Life — February 1, 1883 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

OUR ANGLOMANIAC No. 1. Why does he carry his stiff, high hat to the theatre when he has a crush hat at home? BECAUSE IT IS THE FASHION IN ENGLAND. J N praise of Miss H-t-n Gr-y O'C-ne (falsely and ignorantly spelled C-1e) whose ‘Song of Sir Palamede” appeared in Zhe Century, Feb- ruary 1883; 7 Ochone! Miss O'C-ne, Be brave now andown That you've tried all your might to be funny ; But cultchaw has breathed on your maidenly lyre, And has cramped your style badly, my honcy. Wid your sneers and your snarls, At poor Algernon Charles, You've forgotten Ae always sings sweetly ; Whilst your song limps along like a diable boiteux, And your feet (you'll excuse me) are often too- too Yes! guite too immense to fit neatly. Ochone ! Miss O'C-ne, Don't be funny alone. You're too much for your wit—you depress it, Don't assume such’a highly superior tone ; Try and manage your feet—{you'll excuse it) I own They strike me as large. Come, confess it! Puiuir Hay. HUMILITY, She set light to the fire with thy aid, Kerosene ! She rapidly rose through the ether, I ween, And she sings as she sits on the topmost cloud: MORAL. Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? A. Z. NORTHERN ENNUI. 6c Oo! Oh! Oh!” Miss Bowie was sighing. Whatever she did, she did with all her might, and that is why this tale begins with three consecutive Ohs. . If she had been a Northern girl she would have sighed less emphatically, and used but one, but Miss Bowie lived.in Alabama. She was romantic. Had al- ways loved to read over and over again sweet, softly- told tales of beauteous heroines who had gallantly slaughtered at a single blow myriads of uninteresting rivals. Not only had she read of such splendid trag- edy in books, but she had seen it with her very eyes. Why then did she sigh? Because she is visiting in the North. “Juliet,” she sighed. “Oh! Oh! Have you never been in Alabama?” “No!” whispered her companion very contentedly. “Never in Alabama? And with such aname, too !” said Miss Bowie pathetically. “That's just the place for such aname. In Alabama you could be a real Juliet. You could run away and get married! You could have duels fought about you! You could weep and groan, and feign to be happy when your heart was really breaking ! Yes, and at the last you could take real poison, and die rea/ hard! Isn't it splendid?” And Miss Bowie clasped her little hands in enthusiism. Oh! Juliet! “ Quite,” said Juliet, and a shudder agitated her slender form. “Life up here is so monotonous !" continued Miss Bowie. ‘‘There’s nothing interesting in the newspa- pers except the Southern despatches, and those always make me home-sick. Occasionally some Northerner gets a little chivalrous and does something almost heroic, but it don’t amount to much, and isn’t often done outside of Chicago. I don’t believe that in your whole country they ever did anything half so fine as in our little village the other day. Oh, that was grand ! Really worthy of the age of knights and tournaments. It caused me for a moment to shake off this terrible en- nui of your Northern climate. And, do you know, Juliet, it served as the foundation stone on which I en- graved a verse of real poetry. It’s only a wee bit of a fragment, but a perfect little pet, I think. Hush! I'll recite it to you: “long for my southern home, The land of my fairest dreams, Where libel and slander stir up rea/ dander . And wielded sword blades gleam ; Where petty discussions and strife Are settled without litigation, And villains are served in 'a way they've deserved By immediate strangulation. Where cannons and Winchester —— “But, quick ! quick! Bring fans and water! Juliet has fainted! I’m so sorry—No ! ‘I’m fot, either. That at least dorders on real life.” T. DW.