Life — December 8, 1887 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

MY MAIDEN AUNT. EAR withered cheek— you know the hue, Old parchment; some- thing of a shrew. She has not—between me and you— Lived much ‘* in clover.” Vet seldom is she heard to sigh ; And when she smiles, from either eye The radiating wrinkles fly Her face all over. Time, laying by his scythe, I trow, Has guided his relentless plough Across the pallor of a brow Once far from homely. And russet curls that once she tossed Coquettishly, are crisped with frost, But have not altogether lost Their hue so comely. I've heard—from whom I can’t aver— That fate has been unkind to her ; Old letters laid in lavender Reveal a lover. But these are dated long ago, And years have yellowed o'er their snow, Since she, with tell-tale cheeks aglow, First read them over. In escapades of day and night, When she has risen in her might, I've found that though her foot is light Her hand is heavy. Yet, though at times she loves to pour The vials of her anger o'er My head, she keeps a warm spot for Her graceless “* nevvy.”” How oft the teasing gibe I've checked Upon my tongue to recollect That she, so long denied respect, Does now command some. I would not dare to even grin At her, my wealthy next-of-kin, Lest, some day, I might of come in For something handsome ! Charles Henry Liders, T is not surprising, after all, that Jay Gould waters his stock. Gould is a stock-king, and stockings al- ways had more or less connection witn the hose. > EEE: 325 THREE GHOSTS WHO MET ON CHRISTMAS EVE. “The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the unapparent.”” —Adonats. N Christmas Eve, by some strange chance, the “ winged spheres” on which Thackeray and Dickens and Hawthorne sit in lonely but “ dazzling immortality,” whirled in their orbits out of the vast silence into a sunny, com- panionable space, where for a little while they swung along within hailing distance of cach other. And the blessed ghosts tossed Christmas greetings from sphere to sphere, and were merry for a time over the unexpected meeting. As they rolled into sight of the snowy planet which had been their old home, and where their names are still cherished, they saw the brilliantly lighted streets of a great city, filled with hurrying crowds, all bent on the errands of good-will and friendship which were to add to the joy of Christmas-time. “Thackeray, is it all vanéfas vanitatum ?” asked Dickens in his banter- ing way. The benign, great-hearted man, who had known much sorrow on that little planet, smiled as he said, “ Even this is part vanity and part real good- will.” “Yes,” said Boz, “thirty years of absence have not dulled your clear vision. Still, I believe that I was right in preaching good-fellowship as the supreme virtue. See the thousands of homes that are merrier to-night be- cause of that simple doctrine! They could not grasp the refinements of your satire, or see the depths of your sincerity. You tore the sham from the complex life of fashion, and the men and women who lead thought and custom are to-day your debtors. We worked from different ends of the line, but we are meeting now toward the middle. What say you, Haw- thorne?” Then that man of genius, who loved silence and “the clear, brown twi- light,” said: “They are just beginning to know Thackeray down there. And I heard a rumor, brought by some new-comer among the spheres, that even my sombre books are now almost popular. What's the world coming to, old friends ?” “Well,” said Thackeray, “I think at this distance from the Earth we can afford to be egotistical. Frankly, my friends, I think the world is more and more learning to’know good literature when it sees it. Why, Hawthorne, there is a man down there who has written a book to prove that you are provincial, and there is another who gently insinuates that all romances, even yours, are old-fashioned !" . And then, bursting into his old, infectious laughter, which made even the stars merry, he continued: “And, Dickens, do you know they say you * wallow in the pathetic,’ and that I make long and useless digressions in my stories, and parade my sentiments? But those crowds of people that are thronging the streets have been buying hundreds of sets of Hawthorne, Dickens and Thackeray with which to make some household happier on Christmas Day. Just between ourselves, I wonder how many new editions of *The Bostonians,’ or ‘The Minister's Charge,’ or ‘Silas Lapham’ are printed for the Christmas trade?” “IT heard the other day,” said the quiet Hawthorne, “that there is a beautiful genius now on Earth, writing most exquisite romances about * Prince Otto’ and other creatures of fancy. And the people read more of his books than of all the rest.” The face of Dickens beamed with kindness and good-will as he said: “I sometimes feel sure that our friends and successors on the planet at our feet comicbooks.com