The Wit of Women

by Kate Sanborn

  When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed

  the Index teaching,

  And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore

  The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;

  Truly this, but something more!

  Then with eyes as bright as Phoebus, and hair dark as Erebus,

  A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;

  In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,

  But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,

  And indorsed the Index editor in every word he swore,

  And then—said nothing more.

  Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber

  (And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),

  Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,

  The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;

  But a bad gold in his ‘ead bust stop his saying bore,

  And we all cried encore.

  Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal

  Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,

  With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,

  Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o’er and o’er

  The old, old vexing questions of the why and the wherefore,

  And taught us—nothing more.

  There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,

  And at first ‘twas my intention, but at present I forbear;

  There’s young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,

  And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;

  If you could only see them, you’d laugh till you were sore,

  And then you’d laugh some more.

  But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,

  For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o’er;

  In their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable scheming

  For a sinful world’s redeeming, common sense flies out the door,

  And the long-drawn dissertations come to—words and nothing more;

  Only words, and nothing more.

  Mary Clemmer Hudson has spoken of Phoebe Cary as “the wittiest woman in America.” But she truly adds:

  “A flash of wit, like a flash of lightning, can only be remembered, it cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel lies in its spontaneity and evanescence; its power is in being struck from the present. Divorced from that, the keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. We read over the few remaining sentences which attempt to embody the repartees and bon mots of the most famous wits of society, such as Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, Madame du Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu; we wonder at the poverty of these memorials of their fame. Thus it must be with Phoebe Cary. Her most brilliant sallies were perfectly unpremeditated, and by herself never repeated or remembered. When she was in her best moods they came like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were delighted, and afterward found it difficult to single out any distinct flash or separate meteor from the multitude…. This most wonderful of her gifts can only be represented by a few stray sentences gleaned here and there from the faithful memories of loving friends….

  “One tells how, at a little party, where fun rose to a great height, one quiet person was suddenly attacked by a gay lady with the question: ‘Why don’t you laugh? You sit there just like a post!’

  “‘There! she called you a post; why don’t you rail at her?’ was Phoebe’s quick exclamation.

  “Mr. Barnum mentioned to her that the skeleton man and the fat woman then on exhibition in his ‘greatest show on earth’ were married.

  “‘I suppose they loved through thick and thin,’ was her comment.

  “‘On one occasion, when Phoebe was at the Museum looking about at the curiosities,’ says Mr. Barnum, ‘I preceded her and had passed down a couple of steps. She, intently watching a big anaconda in a case at the top of the stairs, walked off, not noticing them, and fell. I was just in time to catch her in my arms and save her from a good bruising’.

  “‘I am more lucky than that first woman was who fell through the influence of the serpent,’ said Phoebe, as she recovered herself.

  “And when asked by some one at a dinner-party what brand of champagne they kept, she replied: ‘Oh, we drink Heidsieck, but we keep Mum.’

  “Again, a certain well-known actor, then recently deceased, and more conspicuous for his professional skill than for his private virtues, was discussed. ‘We shall never,’ remarked some one, ‘see –- again.’

  “‘No,’ quietly responded Phoebe, ‘not unless we go to the pit.’”

  These stray shots may not fairly represent Miss Cary’s brilliancy, but we are grateful for what has been preserved, meagre as it would seem to those who had the privilege of knowing her intimately and enjoying those Sunday evening receptions, where, unrestrained and happy, every one was at his best.

  Her verses on the subject of Woman’s Rights, as discussed in masculine fashion, with masculine logic, by Chanticleer Dorking, are capital, and her parodies, shockingly literal, have been widely copied. Enjoy these as given in her life, written by Mary Clemmer.

  CHAPTER VI.

  GINGER-SNAPS.

  I will now offer you some good things of various degrees of humor. I do not feel it necessary to impress their merits upon you, for they speak for themselves Here is a quaint bit of satire from a bright Boston woman, which those on her side of the vexed Indian question will enjoy:

  THE INDIAN AGENT.

  BY LOUISA HALL.

  He was a long, lean man, with a sad expression, as if weighed down by pity for poor humanity. His heart was evidently a great many sizes too large for him. He yearned to enfold all tribes and conditions of men in his encircling arms. He surveyed his audience with such affectionate interest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their pockets.

  A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the majority knew that this artifice would not save them, and they rather enjoyed it as a species of harmless dissipation. They liked to be talked into a state of exhilaration which obliged them to give without thinking much about it, and they felt very good and benevolent afterward. So they cheered the agent enthusiastically, as a signal for him to begin, and he came forward bowing, while the three red brothers who accompanied him remained seated on the platform. He appeared to smile on every one present as he said:

  “Friends and Fellow-Citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you these chiefs of the Laughing Dog Nation. Twenty-five years ago this tribe was one of the fiercest on our Western plains. Snarling Bear, the most noted chief of his tribe, was a great warrior. Fifty scalps adorned his wigwam. Some of them had once belonged to his best friends. He was murdered while in the prime of life by a white man whose wife he had accidentally shot at the door of her cabin. He was one of the first to welcome the white men and adopt the improvements they brought with them. When he became sufficiently civilized to understand that polygamy was unlawful, he separated from his oldest wife. Her scalp was carefully preserved among those of the great warriors he had conquered. His son, Flying Deer, who is with us to-day, will address you in his own language, which I shall interpret for you. The last twenty years have made a great change in their condition. These men are not savages, but educated gentlemen. They are all graduates of Tomahawk College, at Bloody Mountain, near the Gray Wolf country. They are chiefs of their tribes, each one holding a position equal to the Governor of our own State. Their influence at the West is great. Last year they sent a small party of missionaries to the highlands of the Wolf country, where the women and children pasture the ponies during the dry season. Not one of these noble men ever returned. Unfortunately for the success of this mission, the Gray Wolf warriors were at home. The medicine man’s dreams
had been unfavorable, and they dared not set out on their annual hunt. This year they will send a larger party well armed.

  “These devoted men have left their Western homes and come here to assure you of their confidence in your affection, and the love and gratitude they feel toward you. They come to ask for churches and schools, that their children may grow up like yours. But these things require money. On account of the great scarcity of stone in the Rocky Mountains, and the necessity of preserving standing timber for the Indian hunting-grounds, all building materials for churches and school-houses must be carried from the East at great expense. The door-steps of the third orthodox Kickapoo church cost one hundred and fifty dollars. But it is money well invested. The gradual decrease of crime at the West has convinced the most sceptical that a great work can be done among these people. The number of murders committed in this country last year was one hundred and twenty-five; this year only one hundred and twenty-three.

  “Although a great deal has been done for these people, you will be surprised to learn how much remains to be done. I need not tell you that every dollar intrusted to me will be spent, and I hope you will live to see the result of your generosity.

  “I wish to build at least fifteen churches and school-houses before the cold weather sets in. The cost of building has been greatly lessened by employing native workmen, who are capable of designing and erecting simple edifices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, and the expense of light and heat will be paid by the congregation.

  “We have at least twenty-five well-qualified native teachers, who will require no salary beyond the necessary expense of food and clothing.

  “A few boarding-houses must be built and tastefully furnished. We have a large number of Laughing Dog widows, who would gladly take charge of such establishments.

  “The native committee will make a careful selection of such matrons as are most capable of guiding and encouraging young people.

  “All money for the benefit of these people has been used with the strictest economy; and will be while I retain the agency. I have secured a slender provision for my declining years, and shall return to spend my days with my adopted people.

  “But I will let these men who once owned this great country speak for themselves. Flying Deer, who will now address you, is about forty years of age. He lives with his wife and ten children near the agency, at a place called Humanketchet.”

  Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, though rapidly.

  “O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw choo kibbe showain nemeshin. Dawmasse choochugah goo waugh; kawboo. Nokka brewis goo, honowin nudwag moonoo shugh kawmun menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gessonwon goo. Nahna naskeen oza yenadisse mayben mudjo, kenemoosha. Wawconassee nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, wabenas ogu winemon jabs. Ahmuck wana wayroossen chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, kewadoda shenghen kad goo tagamengow.”

  “He says, my friends, that he has always loved and trusted the white people. He says that since he has seen the great cities and towns of the East, he loves his white brothers more than before. His red brothers, White Crow and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love you. He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot and scalp them if they continue friendly to the whites. He asks for powder, guns, and ponies, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. He wants to convince you that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The assistance you are about to give will only be required for a short time. They will soon become self-supporting, and relieve the Government of a heavy tax. They thank you for the kindness you have shown, and for the generous collection which will now be taken up.

  “Will some friend close the doors while we give every one an opportunity to contribute to this good cause? Remember that he who shutteth up his ears to the cry of the poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be heard. Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham at the door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial tokens of your regard will cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose.

  “In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank you.”

  If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. Lippincott.

  MISTRESS O’RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.

  BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

  No! I wouldn’t demane myself, Bridget,

  Like you, in disputin’ with men—

  Would I fly in the face of the blissed

  Apostles, an’ Father Maginn?

  It isn’t the talent I’m wantin’—

  Sure my father, ould Michael McCrary,

  Made a beautiful last spache and confession

  When they hanged him in ould Tipperary.

  So, Bridget Muldoon, howld yer talkin’

  About Womins’ Rights, and all that!

  Sure all the rights I want is the one right,

  To be a good helpmate to Pat;

  For he’s a good husband—and niver

  Lays on me the weight of his hand

  Except when he’s far gone in liquor,

  And I nag him, you’ll plase understand.

  Thrue for ye, I’ve one eye in mournin’,

  That’s becaze I disputed his right,

  To tak’ and spind all my week’s earnin’s

  At Tim Mulligan’s wake, Sunday night.

  But it’s sildom when I’ve done a washin’,

  He’ll ask for more’n half of the pay;

  An’ he’ll toss me my share, wid a smile, dear,

  That’s like a swate mornin’ in May!

  Now where, if I rin to convintions,

  Will be Patrick’s home-comforts and joys?

  Who’ll clane up his broghans for Sunday,

  Or patch up his ould corduroys.

  If we tak’ to the polls, night and mornin’,

  Our dilicate charms will all flee—

  The dew will be brushed from the rose, dear,

  The down from the pache—don’t you see?

  We’ll soon tak’ to shillalahs and shindies

  Whin we get to be sovereign electors,

  And turn all our husbands’ hearts from us,

  Thin what will we do for protectors?

  We’ll have to be crowners an’ judges,

  An’ such like ould malefactors,

  Or they’ll make Common Councilmin of us;

  Thin where will be our characters?

  Oh, Bridget, God save us from votin’!

  For sure as the blissed sun rolls,

  We’ll land in the State House or Congress,

  Thin what will become of our sowls?

  Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.

  DOCHTHER O’FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.

  I.

  I’m Barney O’Flannigan, lately from Cork;

  I’ve crossed the big watther as bould as a shtork.

  ‘Tis a dochther I am and well versed in the thrade;

  I can mix yez a powdher as good as is made.

  Have yez pains in yer bones or a throublesome ache

  In yer jints afther dancin’ a jig at a wake?

  Have yez caught a black eye from some blundhering whack?

  Have yez vertebral twists in the sphine av yer back?

  Whin ye’re walkin’ the shtrates are yez likely to fall?

  Don’t whiskey sit well on yer shtomick at all?

  Sure ‘tis botherin’ nonsinse to sit down and wape

  Whin a bit av a powdher ull put yez to shlape.

  Shtate yer symptoms, me darlins, and niver yez doubt

  But as sure as a gun I can shtraighten yez out!

  Thin don’t yez be gravin’ no more;

  Arrah! quit all yer sighin’ forlorn;

  Here’s Barney O’Flannigan right to the fore,

  And bedad! he’s a gintleman born!

  II.

  Coom thin, ye poor craytures and don’t yez be scairt!

  Have yez batin’ and lumberin’ thumps at the hairt,

  Wid o
ssification, and acceleration,

  Wid fatty accretion and bad vellication,

  Wid liver inflation and hapitization,

  Wid lung inflammation and brain-adumbration,

  Wid black aruptation and schirrhous formation,

  Wid nerve irritation and paralyzation,

  Wid extravasation and acrid sacration,

  Wid great jactitation and exacerbation,

  Wid shtrong palpitation and wake circulation,

  Wid quare titillation and cowld perspiration?

  Be the powers! but I’ll bring all yer woes to complation,

  Onless yer in love—thin yer past all salvation!

  Coom, don’t yez be gravin’ no more!

  Be quit wid yer sighin’ forlorn;

  Here’s the man all yer haling potations to pour,

  And ye’ll prove him a gintleman born

  III.

  Sure, me frinds, ‘tis the wondherful luck I have had

  In the thratement av sickness no matther how bad.

  All the hundhreds I’ve cured ‘tis not aisy to shpake,

  And if any sowl dies, faith I’m in at the wake;

  There was Misthriss O’Toole was tuck down mighty quare,

  That wild there was niver a one dared to lave her;

  And phat was the matther? Ye’ll like for to hare;

  ‘Twas the double quotidian humerous faver.

  Well, I tuck out me lancet and pricked at a vein,

  (Och, murther! but didn’t she howl at the pain!)

  Six quarts, not a dhrap less I drew widout sham,

  And troth she shtopped howlin’, and lay like a lamb.

  Thin for fare sich a method av thratement was risky,

  I hasthened to fill up the void wid ould whiskey.

  Och! niver be gravin’ no more!

  Phat use av yer sighin’ forlorn?

  Me patients are proud av me midical lore—