The Wit of Women

“Boredom is the ill-natured pebble that always will get in the golden slipper of the pilgrim of pleasure.”

“It makes all the difference in life whether hope is left or—left out!”

“A frog that dwelt in a ditch spat at a worm that bore a lamp.

“‘Why do you do that?’ said the glow-worm.

“‘Why do you shine?’ said the frog.”

“Calumny is the homage of our contemporaries, as some South Sea Islanders spit on those they honor.”

“Hived bees get sugar because they will give back honey. All existence is a series of equivalents.”

“‘Men are always like Horace,’ said the Princess. ‘They admire rural life, but they remain, for all that, with Augustus.’”

“If the Venus de Medici could be animated into life, women would only remark that her waist was large.”

The brilliant Frenchwomen whose very names seem to sparkle as we write them, yet of whose wit so little has been preserved, had an especial facility for condensed cynicism.

Think of Madame du Deffand, sceptical, sarcastic; feared and hated even in her blind old age for her scathing criticisms. When the celebrated work of Helvetius appeared he was blamed in her presence for having made selfishness the great motive of human action.

“Bah!” said she, “he has only revealed every one’s secret.”

And listen to this trio of laconics, with their saddening knowledge of human frailty and their bitter Voltaireish flavor:

We shall all be perfectly virtuous when there is no longer any flesh on our bones.—_Marguerite de Valois._

We like to know the weakness of eminent persons; it consoles us for our inferiority.—_Mme. de Lambert._

Women give themselves to God when the devil wants nothing more to do with them.—_Sophie Arnould._

Madame de Sevigne’s letters present detached thoughts worthy of Rochefoucauld without his cynicism. She writes: “One loves so much to talk of one’s self that one never tires of a tete-a-tete with a lover for years. That is the reason that a devotee likes to be with her confessor. It is for the pleasure of talking of one’s self—even though speaking evil.” And she remarks to a lady who amused her friends by always going into mourning for some prince, or duke, or member of some royal family, and who at last appeared in bright colors, “Madame, I congratulate myself on the health of Europe.”

I find, too, many fine aphorisms from “Carmen Sylva” (Queen of Roumania):

“Il vaut mieux avoir pour confesseur un medecin qu’un pretre. Vous dites au pretre que vous detestez les hommes, il vous reponds que vous n’etes pas chretien. Le medecin vous donne de la rhubarbe, et voila que vous aimez votre semblable.”

“Vous dites au pretre que vous etes fatigue de vivre; il vous reponds que le suicide est un crime. Le medecin vous donne un stimulant, et voila que vous trouvez la vie supportable.”

“La contradiction anime la conversation; voila pourquoi les cours sont si ennuyeuses.”

“Quand on veut affirmer quelque chose, on appelle toujours Dieu a temoin, parce qu’il ne contredit jamais.”

“On ne peut jamais etre fatigue de la vie, on n’est fatigue que de soi-meme.”

“Il faut etre ou tres-pieux ou tres-philosophe! il faut dire: Seigneur, que ta volonte soit faite! ou: Nature, j’admets tes lois, meme lorsqu’elles m’ecrasent.”

“L’homme est un violon. Ce n’est que lorsque sa derniere corde se brise qu’il devient un morceau de bois.”

In the recently published sketch of Madame Mohl there are several sentences which show trenchant wit, as: “Nations squint in looking at one another; we must discount what Germany and France say of each other.”

Several Englishwomen can be recalled who were noted for their epigrammatic wit: as Harriet, Lady Ashburton. On some one saying that liars generally speak good-naturedly of others, she replied: “Why, if you don’t speak a word of truth, it is not so difficult to speak well of your neighbor.”

“Don’t speak so hardly of –-,” some one said to her; “he lives on your good graces.”

“That accounts,” she answered, “for his being so thin.”

Again: “I don’t mind the canvas of a man’s mind being good, if only it is completely hidden by the worsted and floss.”

Or: “She never speaks to any one, which is, of course, a great advantage to any one.”

Mrs. Carlyle was an epigram herself—small, sweet, yet possessing a sting—and her letters give us many sharp and original sayings.

She speaks in one place of “Mrs. –-, an insupportable bore; her neck and arms were as naked as if she had never eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

And what a comical phrase is hers when she writes to her “Dearest”—”I take time by the pig- tail and write at night, after post-hours”—that growling, surly “dearest,” of whom she said, “The amount of bile that he brings home is awfully grand.”

For a veritable epigram from an American woman’s pen we must rely on Hannah F. Gould, who wrote many verses that were rather graceful and arch than witty. But her epitaph on her friend, the active and aggressive Caleb Cushing, is as good as any made by Saxe.

“Lay aside, all ye dead,

For in the next bed

Reposes the body of Cushing;