The Wit of Women Part 12

It is not easy to tell what satire is, or where it originated. "In Eden," says Dryden, "the husband and wife excused themselves by laying the blame on each other, and gave a beginning to those conjugal dialogues in prose which poets have perfected in verse." Whatever it may be, we know it when it cuts us, and Sherwood Bonner's. .h.i.t on the Radical Club of Boston was almost inexcusable.

She was admitted as a guest, and her subsequent ridicule was a violation of all good breeding. But like so many wicked things it is captivating, and while you are shocked, you laugh. While I hold up both hands in horror, I intend to give you an idea of it; leaving out the most personal verses.

THE RADICAL CLUB.

BY SHERWOOD BONNER.

Dear friends, I crave attention to some facts that I shall mention About a Club called "Radical," you haven't heard before; Got up to teach the nation was this new light federation, To teach the nation how to think, to live, and to adore; To teach it of the heights and depths that all men should explore; Only this and nothing more.

It is not my inclination, in this brief communication, To produce a false impression--which I greatly would deplore-- But a few remarks I'm makin' on some notes a chiel's been takin,'

And, if I'm not mistaken, they'll make your soul upsoar, As you bend your eyes with eagerness to scan these verses o'er; Truly this and something more.

And first, dear friends, the fact is, I'm sadly out of practice, And may fail in doing justice to this literary bore; But when I do begin it, I don't think 'twill take a minute To prove there's nothing in it (as you've doubtless heard before), But a free religious wrangling club--of this I'm very sure-- Only this and nothing more!

'Twas a very cordial greeting, one bright morning of their meeting; Such eager salutations were never heard before.

After due deliberation on the importance of the occasion, To begin the organization, Mr. Pompous took the floor With an air quite self-complacent, strutted up and took the floor, As he'd often done before!

With an air of condescension he bespoke their close attention To an essay from a Wiseman versed in theologic lore; He himself had had the pleasure of a short glance at the treasure, And in no stinted measure said we had a treat in store; Then he waved his hand to Wiseman and resigned to him the floor; Only this and nothing more.

Quick and nervous, short and wiry, with a look profound, yet fiery, Mr. Wiseman now stepped forward and eyed us darkly o'er, Then an arm-chair, quaint and olden, gay with colors green and golden, By the pretty hostess rolled in from its place behind the door, Was offered to the reader, in the centre of the floor, And he took the chair be sure.

Then with arguments elastic, and a voice and eye sarcastic, Mr. Wiseman into flinders the Holy Bible tore; And he proved beyond all question that the G.o.d of Moses' mention Was a fraudulent invention of some Hebrews, three or four, And the Son of G.o.d's ascension an imaginary soar!

Only this and nothing more.

Each member then admitted that his part was well acquitted, For his strong, impa.s.sioned reasoning had touched them to the core; He felt sure, as he surveyed them through his specs, that he had "played" them, And was proud that he had made them all astonished by his lore; Not a continental cared he for the fruits such lessons bore, So he bowed and left the floor.

Then a Colonel, cold and smiling, with a stately air beguiling, Who punctuates his paragraphs on Newport's sounding sh.o.r.e, Said his friend was wise and witty, and yet it seemed a pity To destroy in this old city the belief it had before In the ancient superst.i.tions of the days of yore.

This he said, and something more.

Orthodoxy, he lamented, thought the Christian world demented, Yet still he felt a rev'rence as he read the Bible o'er, And he thought the modern preacher, though a poor stick for a teacher, Or a broken reed, like Beecher, ought to have his claims looked o'er, And the "tyranny of science" was indeed, he felt quite sure, _Our_ danger more and more.

His remarks our pulses quicken, when a British Lion, stricken With his wondrous self-importance--he knew everything and more-- Said he _loathed_ such moderation; and he made his declaration That, in spite of all creation, he found no G.o.d to adore; And his voice was like the ocean as its surges loudly roar; Only this and nothing more.

But the interest now grew lukewarm, for an ancient Concord book-worm With authoritative tramping, forward came and took the floor, And in Orphic mysticisms talked of life and light and prisms, And the Infinite baptisms on a transcendental sh.o.r.e, And the concrete metaphysic, till we yawned in anguish sore; But still he kept the floor.

Then uprose a kindred spirit almost ready to inherit The rare and radiant Aiden that he begged us to adore; His smile was beaming brightly, and his soft hair floated whitely Round a face as fair and sightly as a pious priest's of yore; And we forgave the arguments worn out years before, For we loved this saintly bore.

Then a lively little charmer, noted as a dress reformer, Because that mystic garment, chemiloon, she wore, Said she had no "views" of Jesus, and therefore would not tease us, But that she thought 'twould please us to look her figure o'er, For she wore no bustles _anywhere_, and corsets, she felt sure, Should squeeze her _nevermore_.

This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar; But that no emanc.i.p.ation could come unto our nation Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore, Plain behind and plain before!

Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season, And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore, 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-gla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 mult.i.tude.... 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 pa.s.sed 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.