Life is no laughing matter, we are told, which is true; and, what is
still more dismal to contemplate, books are no laughing matters,
either. Only now and then some gay, defiant rebel, like Mr.
Saintsbury, flaunts the old flag, hums a bar of "Blue Bonnets over
the Border," and ruffles the quiet waters of our souls by hinting
that this age of Apollinaris and of lectures is at fault, and that it
has produced nothing which can vie as literature with the products of
the ages of wine and song.




Marietta Holley

AN UNMARRIED FEMALE


I suppose we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was
sayin' a few days ago to Betsey Bobbet, a neighborin' female of
ours--"Every station-house in life has its various skeletons. But we
ort to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on
to handle." Betsey hain't married, and she don't seem to be
contented. She is awful opposed to wimmin's rights--she thinks it is
wimmin's only spear to marry, but as yet she can't find any man
willin' to lay holt of that spear with her. But you can read in her
daily life, and on her eager, willin' countenance, that she fully
realizes the sweet words of the poet, "While there is life there is
hope."

Betsey hain't handsome. Her cheek-bones are high, and she bein' not