Books: Masterpieces Of American Wit And Humor
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Thomas L. Masson (Editor) >> Masterpieces Of American Wit And Humor
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Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
The golden quiet of the moon.
The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble, sour and thin.
I envy him the rugged prance
By which his freezing feet he warms,
And drag my lady's chains and dance,
The galley-slave of dreary forms.
Oh, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet--past a doubt
'Twould still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.
Louisa May Alcott
STREET SCENES IN WASHINGTON
The mules were my especial delight; and an hour's study of a constant
succession of them introduced me to many of their characteristics:
for six of these odd little beasts drew each army wagon and went
hopping like frogs through the stream of mud that gently rolled along
the street. The coquettish mule had small feet, a nicely trimmed
tassel of a tail, perked-up ears, and seemed much given to little
tosses of the head, affected skips and prances; and, if he wore the
bells or were bedizened with a bit of finery, put on as many airs as
any belle. The moral mule was a stout, hard-working creature, always
tugging with all his might, often pulling away after the rest had
stopped, laboring under the conscientious delusion that food for the
entire army depended upon his private exertions. I respected this
style of mule; and, had I possessed a juicy cabbage, would have
pressed it upon him with thanks for his excellent example. The
histrionic mule was a melodramatic quadruped, prone to startling
humanity by erratic leaps and wild plunges, much shaking of his
stubborn head, and lashing out of his vicious heels; now and then
falling flat and apparently dying a la Forrest; a gasp--a squirm--a
flop, and so on, till the street was well blocked up, the drivers all
swearing like demons in bad hats, and the chief actor's circulation
decidedly quickened by every variety of kick, cuff, jerk and haul.
When the last breath seemed to have left his body, and "doctors were
in vain," a sudden resurrection took place; and if ever a mule
laughed with scornful triumph, that was the beast, as he leisurely
rose, gave a comfortable shake, and, calmly regarding the excited
crowd, seemed to say--"A hit! a decided hit! for the stupidest of
animals has bamboozled a dozen men. Now, then! what are _you_
stopping the way for?" The pathetic mule was, perhaps, the most
interesting of all; for, though he always seemed to be the smallest,
thinnest, weakest of the six, the postillion with big boots, long-
tailed coat and heavy whip was sure to bestride this one, who
struggled feebly along, head down, coat muddy and rough, eye
spiritless and sad, his very tail a mortified stump, and the whole
beast a picture of meek misery, fit to touch a heart of stone. The
jovial mule was a roly-poly, happy-go-lucky little piece of
horseflesh, taking everything easily, from cudgeling to caressing;
strolling along with a roguish twinkle of the eye, and, if the thing
were possible, would have had his hands in his pockets and whistled
as he went. If there ever chanced to be an apple core, a stray turnip
or wisp of hay in the gutter, this Mark Tapley was sure to find it,
and none of his mates seemed to begrudge him his bite. I suspected
this fellow was the peacemaker, confidant and friend of all the
others, for he had a sort of "Cheer-up-old-boy-I'll-pull-you-through"
look which was exceedingly engaging.
Pigs also possessed attractions for me, never having had an
opportunity of observing their graces of mind and manner till I came
to Washington, whose porcine citizens appeared to enjoy a larger
liberty than many of its human ones. Stout, sedate-looking pigs
hurried by each morning to their places of business, with a
preoccupied air, and sonorous greetings to their friends. Genteel
pigs, with an extra curl to their tails, promenaded in pairs,
lunching here and there, like gentlemen of leisure. Rowdy pigs pushed
the passersby off the sidewalk; tipsy pigs hiccoughed their version
of "We won't go home till morning" from the gutter; and delicate
young pigs tripped daintily through the mud as if they plumed
themselves upon their ankles, and kept themselves particularly neat
in point of stockings. Maternal pigs, with their interesting
families, strolled by in the sun; and often the pink, baby-like
squealers lay down for a nap, with a trust in Providence worthy of
human imitation.--_Hospital Sketches._
MIS' SMITH
All day she hurried to get through, The same as lots of wimmin do;
Sometimes at night her husban' said, "Ma, ain't you goin' to come to
bed?" And then she'd kinder give a hitch, And pause half way between a
stitch, And sorter sigh, and say that she Was ready as she'd ever be,
She reckoned.
And so the years went one by one, An' somehow she was never done; An'
when the angel said, as how "Miss Smith, it's time you rested now,"
She sorter raised her eyes to look A second, as a stitch she took;
"All right, I'm comin' now," says she, "I'm ready as I'll ever be, I
reckon."
Albert Bigelow Paine.
A BOSTON LULLABY
Baby's brain is tired of thinking
On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
With incipient somnolence.
Little hands are weary turning
Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
How to keep its glasses on.
Baby knows the laws of nature
Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
Bids my darling close his eyes
And his pneumogastrics tell him
Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
Needs recuperative rest.
Baby must have relaxation,
Let the world go wrong or right-
Sleep, my darling, leave Creation
To its chances for the night.
James Jeffrey Roche.
IRISH ASTRONOMY
O'Ryan was a man of might
Whin Ireland was a nation,
But poachin' was his heart's delight
And constant occupation.
He had an ould militia gun,
And sartin sure his aim was;
He gave the keepers many a run,
And wouldn't mind the game laws
St. Pathrick wanst was passin' by
O'Ryan's little houldin',
And, as the saint felt wake and dhry
He thought he'd enther bould in.
"O'Ryan," says the saint, "avick!
To praich at Thurles I'm goin';
So let me have a rasher quick,
And a dhrop of Innishowen."
"No rasher will I cook for you
While betther is to spare, sir,
But here's a jug of mountain dew,
And there's a rattlin' hare, sir."
St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,
And says he, "Good luck attind you,
And whin you're in your windin' sheet,
It's up to heaven I'll sind you."
O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff-
"Them tidin's is thransportin',
But may I ax your saintship if
There's any kind of sportin'?"
St. Pathrick said, "A Lion's there,
Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer"-
"Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare;
St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir."
So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I'd tire your patience
You'll see O'Ryan any night,
Amid the constellations.
And Venus follows in his track
Till Mars grows jealous raally,
But, faith, he fears the Irish knack
Of handling the shillaly.
Charles Graham Halpine.
BESSIE BROWN, M.D.
'Twas April when she came to town;
The birds had come, the bees were swarming.
Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown:
I saw at once that she was charming.
She took a cottage tinted green,
Where dewy roses loved to mingle;
And on the door, next day, was seen
A dainty little shingle.
Her hair was like an amber wreath;
Her hat was darker, to enhance it.
The violet eyes that glowed beneath
Were brighter than her keenest lancet.
The beauties of her glove and gown
The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.
Ere she had been a day in town
The town was in a flutter.
The gallants viewed her feet and hands,
And swore they never saw such wee things;
The gossips met in purring bands
And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea things.
The former drank the Doctor's health
With clinking cups, the gay carousers;
The latter watched her door by stealth,
Just like so many mousers.
But Doctor Bessie went her way
Unmindful of the spiteful cronies,
And drove her buggy every day
Behind a dashing pair of ponies.
Her flower-like face so bright she bore
I hoped that time might never wilt her.
The way she tripped across the floor
Was better than a philter.
Her patients thronged the village street;
Her snowy slate was always quite full.
Some said her bitters tasted sweet,
And some pronounced her pills delightful.
'Twas strange--I knew not what it meant-
She seemed a nymph from Eldorado;
Where'er she came, where'er she went,
Grief lost its gloomy shadow.
Like all the rest, I, too, grew ill;
My aching heart there was no quelling.
I tremble at my Doctor's bill-
And lo! the items still are swelling.
The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear!
They've quite enriched the fair concocter,
And I'm a ruined man, I fear,
Unless--I wed the Doctor!
Samuel Minturn Peck.
THE TROUT, THE CAT AND THE FOX
A Fable
(Anonymous)
A fine full-grown Trout for had some time kept his station in a clear
stream, when, one morning, a Cat, extravagantly fond, as cats are
wont to be, of fish, caught a glimpse of him, as he glided from
beneath an overhanging part of the bank, toward the middle of the
river; and with this glimpse, she resolved to spare no pains to
capture him. As she sat on the bank waiting for the return of the
fish, and laying a plan for her enterprise, a Fox came up, and
saluting her, said:
"Your servant, Mrs. Puss. A pleasant place this for taking the
morning air; and a notable place for fish, eh!"
"Good morning, Mr. Reynard," replied the Cat. "The place is, as you
say, pleasant enough. As for fish, you can judge for yourself whether
there are any in this part of the river. I do not deny that near the
falls, about four miles from here, some very fine salmon and other
fish are to be found."
At this very moment, very inappositely for the Cat's hint, the Trout
made his appearance; and the Fox looking significantly at her, said:
"The falls, madam! Perhaps this fine Trout is on his way thither. It
may be that you would like the walk; allow me the pleasure of
accompanying you?"
"I thank you, sir," replied the Cat, "but I am not disposed to walk
so far at present. Indeed, I hardly know whether I am quite well. I
think I will rest myself a little, and then return home."
"Whatever you may determine," rejoined the Fox, "I hope to be
permitted to enjoy your society and conversation; and possibly I may
have the great gratification of preventing the tedium which, were you
left alone, your indisposition might produce."
In speaking thus, the crafty Fox had no doubt that the only
indisposition from which the Cat was suffering was an unwillingness
to allow him a share of her booty; and he was determined that, so far
as management could go, she should catch no fish that day without his
being a party to the transaction. As the trout still continued in
sight, be began to commend his shape and color; and the Cat, seeing
no way of getting rid of him, finally agreed that they should jointly
try their skill and divide the spoil. Upon this compact, they both
went actively to work.
They agreed first to try the following device: A small knob of earth
covered with rushes stood in the water close to the bank. Both the
fishers were to crouch behind these rushes; the Fox was to move the
water very gently with the end of his long brush, and withdraw it so
soon as the Trout's attention should have been drawn to that point;
and the Cat was to hold her right paw underneath, and be ready, so
soon as the fish should come over it, to throw him out on the bank.
No sooner was the execution of this device commenced than it seemed
likely to succeed. The Trout soon noticed the movement on the water,
and glided quickly toward the point where it was made; but when he
had arrived within about twice his own length of it, he stopped and
then backed toward the middle of the river. Several times this
maneuver was repeated, and always with the same result, until the
tricky pair were convinced that they must try some other scheme.
It so happened that whilst they were considering what they should do
next, the Fox espied a small piece of meat, when it was agreed that
he should tear this into little bits and throw them into the stream
above where they then were; that the Cat should wait, crouched behind
a tuft of grass, to dash into the river and seize the Trout, if he
should come to take any piece of meat floating near the bank; and
that the Fox should, on the first movement of the Cat, return and
give his help. This scheme was put into practice, but with no better
success than the other. The Trout came and took the pieces of meat
which had floated farthest off from the bank, but to those which
floated near he seemed to pay no attention. As he rose to take the
last, he put his mouth out of the water and said, "To other travelers
with these petty tricks: here we are 'wide awake as a black fish' and
are not to be caught with bits and scraps, like so many silly
gudgeons!"
As the Trout went down, the Fox said, in an undertone: "Say you so,
my fine fellow; we may, perhaps, make a _gudgeon_ of you yet!"
Then, turning to the Cat, he proposed to her a new scheme in the
following terms:
"I have a scheme to propose which cannot, I am persuaded, fail of
succeeding, if you will lend your talent and skill for the execution
of it. As I crossed the bridge, a little way above, I saw the dead
body of a small dog, and near it a flat piece of wood rather longer
than your person. Now, let us throw the dead dog into the river and
give the Trout time to examine it; then, let us put the piece of wood
into the water, and do you set yourself upon it so that it shall be
lengthwise under you, and your mouth may lean over one edge and your
tail hang in the water as if you were dead. The Trout, no doubt, will
come up to you, when you may seize him and paddle to the bank with
him, where I will be in waiting to help you land the prey."
The scheme pleased the Cat so much that, in spite of her repugnance
to the wetting, which it promised her, she resolved to act the part
which the cunning Fox had assigned to her. They first threw the dead
dog into the river and, going down the stream, they soon had the
satisfaction of seeing the Trout glide up close to it and examine it.
They then returned to the bridge and put the piece of wood into the
water, and the Cat, having placed herself upon it and taken a posture
as if she were dead, was soon carried down by the current to where
the Trout was. Apparently without the least suspicion, he came up
close to the Cat's head, and she, seizing him by one of his gills,
held him in spite of all his struggles. The task of regaining the
bank still had to be performed, and this was no small difficulty, for
the Trout struggled so hard, and the business of navigation was so
new to the Cat, that not without great labor and fatigue did she
reach the place where the Fox was waiting for her. As one end of the
board struck the bank, the Fox put his right forepaw upon it, then
seizing the fish near the tail, as the Cat let it go, he gave the
board a violent push which sent it toward the middle of the stream,
and instantly ran off with the Trout in his mouth toward the bridge.
It had so happened that after the Fox had quitted the bridge the last
time, an Otter had come there to watch for fish, and he, seeing the
Trout in the Fox's mouth, rushed toward him, and compelled him to
drop the fish and put himself on the defensive. It had also happened
that this Otter had been seen in an earlier part of the day, and that
notice of him had been given to the farmer to whom the Cat belonged,
and who had more than once declared that if ever he found her fishing
again she should be thrown into the river with a stone tied to her
neck. The moment the farmer heard of the Otter, he took his gun, and
followed by a laborer and two strong dogs, went toward the river,
where he arrived just as the Cat, exhausted by the fatigue of her
second voyage, was crawling up the bank. Immediately he ordered the
laborer to put the sentence of drowning in execution; then, followed
by his dogs, he arrived near the bridge just as the Fox and the Otter
were about to join battle. Instantly the dogs set on the Fox and tore
him to pieces; and the farmer, shooting the Otter dead on the spot,
possessed himself of the Trout, which had thus served to detain first
one, then the other of his destroyers, till a severe punishment had
overtaken each of them. Moral.--The inexperienced are never so much
in danger of being deceived and hurt as when they think themselves a
match for the crafty, and suppose that they have penetrated their
designs and seen through all their stratagems. As to the crafty, they
are ever in danger, either by being overreached one by another or of
falling in a hurry into some snare of their own, where, as commonly
happens, should they be caught, they are treated with a full measure
of severity.--Aesop, Jr., in America.
Robert C. Sands
A MONODY
Made on the Late Mr. Samuel Patch, by an Aadmirer of the Bathos
By water he shall die and take his end.--Shakespeare
Toll for Sam Patch! Sam Patch, who jumps no more,
This or the world to come. Sam Patch is dead!
The vulgar pathway to the unknown shore
Of dark futurity, he would not tread.
No friends stood sorrowing round his dying bed;
Nor with decorous woe, sedately stepp'd
Behind his corpse, and tears by retail shed--
The mighty river, as it onward swept,
In one great wholesale sob, his body drowned and kept.
Toll for Sam Patch! he scorned the common way
That leads to fame, up heights of rough ascent,
And having heard Pope and Longinus say
That some great men had risen by falls, he went
And jumped, where wild Passaic's waves had rent
The antique rocks--the air free passage gave--
And graciously the liquid element
Upbore him, like some sea-god on its wave;
And all the people said that Sam was very brave.
Fame, the clear spirit that doth to heaven upraise,
Let Sam to dive into what Byron calls
The hell of waters. For the sake of praise,
He wooed the bathos down great waterfalls;
The dizzy precipice, which the eye appals
Of travelers for pleasure, Samuel found
Pleasant as are to women lighted halls,
Crammed full of fools and fiddles; to the sound
Of the eternal roar, he timed his desperate bound.
Sam was a fool. But the large world of such
Has thousands--better taught, alike absurd,
And less sublime. Of fame he soon got much,
Where distant cataracts spout, of him men heard.
Alas for Sam! Had he aright preferred
The kindly element, to which he gave
Himself so fearlessly, we had not heard
That it was now his winding sheet and grave,
Nor sung, 'twixt tears and smiles, our requiem for the brave.
He soon got drunk with rum and with renown,
As many others in high places do--
Whose fall is like Sam's last--for down and down,
By one mad impulse driven, they flounder through
The gulf that keeps the future from our view,
And then are found not. May they rest in peace!
We heave the sigh to human frailty due--
And shall not Sam have his? The muse shall cease
To keep the heroic roll, which she began in Greece--
With demigods who went to the Black Sea
For wool (and if the best accounts be straight,
Came back, in Negro phraseology,
With the same wool each upon his pate),
In which she chronicled the deathless fate
Of him who jumped into the perilous ditch
Left by Rome's street commissioners, in a state
Which made it dangerous, and by jumping which
He made himself renowned and the contractors rich--
I say the muse shall quite forget to sound
The chord whose music is undying, if
She do not strike it when Sam Patch is drowned.
Leander dived for love. Leucadia's cliff
The Lesbian Sappho leapt from in a miff,
To punish Phaon; Icarus went dead
Because the wax did not continue stiff;
And, had he minded what his father said,
He had not given a name unto his watery bed.
And Helle's case was all an accident,
As everybody knows. Why sing of these?
Nor would I rank with Sam that man who went
Down into Aetna's womb--Empedocles,
I think he called himself. Themselves to please,
Or else unwillingly, they made their springs;
For glory in the abstract, Sam made his,
To prove to all men, commons, lords, and kings,
That "some things may be done, as well as other things."
I will not be fatigued, by citing more
Who jump'd of old, by hazard or design,
Nor plague the weary ghosts of boyish lore,
Vulcan, Apollo, Phaeton--in fine
All Tooke's Pantheon. Yet they grew divine
By their long tumbles; and if we can match
Their hierarchy, shall we not entwine
One wreath? Who ever came "up to the scratch,"
And for so little, jumped so bravely as Sam Patch?
To long conclusions many men have jumped
In logic, and the safer course they took;
By any other they would have been stumped,
Unable to argue, or to quote a book,
And quite dumbfounded, which they cannot brook;
They break no bones, and suffer no contusion,
Hiding their woful fall, by hook and crook,
In slang and gibberish, sputtering and confusion;
But that was not the way Sam came to _his_ conclusion.
He jumped in person. Death or victory
Was his device, "and there was no mistake,"
Except his last; and then he did but die,
A blunder which the wisest men will make.
Aloft, where mighty floods the mountains break,
To stand, the target of the thousand eyes,
And down into the coil and water-quake,
To leap, like Maia's offspring, from the skies--
For this all vulgar flights he ventured to despise.
And while Niagara prolongs its thunder,
Though still the rock primeval disappears
And nations change their bounds--the theme of wonder
Shall Sam go down the cataract of long years:
And if there be sublimity in tears,
Those shall be precious which the adventurer shed
When his frail star gave way, and waked his fears,
Lest, by the ungenerous crowd it might be said,
That he was all a hoax, or that his pluck had fled.
Who would compare the maudlin Alexander,
Blubbering because he had no job in hand,
Acting the hypocrite, or else the gander,
With Sam, whose grief we all can understand?
His crying was not womanish, nor plann'd
For exhibition; but his heart o'erswelled
With its own agony, when he the grand,
Natural arrangements for a jump beheld.
And measuring the cascade, found not his courage quelled.
His last great failure set the final seal
Unto the record Time shall never tear,
While bravery has its honor--while men feel
The holy natural sympathies which are
First, last and mightiest in the bosom. Where
The tortured tides of Genesee descend,
He came--his only intimate a bear--
(We know now that he had another friend),
The martyr of renown, his wayward course to end.
The fiend that from the infernal rivers stole
Hell-drafts for man, too much tormented him;
With nerves unstrung, but steadfast of his soul,
He stood upon the salient current's brim;
His head was giddy, and his sight was dim;
And then he knew this leap would be his last--
Saw air, and earth, and water, wildly swim,
With eyes of many multitudes, dense and vast,
That stared in mockery; none a look of kindness cast.
Beat down, in the huge amphitheatre,
"I see before me the gladiator lie,"
And tier on tier, the myriads waiting there
The bow of grace without one pitying eye--
He was a slave--a captive hired to die--
_Sam_ was born free as Caesar; and he might
The hopeless issue have refused to try;
No! with true leap, but soon with faltering flight--
"Deep in the roaring gulf, he plunged to endless night."
But, ere he leapt, he begged of those who made
Money by this dread venture, that if he
Should perish, such collection should be paid
As might be picked up from the "company"
_To his Mother._ This, his last request, shall be--
Tho' she who bore him ne'er his fate should know--
An iris, glittering o'er his memory--
When all the streams have worn their barriers low,
And, by the sea drunk up, forever cease to flow.
On him who chooses to jump down cataracts,
Why should the sternest moralist be severe?
Judge not the dead by prejudice--but facts,
Such as in strictest evidence appear.
Else were the laurels of all ages sere.
Give to the brave, who have passed the final goal--
The gates that ope not back--the generous tear;
And let the muse's clerk upon her scroll
In coarse, but honest verse, make up the judgment roll.
_Therefore it is considered_ that Sam Patch
Shall never be forgot in prose or rhyme;
His name shall be a portion in the batch
Of the heroic dough, which baking Time
Kneads for consuming ages--and the chime
Of Fame's old bells, long as they truly ring,
Shall tell of him; he dived for the sublime,
And found it. Thou, who, with the eagle's wing,
Being a goose, would'st fly--dream not of such a thing!
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