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 pass 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 cucumbers; 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 Amusements," 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-fashioned 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, pushing 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 Washington 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 Amusements." 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-fashioned 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 shining silver and steel, the glittering glass, 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-bass of the family cow gave delightful assurance 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 noble 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.
We would like to dwell long upon this merry-making under the sky, for there occurred enough pretty incidents and enough funny things out there to bear telling for a week; but our mission is to instruct our friends how to amuse others; so we must pass from the romps in the open air to the amusements which took place inside, after darkness had driven the merry-makers from the lawn.
First in order came a great duck, chiefly made out of a boy and a sheet. First of all we were requested to introduce the bird, and expatiate to the company on its qualities. For who, they said, could speak better on the virtues of a great canard than an editor? Some one, however, maliciously mentioned that the family doctor, Mr. Pillules, was the best person to show up a quack. Some one else argued that some lady would be better qualified to speak on Ducks; but no lady could be found with courage enough to attempt the task, so it was finally agreed that Dr. Pillules and ourself should deliver a double-barrelled speech. This novel idea was, of course, rapturously received, so the doctor and editor were compelled, nolens volens, to stand up and deliver, which we did something after the following manner:
Doctor. "This bird which you now see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is one of those detestable creatures known as the Canard. This specimen was recently captured down South by some of the brave soldiers in General Grant's army on the occasion of that gentleman's recent visit to Richmond. This bird was formally the property of several newspaper editors, and was used by them for the purpose of raising fowl for the English market, where—"
Editor. "They found a ready sale, being served up in the columns of the Times with peace-pudding, and subsequently rehashed with coal lies and bully sauce, to satisfy the cravings of the British public. This curious bird has, however—"
Doctor. "Fallen into disrepute of late, and the people of England will have to take a big dose of truth (a very unpleasant thing to an Englishman) to counteract the disease which their gross indulgence in the flesh of this foul bird has engendered; they will likewise—"
Editor. "Be obliged to confine their diet to the wholesome but unsavory humble pie. A kind of pie—"
Doctor. "We have often prescribed for them before. However, the cloud-capped summits of the mountains of Jehoshaphat—"
Editor (a little nonplussed). "May have summit to do with the question, and then again they may not. We are inclined to think that Jehoshaphat was not half so fat as John Bull, and would have scorned to eat a canard anyhow, particularly one raised by "niggers," and hatched by steam; a bird which Shakspeare justly remarked—"
Doctor (a little puzzled this time). "Didn't know beans, or at all events did not care about that wholesome and nutritious vegetable, preferring to pick up the sentiments falling from the lips of Bull Run Russell, or the revolting food provided for travellers at refreshment saloons on the Camden and Amboy Railway, which, as every one knows—"
Editor. "Are simply provided by that company to kill off transient citizens of loyal States, which they do as effectually as the greatest quack, even were he as large as the specimen now before us. I do not of course refer to our friend the——"
How long this double-barrelled speech might have continued, this chronicle cannot say, had not the duck at this moment declared, in very plain English, that "Oh thunder! he couldn't stand it any longer, he was getting tired," which terminated that part of the entertainment.
The latent principle, the motive power, the core, the occult substratum of the duck is, of course, as in the case of the vulgaris pueris—a small boy. The mode of transforming him into a duck needs scarcely any explanation; the illustrations save all that trouble. A board tied on the youth's back, a sufficiency of wadding in the way of rags, and a sheet properly arranged over all; then a ball of rags, with a couple of sticks for the bill, making the head, and a newspaper cut into strips representing the tail, and web-feet cut out of brown paper—and there is your duck! The next thing in order for the evening's entertainment proved to be a little dwarf, who was exhibited on a table. He made a speech, danced a jig, took snuff, and altogether made himself very amusing and entertaining. The mode of manufacturing this lusus naturÆ is, as usual, with the substratum of small boy. The small boy paints a pair of moustaches on his upper lip and puts a pair of boots on his hands, resting his booted hands on a table, whilst a taller person stands behind him and reaches his arms over the first one's shoulders, as represented in the engraving; then a loose cloak or great-coat or shawl is arranged about the dwarf so as to allow the arms of No. 2 to project and appear as if they belonged to No. 1. This performance should take place in a window or doorway, where a curtain can be so arranged as to hide the head and body of No. 2. Then you have the dwarf all complete, as represented in the annexed sketch. It is almost impossible to describe this performance with precision, as much of the arrangement must be left to the intelligence of the exhibitor. The dwarf, however, we may state, is very easily made when you once get the idea.
Aunty Delluvian was very much amused with the dwarf; it reminded her of a trick that was played on her mother's father—who was once Governor of Massachusetts—and described by her uncle George, who was such a droll fellow, he always had some of his puns to get off. She did not remember the story exactly, but it was something about a dwarf being served up in a pie at the Governor's table, in such a way that the dwarf popped out when the Governor was about to carve the pie. "Oh! it was such a funny story; if you could only have heard her uncle George tell it," and Aunty Delluvian went into silent convulsions of laughter at the bare memory of the exquisite humor of uncle George's narration. "But that was before your time, my dear; and between you and me, the young men are very dull nowadays, with their cigars, and their moustaches, and their fiddle-faddle—but mum, mum, my dear," and Aunty Delluvian laid her fingers on her lips, as though she had been communicating a most important secret. As to the dwarf of this evening, having no control over his hands, for the reason that they belonged to the person behind him, he was subject to the most grievous annoyance from those members; they would persist in pulling his own nose to a fearful extent, and performing that manual evolution known as taking a sight in the middle of his prettiest speech to the ladies; he, however, enjoyed a limited revenge on one of these occasions by catching the extended thumb between his teeth and doing something to it, the nature of which could only be inferred from the howl of agony proceeding from the person immediately behind him, and a general dislocation and disintegration of his various members, which occurred amidst the shouts of the spectators.
A slight pause ensuing on the completion of the dwarf performance, afforded an opportunity to the young man in gold spectacles to come upon the stage. He had something very ingenious to show us. It was a trick performed with four small seeds, and was invented by a certain poor tutor at one of the English universities. Although exceedingly simple, no one had been able to discover the secret, when finally some English nobleman, whose name he mentioned, gave the poor tutor five hundred pounds to reveal the mystery. Having concluded this little introduction, the gentleman in gold spectacles turned to Aunty Delluvian, and asked her if she would be kind enough to let him have four grains of rice. "Lor' bless the man! to be sure I will, as much as ever you like!" exclaimed Aunty, in the fulness of her generous heart, as she turned round and called to the servant at the other end of the room: "Here, Katy, fetch up what was left of that cold rice-pudding we had yesterday." The gentleman in gold spectacles hastily explained that he did not wish the rice to be boiled, and four grains would be ample. However, Aunty Delluvian insisted upon all the rice in the establishment being produced. The gentleman in gold spectacles selected four grains, and throwing them on the table, challenged us to arrange them in such a manner that each grain should be precisely the same distance from every other grain, and yet the grains not touch each other. We all took our turn till we were tired, and then gave it up, save a couple of determined fellows, who requested they might have till their next meeting to find it out, which respite was accordingly granted.
We were now tumultuously beset with demands for the solution of two riddles in our last chapter. First came the question: "Why were Moses and the Jews the best bred people in the world?"
Answer. "Because they got their manna (manner) from heaven."
The second was: "Why meat should always be cooked rare?"
Answer. "Because what is done cannot be helped."
After this came cakes and nuts and cider. Aunty Delluvian thought nuts and cider could never come amiss, and we agree with her when the cider is such as she produced, clear, fruity, sparkling, which, as it courses down your gullet, seems like health incarnate, and as far superior to that bedevilled liquid which city boobies call champagne, and pay three dollars a bottle for, as faith is to smartness. So ended our evening at Aunty Delluvian's.
