The best sermon ever preached upon society, within our knowledge, is_Vanity Fair_. Is the spirit of that story less true of New York than ofLondon? Probably we never see Amelia at our parties, nor LieutenantGeorge Osborne, nor good gawky Dobbin, nor Mrs. Rebecca Sharp Crawley,nor old Steyne. We are very much pained, of course, that any authorshould take such dreary views of human nature. We, for our parts, all goto Mrs. Potiphar's to refresh our faith in men and women. Generosity,amiability, a catholic charity, simplicity, taste, sense, highcultivation, and intelligence, distinguish our parties. The statesmanseeks their stimulating influence; the literary man, after the day'slabor, desires the repose of their elegant conversation; theprofessional man and the merchant hurry up from down town to shuffle offthe coil of heavy duty, and forget the drudgery of life in the agreeablepicture of its amenities and graces presented by Mrs. Potiphar's ball.Is this account of the matter, or _Vanity Fair_, the satire? What arethe prospects of any society of which that tale is the true history?
There is a picture in the Luxembourg gallery at Paris, _The Decadence ofthe Romans_, which made the fame and fortune of Couture, the painter. Itrepresents an orgie in the court of a temple, during the last days ofRome. A swarm of revellers occupy the middle of the picture, wreathed inelaborate intricacy of luxurious posture, men and women intermingled;their faces, in which the old Roman fire scarcely flickers, brutalizedwith excess of every kind; their heads of dishevelled hair bound withcoronals of leaves, while, from goblets of an antique grace, they drainthe fiery torrent which is destroying them. Around the bacchanalianfeast stand, lofty upon pedestals, the statues of old Rome, looking,with marble calmness and the severity of a rebuke beyond words, upon therevellers. A youth of boyish grace, with a wreath woven in his tangledhair, and with red and drowsy eyes, sits listless upon one pedestal,while upon another stands a boy insane with drunkenness, and profferinga dripping goblet to the marble mouth of the statue. In the corner ofthe picture, as if just quitting the court--Rome finally departing--is agroup of Romans with care-worn brows, and hands raised to their faces inmelancholy meditation. In the foreground of the picture, which ispainted with all the sumptuous splendor of Venetian art, is a statelyvase, around which hangs a festoon of gorgeous flowers, its end draggingupon the pavement. In the background, between the columns, smiles theblue sky of Italy--the only thing Italian not deteriorated by time. Thecareful student of this picture, if he have been long in Paris, is someday startled by detecting, especially in the faces of the womenrepresented, a surprising likeness to the women of Paris, and perceives,with a thrill of dismay, that the models for this picture of decadenthuman nature are furnished by the very city in which he lives.
THE TWO FARMERS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
Once on a Time there were Two Farmers who wished to Sell their Farms.
To One came a Buyer who offered a Fair Price, but the Farmer refused toSell, saying he had heard rumors of a Railroad which was to be Built inhis Vicinity, and he hoped The Corporation would buy his Farm at a LargeFigure.
The Buyer therefore went Away, and as the Railroad never Materialized,the Farmer Sorely Regretted that he lost a Good Chance.
The Other Farmer Sold his Farm to the First Customer who came Along,although he Received but a Small Price for it. Soon Afterward a Railroadwas Built right through the Same Farm, and The Railroad Company paid anEnormous Sum for the Land.
MORALS:
This Fable teaches that a Bird In The Hand is worth Two In The Bush, andThe Patient Waiter Is No Loser.
SAMUEL BROWN
BY PHOEBE CARY
It was many and many a year ago, In a dwelling down in town, That a fellow there lived whom you may know, By the name of Samuel Brown; And this fellow he lived with no other thought Than to our house to come down.
I was a child, and he was a child, In that dwelling down in town, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Samuel Brown,-- With a love that the ladies coveted, Me and Samuel Brown.
And this was the reason that, long ago, To that dwelling down in town, A girl came out of her carriage, courting My beautiful Samuel Brown; So that her high-bred kinsmen came, And bore away Samuel Brown, And shut him up in a dwelling house, In a street quite up in town.
The ladies, not half so happy up there, Went envying me and Brown; Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this dwelling down in town), That the girl came out of the carriage by night, Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown.
But our love is more artful by far than the love If those who are older than we,-- Of many far wiser than we,-- And neither the girls that are living above, Nor the girls that are down in town, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Samuel Brown.
For the morn never shines, without bringing me lines, From my beautiful Samuel Brown; And the night's never dark, but I sit in the park With my beautiful Samuel Brown. And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, With my darling, my darling, my life and my stay, To our dwelling down in town, To our house in the street down town.
THE WAY IT WUZ
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Las' July--an', I presume 'Bout as hot As the ole Gran'-Jury room Where they sot!-- Fight 'twixt Mike an' Dock McGriff-- 'Pears to me jes' like as if I'd a dremp' the whole blame thing-- Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard When they're nightmares on the wing, An' a feller's blood 's jes' friz! Seed the row from a to izzard-- 'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!
Tell you the way it wuz-- An' I don't want to see, Like _some_ fellers does, When they're goern to be Any kind o' fuss-- On'y makes a rumpus wuss Fer to interfere When their dander's riz-- But I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!
I wuz kind o' strayin' Past the blame saloon-- Heerd some fiddler playin' That "ole hee-cup tune!" Sort o' stopped, you know, Fer a minit er so, And wuz jes' about Settin' down, when--_Jeemses whizz_! Whole durn winder-sash fell out! An' there laid Dock McGriff, and Mike A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like, An' both a-gittin' down to biz!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!
I wuz the on'y man aroun'-- (Durn old-fogy town! 'Peared more like, to me, _Sund'y_ 'an _Saturd'y!_) Dog come 'crost the road An' tuck a smell An' put right back; Mishler driv by 'ith a load O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell-- Too mad, 'y jack! To even ast What wuz up, as he went past! Weather most outrageous hot!-- Fairly hear it sizz Roun' Dock an' Mike--till Dock he shot, An' Mike he slacked that grip o' his An' fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 'Bout half up, a-spittin' red, An' shuck his head-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!
An' Dock he says, A-whisperin'-like,-- "It hain't no use A-tryin'!--Mike He's jes' ripped my daylights loose!-- Git that blame-don fiddler to Let up, an' come out here--You Got some burryin' to do,-- Mike makes _one_, an' I expects In ten seconds I'll make _two_!" And he drapped back, where he riz, 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, Like a great big letter X!-- An' I wuz a-standin' as clost to 'em As me an' you is!
SHE TALKED
BY SAM WALTER FOSS
She talked of Cosmos and of Cause, And wove green elephants in gauze, And while she frescoed earthen jugs, Her tongue would never pause: On sages wise and esoteric, And bards from Wendell Holmes to Herrick: Thro' time's proud Pantheon she walked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!
And while she talked she would crochet, And make all kinds of macrame, Or paint green bobolinks upon Her mother's earthen tray; She'd decorate a smelling bottle While sh
e conversed on Aristotle; While fame's proud favorites round her flocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!
She talked and made embroidered rugs, She talked and painted 'lasses jugs, And worked five sea-green turtle doves On papa's shaving mugs; With Emerson or Epictetus, Plato or Kant, she used to greet us: She talked until we all were shocked, And talked and talked and talked and talked!
She had a lover, and he told The story that is never old, While she her father's bootjack worked A lovely green and gold. She switched off on Theocritus, And talked about Democritus; And his most ardent passion balked, And talked and talked and talked and talked.
He begged her to become his own; She talked of ether and ozone, And painted yellow poodles on Her brother's razor hone; Then talked of Noah and Neb'chadnezzar, And Timon and Tiglath-pileser-- While he at her heart portals knocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!
He bent in love's tempestuous gale, She talked of strata and of shale, And worked magenta poppies on Her mother's water pail; And while he talked of passion's power, She amplified on Schopenhauer-- A pistol flashed: he's dead! Unshocked, She talked and talked and talked and talked!
GRANDMA KEELER GETS GRANDPA READY FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL
BY SARAH P. McLEAN GREENE
Sunday morning nothing arose in Wallencamp save the sun.
At least, that celestial orb had long forgotten all the roseate flamingof his youth, in an honest, straightforward march through the heavens,ere the first signs of smoke came curling lazily up from the Wallencampchimneys.
I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousnessthat it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, orwhether, indeed, I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and layhalf-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.
I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patchwork quilt whichcovered my couch. There were--"Let not your heart be troubled,""Remember Lot's wife," and "Philander Keeler," traced in inkyhieroglyphics, all in close conjunction.
Finally I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time ofday, I got up and proceeded to dress hastily enough, wondering to hearno signs of life in the house.
I went noiselessly down the stairs. All was silent below, except for thepeaceful snoring of Mrs. Philander and the little Keelers, which wasresponded to from some remote western corner of the Ark by thetriumphant snores of Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.
I attempted to kindle a fire in the stove, but it sizzled a littlewhile, spitefully, as much as to say, "What, Sunday morning? Not I!" andwent out. So I concluded to put on some wraps and go out and warm myselfin the sun.
I climbed the long hill back of the Ark, descended, and walked along thebank of the river. It was a beautiful morning. The air was--everythingthat could be desired in the way of air, but I felt a desperate need ofsomething more substantial.
Standing alone with nature, on the bank of the lovely river, I thought,with tears in my eyes, of the delicious breakfast already recuperatingthe exhausted energies of my far-away home friends.
When I got back to the house, Mrs. Philander, in simple and unaffectedattire, was bustling busily about the stove.
The snores from Grandma and Grandpa's quarter had ceased, signifyingthat they, also, had advanced a stage in the grand processes of Sundaymorning.
The children came teasing me to dress them, so I fastened for them avariety of small articles which I flattered myself on having combined ina very ingenious and artistic manner, though I believe those infantKeelers went weeping to Grandma afterward, and were remodeled by herall-comforting hand with much skill and patience.
In the midst of her preparations for breakfast, Madeline abruptlyassumed her hat and shawl, and was seen from the window, walkingleisurely across the fields in the direction of the woods. She returnedin due time, bearing an armful of fresh evergreens, which she twistedaround the family register.
When the ancient couple made their appearance, I remarked silently, inregard to Grandma Keeler's hair, what proved afterward to be its usualholiday morning arrangement. It was confined in six infinitesimal braidswhich appeared to be sprouting out, perpendicularly, in all directionsfrom her head. The effect of redundancy and expansiveness thusheightened and increased on Grandma's features was striking in theextreme.
While we were eating breakfast, that good soul observed to GrandpaKeeler: "Wall, pa, I suppose you'll be all ready when the time comes totake teacher and me over to West Wallen to Sunday-school, won't ye?"
Grandpa coughed, and coughed again, and raised his eyes helplessly tothe window.
"Looks some like showers," said he. "A-hem! a-hem! Looks mightily to melike showers, over yonder."
"Thar', r'aly, husband! I must say I feel mortified for ye," saidGrandma. "Seein' as you're a perfessor, too, and thar' ain't been asingle Sunday mornin' since I've lived with ye, pa, summer or winter,but what you've seen showers, and it r'aly seems to me it's dreadfulinconsistent when thar' ain't no cloud in the sky, and don't look nomore like rain than I do." And Grandma's face, in spite of herreproachful tones, was, above all, blandly sunlike and expressive ofanything rather than deluge and watery disaster.
Grandpa was silent a little while, then coughed again. I had never seenGrandpa in worse straits.
"A-hem! a-hem! 'Fanny' seems to be a little lame, this mornin'," saidhe. "I shouldn't wonder. She's been goin' pretty stiddy this week."
"It does beat all, pa," continued Grandma Keeler, "how 't all the horsesyou've ever had since I've known ye have always been took lame Sundaymornin'. Thar' was 'Happy Jack,' he could go anywhers through the week,and never limp a step, as nobody could see, and Sunday mornin' he wasalways took lame! And thar' was 'Tantrum'--"
"Tantrum" was the horse that had run away with Grandma when she wasthrown from the wagon, and generally smashed to pieces. And now, Grandmabranched off into the thrilling reminiscences connected with thisincident of her life, which was the third time during the week that thehorrible tale had been repeated for my delectation.
When she had finished, Grandpa shook his head with painful earnestness,reverting to the former subject of discussion.
"It's a long jaunt!" said he; "a long jaunt!"
"Thar's a long hill to climb before we reach Zion's mount," said GrandmaKeeler, impressively.
"Wall, there's a darned sight harder one on the road to West Wallen!"burst out the old sea-captain desperately; "say nothin' about thedevilish stones!"
"Thar' now," said Grandma, with calm though awful reproof; "I thinkwe've gone fur enough for one day; we've broke the Sabbath, and took thename of the Lord in vain, and that ought to be enough for perfessors."
Grandpa replied at length in a greatly subdued tone: "Wall, if you andthe teacher want to go over to Sunday-school to-day, I suppose we can goif we get ready," a long submissive sigh--"I suppose we can."
"They have preachin' service in the mornin', I suppose," said Grandma."But we don't generally git along to that. It makes such an early start.We generally try to get around, when we go, in time for Sunday-school.They have singin' and all. It's just about as interestin', I think, aspreachin'. The old man r'aly likes it," she observed aside to me; "whenhe once gets started, but he kind o' dreads the gittin' started."
When I beheld the ordeal through which Grandpa Keeler was called topass, at the hands of his faithful consort, before he was considered ina fit condition of mind and body to embark for the sanctuary, I marvelednot at the old man's reluctance, nor that he had indeed seen clouds andtempest fringing the horizon.
Immediately after breakfast, he set out for the barn, ostensibly to "seeto the chores;" really, I believe, to obtain a few moments' respite,before worse evil should come upon him.
Pretty soon Grandma was at the back door calling in firm thoughpersuasive tones:
"Husband! husband! come in, now, and get ready."
No answer. Then it was in another key, weighty, yet expressive of noweak irritation, that Grandma called "Come, pa! pa-a! pa-a-a!" Still noanswer.
Then that voice of Grandma's sung out like a trumpet, terrible withmeaning--"Bijonah Keeler!"
But Grandpa appeared not. Next, I saw Grandma slowly but surelygravitating in the direction of the barn, and soon she returned,bringing with her that ancient delinquent, who looked like a lost sheepindeed and a truly unreconciled one.
"Now the first thing," said Grandma, looking her forlorn captive over;"is boots. Go and get on yer meetin' gaiters, pa."
The old gentleman, having dutifully invested himself, with those sacredrelics, came pathetically limping into the room.
The Wit and Humor of America, Volume II. (of X.) Page 4