Mister Ward is
as Jenial a feller as ever we met. full of conwiviality, & the life
an sole of the Soshul Bored. Take, don't you? If you say anythin
abowt my show, say my snaiks is as harmliss as the new born Babe.
What a interistin study it is to see a zewological animil like a
snake under perfect subjecshun! My kangaroo is the most larfable
little cuss I ever saw. All for 15 cents. I am anxyus to skewer your
inflooence. I repeet in regard to them hanbills that I shall git 'em
struck orf up to your printin office. My perlitical sentiments agree
with yourn exactly. I know they do, becaws I never saw a man whoos
didn't.

Respectively yures, A. WARD.

P.S.--You scratch my back & Ile scratch your back.

ON "FORTS"

Every man has got a Fort. It's sum men's fort to do one thing, and
some other men's fort to do another, while there is numeris shiftliss
critters goin' round loose whose fort is not to do nothin'.

Shakspeer rote good plase, but he wouldn't hav succeeded as a
Washington correspondent of a New York daily paper. He lackt the
rekesit fancy and immagginashun.

That's so!

Old George Washington's Fort was not to hev eny public man of the
present day resemble him to eny alarmin extent. Whare bowts can
George's ekal be found? I ask, & boldly answer no whares, or any
whare else.

Old man Townsin's Fort was to maik Sassy-periller. "Goy to the world!
anuther life saived!" (Cotashun from Townsin's advertisement.)

Cyrus Field's Fort is to lay a sub-machine tellegraf under the
boundin billers of the Oshun and then have it Bust.

Spaldin's Fort is to maik Prepared Gloo, which mends everything.
Wonder ef it will mend a sinner's wickid waze. (Impromptoo goak.)

Zoary's Fort is to be a femaile circus feller.

My Fort is the grate moral show bizniss & ritin choice famerly
literatoor for the noospapers. That's what's the matter with _me_.

&., &., &. So I mite go on to a indefnit extent.

Twict I've endevered to do things which thay wasn't my Fort. The fust
time was when I undertuk to lick a owdashus cuss who cut a hole in my
tent & krawld threw. Sez I, "My jentle Sir, go out or I shall fall on
to you putty hevy." Sez he, "Wade in, Old wax figgers," whereupon I
went for him, but he cawt me powerful on the hed & knockt me threw
the tent into a cow pastur. He pursood the attack & flung me into a
mud puddle. As I arose & rung out my drencht garmints I koncluded
fitin wasn't my Fort. He now rize the kurtin upon Seen 2nd: It is
rarely seldum that I seek consolation in the Flowin Bole. But in a
certain town in Injianny in the Faul of 18--, my orgin grinder got
sick with the fever & died. I never felt so ashamed in my life, & I
thowt I'd hist in a few swallers of suthin strengthnin. Konsequents
was I histid in so much I didn't zackly know whare bowts I was. I
turned my livin wild beasts of Pray loose into the streets and spilt
all my wax wurks. I then bet I cood play hoss. So I hitched myself to
a Kanawl bote, there bein two other hosses hicht on also, one behind
and another ahead of me. The driver hollerd for us to git up, and we
did. But the hosses bein onused to sich a arrangemunt begun to kick &
squeal and rair up. Konsequents was I was kickt vilently in the
stummuck & back, and presuntly I fownd myself in the Kanawl with the
other hosses, kickin & yellin like a tribe of Cusscaroorus savvijis.
I was rescood & as I was bein carrid to the tavern on a hemlock Bored
I sed in a feeble voise, "Boys, playin hoss isn't my Fort."

_Morul_.--Never don't do nothin which isn't your Fort, for ef you do
you'll find yourself splashin round in the Kanawl, figgeratively
speakin.

James Russell Lowell

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the sidelight of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do--but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fist in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me into supper go,
A silken wonder at my side,
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm,
'Neath its white-gloved and jeweled load;
And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.

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