The Wit of Women

But that she thought ‘twould please us to look her figure o’er,

For she wore no bustles anywhere, and corsets, she felt sure,

Should squeeze her nevermore.

This pretty little pigeon said of course the true religion

Demanded ease of body before the mind could soar;

But that no emancipation could come unto our nation

Until the aggregation of the clothes that women wore

Were suspended from the shoulders, and smooth with many a gore,

Plain behind and plain before!

Her remarks were full of reason, but a little out of season,

And the proper tone of talking Mr. Fairman did restore,

When he sneered at priests and preaching, and indorsed

the Index teaching,

And with philanthropic screeching, said he sought for evermore

The light of sense and freedom into darkened minds to pour;

Truly this, but something more!

Then with eyes as bright as Phoebus, and hair dark as Erebus,

A maid with stunning eye-glass next appeared upon the floor;

In her aspect she looked regal, though her words were few and feeble,

But she vowed his logic legal and as pure as golden ore,

And indorsed the Index editor in every word he swore,

And then—said nothing more.

Then a tall and red-faced member, large and loose and somewhat limber

(And though his creed was shaky, he the name of Bishop bore),

Said that if he lived forever, he should forget, ah! never,

The Radicals so clever, in Boston by the shore;

But a bad gold in his ‘ead bust stop his saying bore,

And we all cried encore.

Then a rarely gifted mortal, to whom the triple portal

Of Music, Art, and Poesy had opened years before,

With a look of sombre feeling, depths within his soul revealing,

Leaving room for no appealing, he decided o’er and o’er

The old, old vexing questions of the why and the wherefore,

And taught us—nothing more.

There are others I could mention who took part in this contention,

And at first ‘twas my intention, but at present I forbear;

There’s young Look-sharp, and Wriggle, who would make an angel giggle,

And a young conceited Zeigel, who was seated near the door;

If you could only see them, you’d laugh till you were sore,

And then you’d laugh some more.

But, dear friends, I now must close, of these Radicals dispose,

For I am sad and weary as I view their folly o’er;

In their wild Utopian dreaming, and impracticable scheming

For a sinful world’s redeeming, common sense flies out the door,

And the long-drawn dissertations come to—words and nothing more;

Only words, and nothing more.

Mary Clemmer Hudson has spoken of Phoebe Cary as “the wittiest woman in America.” But she truly adds:

“A flash of wit, like a flash of lightning, can only be remembered, it cannot be reproduced. Its very marvel lies in its spontaneity and evanescence; its power is in being struck from the present. Divorced from that, the keenest representation of it seems cold and dead. We read over the few remaining sentences which attempt to embody the repartees and bon mots of the most famous wits of society, such as Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, Madame du Deffand, and Lady Mary Montagu; we wonder at the poverty of these memorials of their fame. Thus it must be with Phoebe Cary. Her most brilliant sallies were perfectly unpremeditated, and by herself never repeated or remembered. When she was in her best moods they came like flashes of heat lightning, like a rush of meteors, so suddenly and constantly you were dazzled while you were delighted, and afterward found it difficult to single out any distinct flash or separate meteor from the multitude…. This most wonderful of her gifts