Johnson is a princess,and old man Johnson is going to pretend to be a pirate.Walk up,walk up,and be in time!"So Mrs.Johnson,pretending to be a princess,comes out of a wobbly thing that we agree to pretend is a castle;and old man Johnson,pretending to be a pirate,is pushed up and down on another wobbly thing that we agree to pretend is the ocean.Mrs.Johnson pretends to be in love with him,which we know she is not.And Johnson pretends to be a very terrible person;and Mrs.Johnson pretends,till eleven o'clock,to believe it.And we pay prices,varying from a shilling to half-a-sovereign,to sit for two hours and listen to them.
But as I explained at the beginning,my friend is a mad sort of person.
IS THE AMERICAN HUSBAND MADE ENTIRELY OF STAINED GLASS.
I am glad I am not an American husband.At first sight this may appear a remark uncomplimentary to the American wife.It is nothing of the sort.It is the other way about.We,in Europe,have plenty of opportunity of judging the American wife.In America you hear of the American wife,you are told stories about the American wife,you see her portrait in the illustrated journals.By searching under the heading "Foreign Intelligence,"you can find out what she is doing.
But here in Europe we know her,meet her face to face,talk to her,flirt with her.She is charming,delightful.That is why I say I am glad I am not an American husband.If the American husband only knew how nice was the American wife,he would sell his business and come over here,where now and then he could see her.
Years ago,when I first began to travel about Europe,I argued to myself that America must be a deadly place to live in.How sad it is,I thought to myself,to meet thus,wherever one goes,American widows by the thousand.In one narrow by-street of Dresden Icalculated fourteen American mothers,possessing nine-and-twenty American children,and not a father among them--not a single husband among the whole fourteen.I pictured fourteen lonely graves,scattered over the United States.I saw as in a vision those fourteen head-stones of best material,hand-carved,recording the virtues of those fourteen dead and buried husbands.
Odd,thought I to myself,decidedly odd.These American husbands,they must be a delicate type of humanity.The wonder is their mothers ever reared them.They marry fine girls,the majority of them;two or three sweet children are born to them,and after that there appears to be no further use for them,as far as this world is concerned.Can nothing be done to strengthen their constitutions?
Would a tonic be of any help to them?Not the customary tonic,Idon't mean,the sort of tonic merely intended to make gouty old gentlemen feel they want to buy a hoop,but the sort of tonic for which it was claimed that three drops poured upon a ham sandwich and the thing would begin to squeak.
It struck me as pathetic,the picture of these American widows leaving their native land,coming over in shiploads to spend the rest of their blighted lives in exile.The mere thought of America,Itook it,had for ever become to them distasteful.The ground that once his feet had pressed!The old familiar places once lighted by his smile!Everything in America would remind them of him.
Snatching their babes to their heaving bosoms they would leave the country where lay buried all the joy of their lives,seek in the retirement of Paris,Florence or Vienna,oblivion of the past.
Also,it struck me as beautiful,the noble resignation with which they bore their grief,hiding their sorrow from the indifferent stranger.Some widows make a fuss,go about for weeks looking gloomy and depressed,making not the slightest effort to be merry.These fourteen widows--I knew them personally,all of them,I lived in the same street--what a brave show of cheerfulness they put on!What a lesson to the common or European widow,the humpy type of widow!One could spend whole days in their company--I had done it--commencing quite early in the morning with a sleighing excursion,finishing up quite late in the evening with a little supper party,followed by an impromptu dance;and never detect from their outward manner that they were not thoroughly enjoying themselves.
From the mothers I turned my admiring eyes towards the children.
This is the secret of American success,said I to myself;this high-spirited courage,this Spartan contempt for suffering.Look at them!
The gallant little men and women.Who would think that they had lost a father?Why,I have seen a British child more upset at losing sixpence.
Talking to a little girl one day,I enquired of her concerning the health of her father.The next moment I could have bitten my tongue out,remembering that there wasn't such a thing as a father--not an American father--in the whole street.She did not burst into tears as they do in the story-books.She said:
"He is quite well,thank you,"simply,pathetically,just like that.
"I am sure of it,"I replied with fervour,"well and happy as he deserves to be,and one day you will find him again;you will go to him.""Ah,yes,"she answered,a shining light,it seemed to me,upon her fair young face."Momma says she is getting just a bit tired of this one-horse sort of place.She is quite looking forward to seeing him again."It touched me very deeply:this weary woman,tired of her long bereavement,actually looking forward to the fearsome passage leading to where her loved one waited for her in a better land.
