Delphi complete works of.., p.629
Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 629
People outside of the United States always think of the South in terms of romance and chivalry, as the scene of natural tragedy and the home of a lost cause. In literature, before the Civil War we connect it with the political philosophy of Jefferson and Madison and the supreme art of Edgar Allan Poe. But we never connect it with humor or think of it as the abode of fun. Yet the South, before the war, had developed a line of humor of its own, something like the rollicking fun of adventure and misadventure of Captain Marryat and Charles Lever over in England. The “Ned Brace,” invented by Augustus Long- street, and plunged into fox-hunts and horse-trades and duels, is a sort of Harry Lorrequer. “Captain Suggs,” a cheerful crook invented by an Alabama journalist, is of the family of Gil Bias and Alfred Jingle. But the Southern humor of the pre-war days was little known to the outside world and is quite forgotten now.
The case is different for the period which followed the Civil War. In George W. Cable (1844-1925) the South produced a humorist in the highest sense of the word, and one whose works reached two continents. His long career dates back to his service in the Confederate Cavalry and ended as it were only yesterday. His was the humor of that high type that does not excite the loud laughter, exploding over single strokes of comicality and single incongruities of words, but that is interwoven as a golden thread in the texture of depicted life. Cable’s Old Creole Days will not readily be forgotten. Nor has the world quite forgotten him as a lecturer, a “running mate” with Mark Twain. Mark’s roaring fun contrasted with Cable’s quiet simplicity. Everybody likes to be everything at once, and Mark Twain felt a pang of envy at the quiet dignity of his abstemious fellow lecturer, whose walk in life never led his feet astray. “Oh! Cable,” said Mark once, as he came off the platform from his turn, leaving behind him a house convulsed with merriment, “I am demeaning myself.” But Cable’s stories would be difficult to reproduce unless quoted at greater length than these pages warrant.
Much more quotable — in fact, eminently quotable in any length from an inch to a fathom, is the work of Joel Chandler Harris. His Uncle Remus stories may be said at once to break new ground and turn old furrows. “Talking animals” are as old as Chaucer, as old as Aristophanes. “Brer Fox” was known to the world for centuries as “Reineke Fuchs” and “Maître Renard.” Scholars tell us that Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox are to be found in Indian folklore. Probably Joel Chandler Harris cared as much about this as he did about medieval German literature. There is too great a tendency in the academic world to explain where a writer takes things from. Anyone can take them: the trouble is in using them. It was a Ulysses bow that John Chandler Harris strung. The legend and the folklore of the Negro race had never yet been worthily reflected in literature; nor yet the sweet and kindly relationship of the Negro to the little white child for whom he was at once an inferior and an oracle. The Negro in literature till now had appeared as Sambo, as the “faithful black,” or as the martyred Uncle Tom. Harris revealed him as Uncle Remus — let the medieval chroniclers laugh that off if they can.
One must not suppose that the rise of popular humor, of Western extravagance, of the artifices of bad spelling, assumed rusticity, inspired idiocy and Southern Negro folklore — that these things extinguished the steadier flame of cultivated writing, the lamp handed down burning from the shrines of Greece and Rome. After all, the colleges were still there; the East was still the East and Boston was still Boston. Hence American humor still revealed itself in the form of the polished prose of Washington Irving and Nathaniel Hawthorne. Nor did any writer better exemplify and adorn the classical tradition than Oliver Wendell Holmes. His long life (1809-1894) pretty well spanned the century. He was already well up in medical practice and medical teaching, when, as one of the “young men of Boston,” he helped to entertain Charles Dickens in 1842. He first took up his pen at the Breakfast Table, as the Autocrat, four years before the Civil War: he was still writing Over the Teacups in 1888. All through this long time, in his books and in his walk in life, he set an example of human kindliness, of thought free from malice, of reflection without anger, which is the very soul of humor. More than that: Holmes, who was a doctor all his life, as a practitioner first, a teacher always, brought to bear upon it the beautiful sympathy of those who see our human thoughts in the light of our poor haphazard bodies and our suspended sentence of death. To them there is room for tears, for smiles, but none for anger. Seen at its best the medical profession outranks all others. This best was Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Chapter Thirteen. SELECTIONS FROM MAX ADELER, UNCLE REMUS AND OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
CHARLES HEBER CLARK (Max Adder) was a journalist who began his fugitive writing just before the Civil War. Later on his “pieces” were gathered together into books such as Out of the Hurly-Burly and Elbow Room and delighted a generation both in America and in England.
AN ACCIDENT IN A NEWSPAPER OFFICE
THE Argus is in complete disgrace with all the people who attend our church. Some of the admirers of the Rev. Dr. Hopkins, the clergyman, gave him a gold-headed cane a few days ago; and a reporter of the Argus was invited to be present. The foreman in giving out the reporter’s “copy” mixed it accidentally with the account of a patent hog-killing machine which was tried in Wilmington that same day, and the Argus next morning contained this somewhat obscure but very dreadful narrative:
Several of Rev. Dr. Hopkins’s friends called upon him yesterday, and after a brief conversation the unsuspicious hog was seized by the hind legs and slid along a beam until he reached the hot-water tank. His friends explained the object of their visit, and presented him with a very handsome gold-headed butcher, who grabbed him by the tail, swung him around, slit his throat from ear to ear, and in less than a minute the carcass was in the water. Thereupon he came forward and said that there were times when the feelings overpowered one, and for that reason he would not attempt to do more than thank those around him, for the manner in which such a huge animal was cut into fragments was simply astonishing. The doctor concluded his remarks, when the machine seized him, and in less time than it takes to write it the hog was cut into fragments and worked up into delicious sausage. The occasion will long be remembered by the doctor’s friends as one of the most delightful of their lives. The best pieces can be procured for fifteen cents a pound; and we are sure that those who have sat so long under his ministry will rejoice that he has been treated so handsomely.
Out of the Hurly-Burly.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
The Uncle Remus stories of Joel Chandler Harris (1848-I908) struck a universal note of sympathy, old as the ages, recalling the folklore of the past, and at the same time as new as the dawn of childhood.
UNCLE REMUS INITIATES THE LITTLE BOY
ONE EVENING recently, the lady whom Uncle Remus calls “Miss Sally” missed her little seven-year-old. Making search for him through the house and through the yard, she heard the sound of voices in the old man’s cabin, and, looking through the window, saw the child sitting by Uncle Remus. His head rested against the old man’s arm, and he was gazing with an expression of the most intense interest into the rough, weather-beaten face, that beamed so kindly upon him. This is what “Miss Sally” heard:
“Bimeby, one day, arter Brer Fox bin doin’ all dat he could fer ter ketch Brer Rabbit, en Brer Rabbit bin doin’ all he could fer ter keep ’im fum it, Brer Fox say to hisse’f dat he’d put up a game on Brer Rabbit, en he ain’t mo’n got de wuds out’n his mouf twel Brer Rabbit come a lopin’ up de big road, lookin’ des ez plump, en ez fat, en ez sassy ez a Moggin hoss in a barley-patch.
“‘Hoi’ on dar, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘I ain’t got time, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, sorter mendin’ his licks.
“‘I wanter have some confab wid you, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘All right, Brer Fox, but you better holler fum whar you stan’. I’m monstus full er fleas dis mawnin’,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘I seed Brer B’ar yistiddy,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘en he sorter rake me over de coals kaze you en me ain’t make frens en live naberly, en I tole ’im dat I’d see you.’
“Den Brer Rabbit scratch one year wid his off hine-foot sorter jub’usly, en den he ups en sez, sezee:
“‘All a settin’, Brer Fox. Spose’n you drap roun’ ter-morrer en take dinner wid me. We ain’t got no great doin’s at our house, but I speck de ole ‘oman en de chilluns kin sorter scramble roun’ en git up sump’n fer ter stay yo’ stummuck.’
“‘I’m ‘gree’ble, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“‘Den I’ll pen’ on you,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“Nex’ day, Mr. Rabbit an’ Miss Rabbit got up soon, fo’ day, en raided on a gyarden like Miss Sally’s out dar, en got some cabbiges, en some roas’n years, en some sparrer-grass, en dey fix up a smashin’ dinner. Bimeby one er de little Rabbits, playin’ out in de backyard, come runnin’ in hollerin’, ‘Oh, ma! oh, ma! I seed Mr. Fox a cornin’!’ En den Brer Rabbit he tuck de chilluns by der years en make um set down, en den him en Miss Rabbit sorter dallo roun’ waitin’ for Brer Fox. En dey keep on waitin’, but no Brer Fox ain’t come. Atter ‘while Brer Rabbit goes to de do’, easy like, en peep out, en der, stickin’ out fum behime de cornder, wuz de tip-een’ er Brer Fox tail. Den Brer Rabbit shot de do’ en sot down, en put his paws behime his years en begin fer ter sing:
“‘De place wharbouts you spill de grease,
Right dar youer boun’ ter slide,
An whar you fine a bunch er ha’r,
You’ll sholy fine de hide.’
“Nex’ day, Brer Fox sont word by Mr. Mink, en skuse hisse’f kaze he wuz too sick fer ter come, en he ax Brer Rabbit fer ter come en take dinner wid him, en Brer Rabbit say he wuz ‘gree’ble.
“Bimeby, w’en de shadders wuz at der shortes’, Brer Rabbit he sorter brush up en santer down ter Brer Fox’s house, en w’en he got dar, he yer somebody groanin’, en he look in de do’ en dar he see Brer Fox settin’ up in a rockin’ cheer all wrop up wid flannil, en he look mighty weak. Brer Rabbit look all ‘roun’, he did, but he ain’t see no dinner. De dish-pan wuz settin’ on de table, en close by wuz a kyarvin’ knife.
‘“Look like you gwineter have chicken fer dinner, Brer Fox,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.
“‘Yes, Brer Rabbit, deyer nice, en fresh, en tender,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.
“Den Brer Rabbit sorter pull his mustarsh, en say: ‘You ain’t got no calamus root, is you, Brer Fox? I done got so now dat I can’t eat no chicken ‘ceppin she’s seasoned up wid calamus root.’ En wid dat Brer Rabbit lipt out er de do’ and dodge ‘mong de bushes en sot dar watchin’ fer Brer Fox; en he ain’t watch long, nudder, kaze Brer Fox flung off de flannil en crope out er de house en got whar he could cloze in on Brer Rabbit, en bimeby Brer Rabbit holler out: ‘Oh, Brer Fox! I’ll des put yo’ calamus root out yer on dish yer stump. Better come get it while hit’s fresh,’ and wid dat Brer Rabbit gallop off home. En Brer Fox ain’t never kotch ’im yit, en w’at’s mo’, honey, he ain’t gwineter.”
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
In the domain of humor, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes of Boston (1809-1894) will he remembered for his delightful humorous verse, including such oft-quoted pieces as “The Wonderful ‘One Hoss Shay’.” In prose he holds his place by his series of Breakfast Table books, of which the first set of papers, The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table, began as far back as 1857. These were followed by the Professor and the Poet.
THOUGHTS AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE ON OLD AGE
THERE IS NO DOUBT when old age begins. The human body is a furnace which keeps in blast three-score years and ten, more or less. It burns about three hundred pounds of carbon a year (besides other fuel), when in fair working order, according to a great chemist’s estimate. When the fire slackens, life declines; when it goes out, we are dead.
It has been shown by some noted French experimenters, that the amount of combustion increases up to about the thirtieth year, remains stationary to about forty-five, and then diminishes. This last is the point where old age starts from. The great fact of physical life is the perpetual commerce with the elements, and the fire is the measure of it.
About this time of life, if food is plenty where you live, — for that, you know, regulates matrimony, — you may be expecting to find yourself a grandfather some fine morning; a kind of domestic felicity which gives one a cool shiver of delight to think of, as among the not remotely possible events.
What is the use of fighting against the seasons, or the tides, or the movements of the planetary bodies, or this ebb in the wave of life that flows through us? We are old fellows from the moment the fire begins to go out. Let us always behave like gentlemen when we are introduced to new acquaintances.
INCIPIT ALLEGORIA SENECTUTIS
Old Age, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Professor, this is Old Age.
Old Age. — Mr. Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down the street together.
Professor (drawing back a little). — We can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger?
Old Age. — I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s recognition until I have known him at least five years.
Professor. — Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that?
Old Age. — I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.
Professor. — Where?
Old Age. — There, between your eyebrows, — three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token, “Old Age, his mark.” Put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign-manual; that’s the way you used to look, before I left my card on you.
Professor. — What message do people generally send back when you first call on them?
Old Age. — Not at home. Then I leave a card and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; leave another card. So for five or six, — sometimes ten years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, I break in through the front door or the windows.
We talked together in this way some time. Then Old Age said again, — Come, let us walk down the street together, — and offered me a cane, an eyeglass, a tippet, and a pair of over-shoes. — No, much obliged to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone; — got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter.
The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table.
THE SEA
I HAVE LIVED by the sea-shore and by the mountains. — No, I am not going to say which is best. The one where your place is is the best for you. But this difference there is: you can domesticate mountains, but the sea is ferae naturae. You may have a hut, or know the owner of one, on the mountain-side; you see a light half-way up its ascent in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share it. You have noted certain trees, perhaps; you know the particular zone where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electrotyped themselves in the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory’s chamber. — The sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet, — its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will crack your bones and eat you, for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water; the sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelligence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales until you cannot see their joints — but their shining is that of a snake’s belly, after all. — In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long generations. The sea drowns out humanity and time; it has no sympathy with either; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song forever and ever.
The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table. HOW PROFESSORS DIE
THE NATURAL END of a tutor is to perish by starvation. It is only a question of time, just as with the burning of college libraries. These all burn up sooner or later, provided they are not housed in brick or stone and iron. I don’t mean that you will see in the registry of deaths that this or that particular tutor died of well-marked, uncomplicated starvation. They may, even, in extreme cases, be carried oft by a thin, watery kind of apoplexy, which sounds very well in the returns, but means little to those who know that it is only debility settling on the head. Generally, however they fade and waste away under various pretexts, — calling it dyspepsia, consumption, and so on, to put a decent appearance upon the case and keep up the credit of the family and the institution where they have passed through the successive stages of inanition.
In some cases it takes a great many years to kill a tutor by the process in question. You see they do get food and clothes and fuel, in appreciable quantities, such as they are. You will even notice rows of books in their rooms, and a picture or two, — things that look as if they had surplus money; but these superfluities are the water of crystallization to scholars, and you can never get them away till the poor fellows effloresce into dust. Do not be deceived. The tutor breakfasts on coffee made of beans, edulcorated with milk watered to the verge of transparency; his mutton is tough and elastic, up to the moment when it becomes tired out and tasteless; his coal is a sullen, sulphurous anthracite, which rusts into ashes, rather than burns, in the shallow grate; his flimsy broadcloth is too thin for winter and too thick for summer. The greedy lungs of fifty hot-blooded boys suck the oxygen from the air he breathes in his recitation-room. In short, he undergoes a process of gentle and gradual starvation.
