ential quality of wit, the unpremeditated glow
which exists only with the occasion that calls it forth. Even from the
humor of women found in books it is hard to quote--not because there is
so little, but because there is so much.

The encouragement to attempt this novel enterprise of proving ("by their
fruits ye shall know them") that women are not deficient in either wit
or humor has not been great. Wise librarians have, with a smile,
regretted the paucity of proper material; literary men have predicted
rather a thin volume; in short, the general opinion of men is condensed
in the sly question of a peddler who comes to our door, summer and
winter, his stock varying with the season: sage-cheese and home-made
socks, suspenders and cheap note-paper, early-rose potatoes and the
solid pearmain. This shrewd old fellow remarked roguishly "You're
gittin' up a book, I see, 'baout women's wit. 'Twon't be no great of an
undertakin', will it?" The outlook at first was certainly discouraging.
In Parton's "Collection of Humorous Poetry" there was not one woman's
name, nor in Dodd's large volume of epigrams of all ages, nor in any of
the humorous departments of volumes of selected poetry.

Griswold's "Female Poets of America" was next examined. The general air
of gloom--hopeless gloom--was depressing. Such mawkish sentimentality
and despair; such inane and mortifying confessions; such longings for a
lover to come; such sighings over a lover departed; such cravings for
"only"--"only" a _grave_ in some dark, dank solitude. As Mrs. Dodge puts
it, "Pegasus generally feels inclined to pace toward a graveyard the
moment he feels a side-saddle on his back."

The subjects of their lucubrations suggest Lady Montagu's famous speech:
"There was only one reason she was glad she was a woman: she should
never have to _marry_ one."

From the "Female Poets" I copy this "Song," representing the average
woman's versifying as regards buoyancy and an optimistic view of this
"Wale of Tears":

"Ask not from me the sportive jest,
The mirthful jibe, the gay reflection;
These social baubles fly the breast
That owns the sway of pale Dejection.

"Ask not from me the changing smile,
Hope's sunny glow, Joy's glittering token;
It cannot now my griefs beguile--
My soul is dark, my heart is broken!

"Wit cannot cheat my heart of woe,
Flattery wakes no exultation;
And Fancy's flash but serves