The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IV. (of X.) by Marshall P. Wilder (recommended ebook reader .TXT) 📖
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- Author: Marshall P. Wilder
Book online «The Wit and Humor of America, Volume IV. (of X.) by Marshall P. Wilder (recommended ebook reader .TXT) 📖». Author Marshall P. Wilder
"The fruit of the bread-tree consists principally of hot rolls. The buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with a cocoanut palm, the cream found on the milk of the cocoanut exuding from the hybrid in the shape of butter, just as the ripe fruit is splitting, so as to fit it for the tea-table, where it is commonly served up with cold—"
—There,—I don't want to read any more of it. You see that many of these statements are highly improbable.—No, I shall not mention the paper.—No, neither of them wrote it, though it reminds me of the style of these popular writers. I think the fellow that wrote it must have been reading some of their stories, and got them mixed up with his history and geography. I don't suppose he lies; he sells it to the editor, who knows how many squares off "Sumatra" is. The editor, who sells it to the public—by the way, the papers have been very civil—haven't they?—to the—the—what d'ye call it?—"Northern Magazine,"—isn't it?—got up by some of these Come-outers, down East, as an organ for their local peculiarities.
It is a very dangerous thing for a literary man to indulge his love for the ridiculous. People laugh with him just so long as he amuses them; but if he attempts to be serious, they must still have their laugh, and so they laugh at him. There is in addition, however, a deeper reason for this than would at first appear. Do you know that you feel a little superior to every man who makes you laugh, whether by making faces or verses? Are you aware that you have a pleasant sense of patronizing him, when you condescend so far as to let him turn somersets, literal or literary, for your royal delight? Now if a man can only be allowed to stand on a dais, or raised platform, and look down on his neighbor who is exerting his talent[Pg 758] for him, oh, it is all right!—first-rate performance!—and all the rest of the fine phrases. But if all at once the performer asks the gentleman to come upon the floor, and, stepping upon the platform, begins to talk down at him,—ah, that wasn't in the program!
I have never forgotten what happened when Sydney Smith—who, as everybody knows, was an exceedingly sensible man, and a gentleman, every inch of him—ventured to preach a sermon on the Duties of Royalty. The "Quarterly," "so savage and tartly," came down upon him in the most contemptuous style, as "a joker of jokes," a "diner-out of the first water" in one of his own phrases; sneering at him, insulting him, as nothing but a toady of a court, sneaking behind the anonymous, would ever have been mean enough to do to a man of his position and genius, or to any decent person even.—If I were giving advice to a young fellow of talent, with two or three facets to his mind, I would tell him by all means to keep his wit in the background until after he had made a reputation by his more solid qualities. And so to an actor: Hamlet first and Bob Logic afterward, if you like; but don't think, as they say poor Liston used to, that people will be ready to allow that you can do anything great with Macbeth's dagger after flourishing about with Paul Pry's umbrella. Do you know, too, that the majority of men look upon all who challenge their attention,—for a while, at least,—as beggars, and nuisances? They always try to get off as cheaply as they can; and the cheapest of all things they can give a literary man—pardon the forlorn pleasantry!—is the funny-bone. That is all very well so far as it goes, but satisfies no man, and makes a good many angry, as I told you on a former occasion.
Oh, indeed, no!—I am not ashamed to make you laugh, occasionally. I think I could read you something[Pg 759] I have in my desk that would probably make you smile. Perhaps I will read it one of these days, if you are patient with me when I am sentimental and reflective; not just now. The ludicrous has its place in the universe; it is not a human invention, but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated in the practical jokes as kittens and monkeys long before Aristophanes or Shakespeare. How curious it is that we always consider solemnity and the absence of all gay surprises and encounter of wits as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half their faculties and then called blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity to which they look forward, by banishing all gaiety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances. I meet one such in the street not unfrequently, a person of intelligence and education, but who gives me (and all that he passes) such a rayless and chilling look of recognition,—something as if he were one of Heaven's assessors, come down to "doom" every acquaintance he met,—that I have sometimes begun to sneeze on the spot, and gone home with a violent cold, dating from that instant. I don't doubt he would cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her playing with it. Please tell me, who taught her to play with it?[Pg 760]
CÆSAR'S QUIET LUNCH WITH CICERO BY JAMES T. FIELDSMade a call on Cicero
In his modest Formian villa,
Many and many a year ago?
"On the Saturnalia, Third,
And I'll just drop in, my Tullius,
For a quiet friendly word:
Nor be at all put out,
A snack of anything you have
Will serve my need, no doubt.
The invitation's mine—
I come to share your simple food,
And taste your honest wine."
And seized a Roman punch,—
Then mused upon the god-like soul
Was coming round to lunch.
[Pg 761]
Unto his lordly self,
"There are not many dainties left
Upon my pantry shelf!
What, ho!" he proudly cried,
"Great Cæsar comes this way anon
To sit my chair beside.
And cook them with a turn,
For that's his favorite pabulum
From Mamurra I learn."
The table soon is laid
For two distinguished gentlemen,—
One rather bald, 'tis said.
To sound approach—and then,
"Brave Cæsar comes to greet his friend
With twice a thousand men!
That is their dust you see;
The trumpeters announce him near!"
Said Marcus, "Woe is me!
Borrow what tents you can!
Encamp his soldiers round the field,
Or I'm a ruined man!
[Pg 762]
Buy corn at any price!
O Jupiter! befriend me now,
And give me your advice!"
Things proved enough and good,—
And Cæsar made himself at home,
And much enjoyed his food.
That can not be denied;
"I'm glad 'tis over!"—when it was—
The host sat down and sighed,
And all the story told,
He ended his epistle thus:
"J.C.'s a warrior bold,
In Learning quite immense,
So full of literary skill,
And most uncommon sense,
'No trouble, sir, at all;
And when you pass this way again,
Give us another call!'"
[Pg 763] COMIN' HOME THANKSGIVIN' BY JAMES BALL NAYLOR
Hain't nary limp n'r hobble;
I'm feelin' like a turkey-cock—
An' ready 'most to gobble;
I'm workin' spry, an' steppin' high—
An' thinkin' life worth livin'.
Fer all the children's comin' home
All comin' home Thanksgivin'.
An' Sally down at Goshen,
An' Billy out at Kirkersville,
An' Jim—who has a notion
That Hackleyburg's the very place
Fer which his soul has striven;
They're all a-comin' home ag'in—
All comin' home Thanksgivin'.
There ain't no ifs n'r maybes.
The boys'll fetch the'r wives an' kids;
The gals, th'r men an' babies.
The ol' place will be upside-down;
An' me an' Mammy driven
To roost out in the locus' trees—
When they come home Thanksgivin'.
[Pg 764]
Mischeevous little tykes, sir,
An' Sally has a houseful more—
You never seen the like, sir;
While Jim has six, an' Billy eight—
They'll tear the house to flinders,
An' dig the cellar out in chunks
An' pitch it through the winders.
An' climb the mows, an' waller
All over ev'ry ton o' hay—
An' laugh an' scream an' holler.
The boys 'll git in this an' that;
An' git a lickin'—p'r'aps, sir—
Jest like the'r daddies used to git
When they was little chaps, sir.
I'm jest so glad they're comin',
I have to whistle to the tune
That my ol' heart's a-hummin'.
An' me an' Mammy—well, we think
It's good to be a-livin',
Sence all the children's comin' home
To spend the day Thanksgivin'.
[Pg 765] PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES BY ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSOZ
And tossed a pot together—
Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed,
For it was nipping weather.
'Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench
Set all the inn folk laughing!
They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers
At kissing and at quaffing.
And rarely burnt, fair Molly;
'Twould cure the sourest Crop-ear yet
Of Pious Melancholy."
"Egad!" says I, "here cometh one
Hath been at 's prayers but lately."
—Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped
Along the street sedately.
And touch of his Toledo,
Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue
And bade him say his Credo;
Next crush a cup to the King's health,
And eke to pretty Molly;
"'T will cure your saintliness," says Dick,
"Of Pious Melancholy."
[Pg 766]
My heart stood still a minute;
Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang,
Or else the devil's in it!
For me, I care not for old Noll,
Nor all the Rump together.
Yet, faith! 't is best to be alive
In pleasant Xmas weather.
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