The Wit of Women

by Kate Sanborn

  “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 t
he 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._

  CHAPTER VIII.

  HUMOROUS POEMS.

  I will next group a score of poems and doggerel rhymes with their various degrees of humor.

  THE FIRST NEEDLE.

  BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.

  “Have you heard the new invention, my dears,

  That a man has invented?” said she.

  “It’s a stick with an eye

  Through which you can tie

  A thread so long, it acts like a thong,

  And the men have such fun,

  To see the thing run!

  A firm, strong thread, through that eye at the head,

  Is pulled over the edges most craftily,

  And makes a beautiful seam to see!”

  “What, instead of those wearisome thorns, my dear,

  Those wearisome thorns?” cried they.

  “The seam we pin

  Driving them in,

  But where are they by the end of the day,

  With dancing, and jumping, and leaps by the sea?

  For wintry weather

  They won’t hold together,

  Seal-skins and bear-skins all dropping round

  Off from our shoulders down to the ground.

  The thorns, the tiresome thorns, will prick,

  But none of them ever consented to stick!

  Oh, won’t the men let us this new thing use?

  If we mend their clothes they can’t refuse.

  Ah, to sew up a seam for them to see—

  What a treat, a delightful treat, ‘twill be!”

  “Yes, a nice thing, too, for the babies, my dears—

  But, alas, there is but one!” cried she.

  “I saw them passing it round, and then

  They said it was fit for only men!

  What woman would know

  How to make the thing go?

  There was not a man so foolish to dream

  That any woman could sew up a seam!”

  Oh, then there was babbling and scrabbling, my dears!

  “At least they might let us do that!” cried they.

  “Let them shout and fight

  And kill bears all night;

  We’ll leave them their spears and hatchets of stone

  If they’ll give us this thing for our very own.

  It will be like a joy above all we could scheme,

  To sit up all night and sew such a seam.”

  “Beware! take care!” cried an aged old crone,

  “Take care what you promise,” said she.

  “At first ‘twill be fun,

  But, in the long run,

  You’ll wish you had let the thing be.

  Through this stick with an eye

  I look and espy

  That for ages and ages you’ll sit and you’ll sew,

  And longer and longer the seams will grow,

  And you’ll wish you never had asked to sew.

  But naught that I say

  Can keep back the day,

  For the men will return to their hunting and rowing,

  And leave to the women forever the sewing.”

  Ah, what are the words of an aged crone?

  For all have left her muttering alone;

  And the needle and thread that they got with such pains,

  They forever must keep as dagger and chains.

  THE FUNNY STORY.

  BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

  It was such a funny story! how I wish you could have heard it,

  For it set us all a-laughing, from the little to the big;

  I’d really like to tell it, but I don’t know how to word it,

  Though it travels to the music of a very lively jig.

  If Sally just began it, then Amelia Jane would giggle,

  And Mehetable and Susan try their very broadest grin;

  And the infant Zachariah on his mother’s lap would wriggle,

  And add a lusty chorus to the very merry din.

  It was such a funny story, with its cheery snap and crackle,

  And Sally always told it with so much dramatic art,

  That the chickens in the door-yard would begin to “cackle-cackle,”

  As if in such a frolic they were anxious to take part.

  It was all about a—ha! ha!—and a—ho! ho! ho!—well really,

  It is—he! he! he!—I never could begin to tell you half

  Of the nonsense there was in it, for I just remember clearly

  It began with—ha! ha! ha! ha! and it ended with a laugh.

  But Sally—she could tell it, looking at us so demurely,

  With a woe-begone expression that no actress would despise;

  And if you’d never heard it, why you would imagine surely

  That you’d need your pocket-handkerchief to wipe your weeping eyes.

  When age my hair has silvered, and my step has grown unsteady,

  And the nearest to my vision are the scenes of long ago,

  I shall see the pretty picture, and the tears may come as ready

  As the laugh did, when I used to—ha! ha! ha! and—ho! ho! ho!

  A SONNET.

  BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

  Once a poet wrote a sonnet

  All about a pretty bonnet,

  And a critic sat upon it

  (On the sonnet,

  Not the bonnet),

  Nothing loath.

  And as if it were high treason,

  He said: “Neither rhyme nor reason

  Has it; and it’s out of season,”

  Which? the sonnet

  Or the bonnet?

  Maybe both.

  “‘Tis a feeble imitation

  Of a worthier creation;

  An aesthetic innovation!”

  Of a sonnet

  Or a bonnet?

  This was hard.

  Both were put together neatly,

  Harmonizing very sweetly,

  But the critic crushed completely

  Not the bonnet,

  Or the sonnet,

  But the bard.

  WANTED, A MINISTER.

  BY MRS. M.E.W. SKEELS.

  We’ve a church, tho’ the belfry is leaning,

  They are talking I think of repair,

  And the bell, oh, pray but excuse us,

  ‘Twas talked of, but never’s been there.

  Now, “Wanted, a real live minister,”

  And to settle the same for life,

  We’ve an organ and some one to play it,

  So we don’t care a fig for his wife.

  We once had a pastor (don’t tell it),

  But we chanced on a time to discover

  That his sermons were writ long ago,

  And he had preached them twice over.

  How sad this mistake, tho’ unmeaning,

  Oh, it made such a desperate muss!

  Both deacon and laymen were vexed,

  And decided, “He’s no man for us.”

  And then the “old nick” was to pay,

  “Truth indeed is stranger than fiction,”

  His prayers were so tedious and long,

  People slept, till the benediction.

  And then came another, on trial,

  Who actually preached in his gloves,

  His manner so awkward and queer,

  That we settled him off and he moved.

  And then came another so meek,

  That his name really ought to ‘ve been Moses;

  We almost considered him settled,

  When lo! the secret discloses,

  He’d attacks of nervous disease,

  That unfit him for every-day duty;

  His sermons, oh, never can please,

  They lack both in force and beau
ty.

  Now, “wanted, a minister,” really,

  That won’t preach his old sermons over,

  That will make short prayers while in church,

  With no fault that the ear can discover,

  That is very forbearing, yes very,

  That blesses wherever he moves—

  Not too zealous, nor lacking for zeal,

  That preaches without any gloves!

  Now, “wanted, a minister,” really,

  “That was born ere nerves came in fashion,”

  That never complains of the “headache,”

  That never is roused to a passion.

  He must add to the wisdom of Solomon

  The unwearied patience of Job,

  Must be mute in political matters,

  Or doff his clerical robe.

  If he pray for the present Congress,

  He must speak in an undertone;

  If he pray for President Johnson,

  He NEEDS ‘em, why let him go on.

  He must touch upon doctrines so lightly,

  That no one can take an offence,

  Mustn’t meddle with predestination—

  In short, must preach “common sense.”

  Now really wanted a minister,

  With religion enough to sustain him,

  For the salary’s exceedingly small,

  And faith alone must maintain him.

  He must visit the sick and afflicted,

  Must mourn with those that mourn,

  Must preach the “funeral sermons”

  With a very peculiar turn.

  He must preach at the north-west school-house

  On every Thursday eve,

  And things too numerous to mention

  He must do, and must believe.

  He must be of careful demeanor,

  Both graceful and eloquent too,

  Must adjust his cravat “a la mode,”