Part 5 (1/2)
_Lady C._ ”Ye don't say!”
_Adolphus._ ”Fact! Hembold's Cosmos cured me immediately, if not sooner.
Oh, yes! I'm all right, thank ye. But excuse me, young woman. I've come down here on a little matter of business of the highest importance. Your name is Lady Cicily Rhino?”
_Lady C._ ”Wal, 'taint nothin' else.”
_Adolphus._ ”That is precisely what I want to arrive at. I am in the dry-goods business, than which there is no higher social position in the world. I am not rich, but I expect to be. Of my personal appearance you can form a more just and adequate opinion than any language of mine could convey. In other words, I am more easily conceived than described.
Now, the question is, whether you will accept my hand and heart.”
_Lady C._ ”Wal, I don't keer if I do.”
_Adolphus._ ”Most charming little pippetsy poppetsy; let me embrace those virgin lips.”
_Lady C._ ”Oh, lor! Now wait a minute.” (Turns her head away bashfully, and puts up her umbrella. Both parties retire behind the umbrella, when a loud smack is heard--such a smack as has been compared to the noise produced by a horse dragging his foot out of a mud-hole. Then both strike an att.i.tude with the umbrella between them, and the curtain descends in a blaze of red light.)
THE END.
Now if this is not a simple way of building a drama, we are no judge.
Our adjoining ill.u.s.tration represents the interview between General Hab-grabemall and the lady. The General acquires a gigantic appearance by tying a folded shawl or small pillow on each shoulder before he puts on his cloak; his face is made up chiefly of curled hair and diachylon.
Reginald Spooneigh has long flaxen hair, made out of some rope unravelled for the purpose, and sewed on to a tightly-fitting cap, moustache and beard to match, and turn-down collar. The rest of his attire may be in any style most convenient.
Mr. Tinkletop is remarkable for a red nose, turned up, and one tooth missing (both according to our prescription given in a previous chapter). His vest and cravat are of bright colors, and his coat also, if possible.
[Ill.u.s.tration: PRIVATE THEATRICALS.--_See page 80._]
CHAPTER VII.
Mankind in general, and we modern Americans in particular, are perpetually striving to come a ”gouge game” over nature. We feel that this expression is very slangy and low-lived, but as none other seems so precisely to convey our idea, we must for once borrow a phrase from the ring and the race-course. So we repeat that we are, most of us, perpetually striving to ”gouge” nature; but nature is too smart for us, and will not allow herself to be fooled by any clumsy device it is in our power to invent. Nature starts us in the business of life with a certain amount of capital in mental, physical, and nervous power; and just so much capacity for enjoyment; and we, instead of investing this in the best manner to produce the largest legitimate amount of interest, are perpetually engaged in trying some ”dodge” whereby we may spend the capital and still draw the interest. A young man starts in business with the resolution that he will make a fortune in such and such a number of years, and then he will retire while he is still young, and lead the most glorious life mortal ever knew. And so he _pitches in_, buys, sells, wheedles, bullies, tricks, cheats, works night and day, without any let-up at all. There will be plenty of time, he thinks, for recreation when he has made his fortune. Then he will go to Europe, build himself a house on the Hudson, buy the fastest pair of horses, cultivate society, purchase pictures, and be supremely happy. The years trot on, but the hopeful man finds it is slower work making a _pile_ than he thought; or perhaps he raises his figure, so he sets to work with renewed vigor. His nerves are allowed no rest to recover their tone; his stomach is allowed no leisure to perform its work; his body gets no healthful exercise; and his soul no ray of light from the beautiful and lovable. ”There will be time for all these things by and by, when he has made that two hundred thousand dollars.” At last the sum is made, though our hopeful man is a few years older than he intended he should be on retiring. Still the money is made, and he is going to enjoy it. He builds himself a fine house in the country, with ”lots of style into it,” and plants around it a number of small trees, which will be of decent size about twenty years after he is buried. But that is of no consequence--there is beautiful scenery all around. But what is this the rich man discovers? Why, that the trees and hills and streams are not the same that they were when he was young. He finds, too, that pictures ”don't amount to much.” He is rather nervous about driving fast horses; and as to society, he has got quite out of the way of that whilst making his fortune. He finds that collecting round one congenial and agreeable people is a work of time and care, besides which, there is no society in the country any way. Then his wife hates the country. So our rich man sells his house in the country, returns to the city, and enters into some new business operations just to pa.s.s the time away; having made the melancholy discovery that whilst engaged in acquiring means, he has lost the capacity for enjoyment. The fact is, nature will not stand much nonsense. If you think you are going to work her without mercy or consideration the best part of your life, and then expect that she will gaily bear you on her back, sporting through valleys of delight, you are very much mistaken.
Another man thinks he will get the maximum enjoyment out of life by aid of wine, and so he mortgages his whole capacity of enjoyment for a few years' excessive excitement, and is amazingly surprised when he finds himself a bankrupt. Nature will not cash his draft at any price. He is not aware that every thrill of pleasure derived from excessive stimulating has to be paid for with usury. Others again fancy they will get ahead of nature by forcing the minds of their children as they would cuc.u.mbers; but after an incalculable amount of trouble, expense, and cruelty, the child comes of age a bankrupt, mentally and physically. The soil has run out; it can produce no more--and what wonder! It was never allowed to lie fallow; it was never renewed; and now it is fit for little or nothing.
These are some of the ways in which we attempt to _gouge_ nature. We overtax her in every way, until we _drive the willing horse to death_, and then our journey ends; all the load of fine goods we have been to market for, must be dumped into the mud for the next traveller coming along with a fresh horse.
Now, one great aim of this book on ”Fireside Amus.e.m.e.nts,” is to persuade people to let up on nature. We should all be so much healthier, so much kinder, so much better Christians, if we would only amuse ourselves and each other a good deal more. We should get such infinitely better work out of ourselves, and more of it, so that we should be richer into the bargain. No man can expect to win the race with a jaded horse. Suppose you owned Flora Temple, and in your eagerness to make money, should oblige her to run two or three races every day; why, the chances are you would lose every time, and soon be a beggar. But suppose you only match her at proper intervals, when she is fresh and in good condition; you don't run so many races, but you win every time. Why should you treat yourself so much worse than a horse? Is it because you are ----? No, you have simply adopted a bad national custom.
AUNTY DELLUVIAN GIVES A PARTY.
We have a female relative whom we have playfully christened Aunty Delluvian--an old-fas.h.i.+oned person, who is particularly opposed to all ”new-fangled notions,” who loves the ”good old times” and ”good old ways;” who thinks there are no young men nowadays to compare with those of her day. She tells how straight they used to carry themselves, and she draws herself bolt upright and throws back her shoulders to give effect to her words, and ”they didn't wear those nasty things--pshaw!--over their lips.” She has never become reconciled to moustaches. She thinks, too, the girls are not so pretty nowadays as they used to be; then, their cheeks were so bright and red, ”just like roses,” and their eyes were so bright they fairly snapped and twinkled; ”but now, my dear, it's all dough and boiled gooseberries--dough and boiled gooseberries!” She tells us, too, of many persons, long since gone, among whom stands, out in bold relief and heroic proportions one 'Squire Dexter. Then there is another person, Sally Mason, of whom we hear repeatedly, who must have been a very deceitful character, from what Aunty Delluvian tells us. But why does she take such pains to tell us so much about Sally Mason, and to convince us that she was not pretty ”one mite,” only ”she had those forward, pus.h.i.+ng ways with her, my dear, which men find out sooner or later, my dear, and 'Squire Dexter found her out at last, to his sorrow.” Why does she tell us this, and ask our opinion as to whether getting into a seat in a gig, which had been expressly reserved for another person, was not conduct unworthy of a girl of proper modesty and self-respect? When we answer, as we invariably do, with feigned surprise that such conduct ”would be unpardonable,” she straightens herself up, saying: ”Well, my dear, Sally Mason did just that thing!” Why does Aunty Delluvian consult us on this point, and many other trivial points concerning the proper conduct of a ”modest, right-minded maiden?” It is hard to say. But, though we laugh and quizz Aunty Delluvian about many things, we feel that this is, somehow or another, sacred ground, and tread gently over the graves of her dead memories.
Aunty Delluvian is a great favorite in our circle. She has many stories to tell, popular legends in her girlhood, of General George Was.h.i.+ngton and the Hessians and Red-Coats; and though she does not understand the humor of the present day, she knows some very funny verses by George Coleman the Younger, and some riddles of the composite order of architecture.
Well, Aunty Delluvian has taken quite an interest in our theory on ”Fireside Amus.e.m.e.nts.” She thinks its tendency good, for, as she justly observes, ”young people are far too stuck up nowadays; too stuck up, my dear.” So, in the goodness of her heart, the other evening she gave a little party, built on our principle, which we herewith beg to report.
At the back of her old-fas.h.i.+oned country-house spreads a green lawn, surrounded by old apple and cherry-trees, with trunks as big round as the body of a horse. On this lawn she gave her party. When we arrived we found tables spread out with a goodly array of eatables and drinkables, the aroma of the tea mingled with the songs of the birds, whilst the perfume of the ripe strawberries, the grape-jelly, the steaming biscuits, and the hundred other country delicacies, blended harmoniously with the chirp of the crickets and the drone of the bees. It was a pretty, a very pretty sight; the long rows of snow-white table-cloth, the old china, the s.h.i.+ning silver and steel, the glittering gla.s.s, the mountains of red strawberries surrounded by grape-leaves, and the innumerable nosegays of bright flowers. Not far off, in the little barn-yard, we heard the ”peet-peet,” of the young chickens, whilst the occasional double-ba.s.s of the family cow gave delightful a.s.surance of the freshness of the milk and the purity of the cream. Aunty Delluvian, clad in brown silk with full sleeves and scanty skirt, was all bustle and smiles. Her old handmaiden, and hired boy from the farm-yard, and two women who were strangers in the land of Delluvian, aided with enthusiasm.
Between forty and fifty persons, little (some very little) and big (some very big), sat down to tea, and did generously by the repast. The meal concluded, _dignity_ received informal notice to quit, and all pitched in to clear away the things. A circle of humanity formed itself, and behold the n.o.ble sport of ”Oats, peas, beans, and barley grows.”
Leading moral philosophers, eminent divines, weather-beaten old vikings, gallant soldiers, and care-worn editors, sowed their seed, took their ease, stamped their feet, clapped their hands, viewed their lands, and, after waiting for a partner, became united in the bonds of juvenile matrimony with little curly-headed toddlers, and seemed to enjoy the fun just as much as though they had never looked into a Greek lexicon, heard the boom of cannon, or written a leader.