The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern
by William U. Moulton · English · Gutenberg #41231 · 343,555 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern
Author: William U. Moulton
Release date: October 30, 2012 [eBook #41231]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
On page 136, "othewise" should possibly be "otherwise".
On page 165, unclosed parenthesis should possibly be closed after
"clamorous for supper".
THE
LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN.
"Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice."
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON, NO. 306 CHESTNUT STREET,
GIRARD BUILDINGS, ABOVE THIRD.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year One
Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-five, by H. LONG & BROTHER,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States, for the Southern District of New York
PREFACE.
In preparing for the press "THE LIFE AND BEAUTIES OF FANNY FERN," we
have given to the reader a statement of the most prominent incidents
in her eventful career, which is authenticated, not only by the
testimony of her nearest relatives, but by communications from her own
lips. The lives of distinguished men or women have always been
accounted public property, and, in narrating that of Fanny Fern, we
have confined ourselves to simple facts, leaving the fancy-pictures to
be filled up by others.
In giving selections from her "Beauties," we present the reader with a
bouquet of "Ferns," all freshly gathered. In so doing, we have
infringed on no one's copy-right; the sketches having been copied, in
every instance, from the papers to which they were originally
contributed. A large proportion of them have never before appeared
within the covers of a book. These latter are the very articles upon
which Fanny made her reputation. We have given quotations which do
justice to every variety of her versatile style. One page flashes with
the keen edge of satire, another brims over with mirth, and a third is
tearful with pathos.
We have shown Fanny at home, on the street, and in church, and have
thus furnished a key which will unlock many of the mysteries of "Ruth
Hall," and "Fern Leaves."
CONTENTS.
I.
GENIUS IN PANTALETTES. 11
II.
FANNY AT SCHOOL. 13
III.
THE NEW NAME. 18
IV.
THE HUSBAND'S DEATH. 20
V.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 27
VI.
FANNY FERN AT HOME. 31
VII.
EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS. 37
VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG. 39
IX.
FANNY FERN IN CHURCH. 48
X.
FANNY FERN IN BROADWAY. 52
XI.
FANNY AT THE TREMONT HOUSE. 55
XII.
A KEY TO "RUTH HALL." 60
XIII.
A WORD ABOUT N. P. WILLIS. 69
XIV.
IDEAS ABOUT BABIES. 72
XV.
PRAISE FROM A WOMAN. 79
XVI.
THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF JEMMY JESSAMY. 81
XVII.
JEMMY JESSAMY'S DEFENCE. 85
XVIII.
THE GOVERNESS. 88
XIX.
ALL ABOUT SATAN. 103
XX.
WELL KNOWN CHARACTERS. 106
XXI.
HORACE MANN'S "OPINION." 111
XXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS OF HOT WEATHER. 113
XXIII.
FAMILY JARS. 114
XXIV.
TWO IN HEAVEN. 119
XXV.
THE PRIVATE HISTORY OF DIDYMUS DAISY, ESQ. 121
XXVI.
THE WEDDING DRESS. 125
XXVII.
IS IT BEST TO USE ENVELOPES? 132
XXVIII.
FEMININE WISDOM. 137
XXIX.
ALWAYS SPEAK THE TRUTH. 139
XXX.
MOSES MILTIADES MILTON. 142
XXXI.
TOM VERSUS FAN; OR, A LITTLE TALK ABOUT LITTLE
THINGS. 145
XXXII.
A LETTER TO THE TRUE FLAG. 152
XXXIII.
THE ORPHAN. 154
XXXIV.
AN ANSWER TO MRS. CROWE. 160
XXXV.
MRS. FARRINGTON ON MATRIMONY. 162
XXXVI.
A WHISPER TO ROMANTIC YOUNG LADIES. 164
XXXVII.
A WOMAN WITH A SOUL. 168
XXXVIII.
CLERICAL COURTING. 170
XXXIX.
WHAT FOWLER SAYS. 175
XL.
THE OTHER SIDE. 179
XLI.
THE GOOD-NATURED BACHELOR. 186
XLII.
CATCHING THE DEAR. 188
XLIII.
HELEN, THE VILLAGE ROSE-BUD. 190
XLIV.
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS. 200
XLV.
THAT MRS. JONES. 201
XLVI.
MRS. JUPITER'S SOLILOQUY. 204
XLVII.
THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER. 206
XLVIII.
PETTICOAT PARLIAMENT. 213
XLIX.
FANNY FERN ON WIDOWERS. 215
L.
AN HOUR WITH FANNY'S FATHER. 217
LI.
JOHN BULL'S OPINION OF "RUTH HALL." 222
LII.
ORTHODOX TESTIMONY. 225
LIII.
ANOTHER FERN. 227
LIV.
THE BEST OF MEN HAVE THEIR FAILINGS. 229
LV.
THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 231
LVI.
A WIFE'S DEVOTION. 238
LVII.
MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH'S PHILOSOPHY. 243
LVIII.
INTERESTING TO BASHFUL MEN. 246
LIX.
THE ANGEL CHILD. 249
LX.
UNCLE BEN'S ATTACK OF SPRING-FEVER. 253
LXI.
CONNUBIAL ADVERTISEMENT. 258
LXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT SEWING-MACHINES. 260
LXIII.
THE TIME TO CHOOSE. 263
LXIV.
OUR NELLY. 265
LXV.
I CAN'T. 269
LXVI.
MRS. SMITH'S REVERIE. 271
LXVII.
A NIGHT-WATCH WITH A DEAD INFANT. 273
LXVIII.
A LITTLE GOOD ADVICE. 275
LXIX.
THE OTHER ONE. 277
LXX.
A PEN AND INK SKETCH. 280
LXXI.
FANNY'S "RULES FOR LADIES." 283
LXXII.
THE LITTLE PAUPER. 286
LXXIII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT FRIENDSHIP. 289
LXXIV.
TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION. 292
LXXV.
DON'T DISTURB HIM. 299
LXXVI.
A MODEL HUSBAND. 301
LXXVII.
WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY. 303
LXXVIII.
THE EARLY BLIGHT. 305
LXXIX.
THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL. 309
LXXX.
THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. 312
LXXXI.
TOM FAY'S SOLILOQUY. 314
LXXXII.
A CHAPTER ON CLERGYMEN. 318
LXXXIII.
FANNY FERN ON HUSBANDS. 321
LXXXIV.
FANNY'S IDEAS OF MONEY MATTERS. 324
LXXXV
A LETTER TO A SELF-EXILED FRIEND IN THE
COUNTRY. 327
LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN
I.
GENIUS IN PANTALETTES.
Saral Payson Willis, the subject of this sketch, was born in Portland,
Maine, July 9th, 1811. Through the negligence, doubtless, of the clerk
of the town, it is not recorded that the sun stood still on the
eventful morning, but old housewives tell a legend of the cocks'
crowing with extraordinary shrillness in honor of this wonderful
advent. She is the daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Willis, one of the most
industrious and respectable citizens of Boston, now a man well
advanced in years. It is scarcely necessary to add that she is sister
to Mr. N. P. Willis, the brilliant essayist and poet.
Mr. Willis, senior, "commenced life" as a mechanic, and at the time
of his marriage worked at the case as a journeyman printer. He
afterwards published the Eastern Argus, in Portland. Meeting with
reverses in that city, he removed to Boston, where he established, and
for many years edited, the "Recorder," the oldest religious paper in
New-England.
Mr. Willis has met with a similar experience to that of most men in
his calling. He never made a fortune at publishing. At the present
time, although aged and infirm, he finds it necessary to devote his
failing energies to the publication of the "Youth's Companion." Yet,
notwithstanding his narrow means, Mr. Willis contrived--at how great a
sacrifice only parents can guess, to give his sons and daughters that
education which is a poor man's noblest legacy.
II.
FANNY AT SCHOOL.
In accordance with the course he had wisely planned for his children,
Sarah Willis--the veritable "Fanny"--was favored with an early
introduction into the seminary of Miss Catherine E. Beecher, in
Hartford, Conn. At this well-conducted establishment--the most popular
in the country, at that time--Miss Fanny received her first strong
impressions of life and the world. We have never heard her spoken of
as a very apt or studious pupil. Staid works of philosophy and
learning were not much to her taste. But from the prohibited pages of
romances and poems, eagerly devoured in secret, her craving genius
derived an active stimulus. Already she had become a keen dissector of
the human heart, and she found plenty of pleasant practice for the
scalpel of her wit among the young ladies of the school. Here, too,
the novel and startling experiences of boarding-school flirtation gave
their warm coloring to her future life. Fanny possessed a large
capacity for this description of knowledge, and her writings show a
better memory for those more pleasant branches of female education,
than for the dry rules of syntax and prosody. In fact, the best of her
sketches are transcripts of her school-girl life--for Fanny writes
well only when giving the concentrated vinegar and spice of her own
vivid experiences.
A sketch of Fanny's, entitled "A LEAF FROM MY EXPERIENCE," referring
to her school-life, may, perhaps, form the best embodiment of the
earlier portion of her school-history.
"Miss Jemima Keturah Rix was at the head of a flourishing school for
very young ladies and gentlemen. She originated in the blue state of
Connecticut, where the hens, from principle, refrain from laying eggs
on Sunday, and the yeast stops _working_ for the same reason. She had
very little opinion of her own sex, and none at all of the other. Her
means were uncommonly limited, yet 'she was too much of a gentlewoman
to keep school, had it not been for her strong desire to reform the
rising generation.'
"In person, she was tall and spare, with small, snapping black eyes,
and thin, compressed lips, telling strongly of her vixenish
propensities. She could repeat the Ten Commandments and Assembly's
Catechism _backwards_, without missing a word; and was a firm believer
in total depravity and the eternal destruction of little dead babies.
"She had the usual variety of temper and disposition, generally found
in a school, and a way of her own of getting along with them. She
would catch a refractory pupil with one hand by the shoulder, and
press the thumb with such force into the hollow of the arm, that the
poor victim was ready to subscribe to any articles of faith or
practice she might see fit to draw up; and who of us will soon forget
that old brass thimble, mounted on her skinny forefinger, as it came
snapping against our foreheads?
"Being considered an untamable witch at home, I had the ill luck to be
sent to this little initiatory purgatory. This was unfortunate, as
Miss Rix and I looked at life through very different pairs of
spectacles. The first great grief I can remember, was when I was about
as tall as a rosebush,--nearly breaking my heart, because a little boy
_threw away_ one of my ringlets, that I cut off for his especial
keeping. In fact, I may as well own it, I was _born_ a _coquette_;
and the lynx eyes of Miss Rix had already discovered it.
"She always made a chalk line on the floor between the girls and boys,
that neither were allowed to cross without a special permit. Being
aware of this, I had been in the habit of making certain telegraphic
communications with a little lover of mine, in jacket and trowsers, on
the other side of chalk-dom.
"Little dreaming of the storm that was brewing, I sat watching her one
morning, as she slowly drew from her pocket a long piece of cord, and
tested its strength. Raising her sharp cracked voice to its most
crucifying pitch, she called,
"'Miss Minnie May and Mr. Harry Hall step out upon the floor.' Of
course, we didn't do anything else, when, turning us back to back, she
silently proceeded to tie our elbows together with the cord,
remarking, with a satanic grin, as she sat down, that 'we seemed to be
so fond of each other, it was a pity to keep us apart.'
"Now this was a very _cutting_ thing to me, in more ways than one, as
Harry's jacket sleeves protected _his_ arms, while my little fat
elbows were getting redder every minute from the twitches he made to
extricate himself; for, like some bigger boys, he was very willing to
be a _fair-weather_ lover, but couldn't face a _storm_. I've never
forgiven him for it, (true to my woman nature,) and though I often
meet him now, (he is a thriving physician with an extensive practice;)
and he looks so roguishly from out those saucy black eyes, as much as
to say, 'I wouldn't mind being _tied_ to you now, Minnie,' I give him
a perfect freezer of a look and 'pass by on the other side.'
"I understand that Miss Rix has rested from her labors and gone to her
reward. I wish no better satisfaction than that she _may get it_!"
III.
THE NEW NAME.
Fanny's career as a young lady seems to have been very lively. She
recalls many amusing reminiscences of early flirtations. Among others,
she led away captive the heart of a certain Unitarian clergyman, the
son of a wealthy family. As _she_ affirms, however, "papa" concluded
that he had learned the Westminster Catechism to so little purpose as
to be no safe partner for his orthodox daughter. But, like a large
spare chamber, swept and garnished, her affections had plenty of room
for a new occupant.
There were breezy walks on the common, mysterious whisperings over
skeins of thread with handsome clerks, until at length the conquering
hero came. Like a sun-flower in the beams of morning, her heart
expanded at the warm suit of her favored lover.
May 4th, 1837, at a period of well-matured womanhood, Sarah Willis
became Sarah Eldredge. The fortunate husband of the yet undeveloped
genius, was an only child--the son of the late Dr. Eldredge, a highly
esteemed physician, in the neighborhood of Boston. Her first child
died at the age of three years, but two remaining daughters, the fruit
of this union, now reside with their mother in New York. One is about
ten, and the other we should judge from her appearance to be some
fifteen years of age.
Mr. Eldredge enjoyed a handsome income from his services as cashier of
the Merchant's Bank, the largest institution of the kind in Boston.
Now we esteem the domestic virtues of economy and prudence; but a
penurious mode of life is not so readily pardoned as the opposite
extreme of lavish expenditure; and the devoted husband of so spirited
a young wife may certainly be excused for "living" to the extent of
his means. But, as Othello very properly observes, "Who can control
his fate?" Had the young banker been as wise as he was generous and
indulgent, he would have looked forward through the long, bright vista
of the present, to that proverbial "rainy day," liable at any time to
befall. In the prime of manhood, October 6th, 1846, he was cut off by
a sharp, quick stroke from Death's remorseless hand; and the wife and
mother, awaking suddenly from her gay dreams, saw affliction and
widowhood descend upon her like a pall.
IV.
THE HUSBAND'S DEATH.
Throughout the whole course of Fanny's writings we are presented with
frequent and most pleasing pictures of her own self. Not only does she
figure as the graceful heroine of "Ruth Hall," but all her sketches
have a connection more or less remote with the events of her own life.
The following sketch, as we are assured, is a description of the death
of her husband, though it contains one of the customary portraitures
of Fanny herself.
"THE YOUNG WIFE'S AFFLICTION.--A delightful summer we passed, to be
sure, at the ---- Hotel, in the quiet village of S----. A collection of
prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown
together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the
dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and
comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the
cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants,
and loose neck-ties; their wives, equally independent till their
return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and
tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wildwood.
"There were no separate 'cliques' or 'sets;' nobody knew, or inquired,
or cared, whether your great grandfather had his horse shod, or shoed
horses for other people. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their
fingers, or their reputation, if they washed their own children's
faces; and didn't consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close
the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband's
waistband, or mended a ragged frock.
"Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and
plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a
little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girding a
fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated in the cool of
the evening on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the
car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty,
heated city. It was delightful to see their _business faces_ brighten
up, as each fair wife came forward and relieved them from the little
parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a
welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated
foreheads. A cold bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at
the supper table, where merry jokes flew round, and city news was
discussed between the fragrant cups of tea, and each man fell in love
with his pretty wife _over again_, (or his _neighbor's_, if he liked!)
"It was one harmonious, happy family! Mrs. ---- and her husband were
the prime ministers of fun and frolic in the establishment. It was
_she_ who concocted all the games, and charades, and riddles, that
sent our merry shouts ringing far and wide, as we sat in the evening
on the long moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the picnics and
sails, and drives in the old hay-cart; the berry parties, and romps on
the green; and the little cosy suppers in the back parlor just before
bed time (that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the fussy
old landlord.) It was she who _salted_ our coffee and _sugared_ our
toast; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses; it was she
who sewed up pockets in overcoats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends
in water; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house; it
was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps, for unskilful
mothers; it was she who was here and there, and every where, the
embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness; and as she flew past
her handsome husband, (with her finger on her lip,) bent upon some new
prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, _more
eloquent than words_.
"He was the handsomest man I ever saw--tall, commanding and elegant,
with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering
white teeth, and a form like Apollo's. Mary was _so proud_ of him! She
would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of
roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected _as she read its
language_. He was just the man to appreciate her--to understand her
sensitive, enthusiastic nature; to know when to check, when to
encourage; and it needed but _a word, a look_; for her _whole soul_
went out to him.
"And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had
come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of
breaking up our happy circle; but ah! there came _one_, with stealthy
steps, _who had no such scruples_!
* * * * *
"The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious
faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above, lies
Mary's princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her
lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears _that never
fall_; day and night without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil;
while (unconscious of her presence,) in tones that pierce her heart,
he calls unceasingly for 'my wife!' She puts back the tangled masses
of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand
coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, 'to
procure a nurse.' She fears not to be alone with him when he is
raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the
impress of an (almost) _deadly_ blow from the hand that was never
before raised but to _bless her_. And now the physician, who has come
_once, twice, thrice_ a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in
the hall that his patient _must die_; not one dare break the news to
the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces
with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no questions, but she
knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no
persuasion can draw her from the bedside.
"The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling
form, and says, 'My child, you _cannot_ meet the _next hour_--leave
him with me.'
"A mournful shake of the head is his only answer, as she takes her
seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low, upon that
clammy hand; praying God that _she_ may die with him.
"An hour of TIME--an ETERNITY of agony has passed! A fainting,
unresisting form is borne from that chamber of _Death_.
"Beautiful as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!--no trace
of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lie upon the marble
cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, cluster profusely
round the noble forehead; those chiseled lips are gloriously beautiful
in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass
to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy
with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. Oh that
_bitter_, BITTER waking! (for she _does_ wake. God pity her!)
"Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead; she remembers! she is
a widow!! She looks about the room--there is his hat, his coat, his
cane; and _now_, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of
passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says,
betwixt a tear and a smile, 'Now God be praised--SHE WEEPS!'
"And so with the falling leaves of Autumn, 'the Great Reaper' gathered
in our noble friend. Why should I dwell on the agony of the gentle
wife? or tell of her return to her desolate home in the city; of the
disposal of the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its
walls by the refined taste of its proprietor; of the NECESSARY
disposal of every _article of luxury_; of her removal to plain
lodgings, where curious people speculated upon her history, and marked
her moistened eyes; of the long, interminable, wretched days; of the
wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet,
fatherless child of her love; of her untiring efforts to seek an
honorable, independent support? It is but an every-day history, but
(God knows) its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt
by the sufferer!"
V.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
Fortunately for the subject of our sketch, her father, though poor, as
we have said, hastened to make what provision he could afford for the
comfort of the broken family. Nor did Dr. Eldredge turn a deaf ear, or
pass by on the other side. Some bitter thoughts were doubtless
occasioned, by the remembrance of the luxuries of which she had been
so suddenly bereft; it was hard to sink like a star behind the hills
of adversity--to pass suddenly from a gay and splendid career into the
obscurity of a more common-place and quiet life; and we can excuse the
sensitive Fanny for some unreasonable complaints; but, thanks to her
own and her husband's father, she had the consolation and treasure of
a home--a _home_, which, however modest, was in every respect
comfortable, and not altogether inelegant.
Sarah Eldredge was now in the full flush and vigor of womanhood--and a
widow! It is a wise provision of nature which ordains that the most
deeply wounded heart shall not always bleed. Hope springs from the
ashes of grief. Time buries the dead past, and lifts the curtain from
the glowing future. Night comes, that another morning, with all its
glory and freshness, may dawn upon the earth. Why then waste the
energies of youth in mourning over graves? They will not give up their
dead; already the spirit of the lost one looks down upon us from
blissful spheres, and says, "Be happy!" to our sorrowing hearts. Such
a voice came to the young widow. She called reason and faith to her
aid. She saw herself still blooming and attractive; the same inviting
world lay all around her; she longed for sympathy, for change, for
life. Her first matrimonial venture had proved a happy one; and the
memory thereof prompted her to risk another voyage on Wedlock's
perilous sea. Thus it might have been the very power of love that
bound her to her first husband which threw open the welcoming doors to
the advances of a new suitor.
Mr. Farrington, a merchant of Boston--a man of energy and upright
character--made an offer of his hand. He had himself enjoyed
matrimonial experience--was himself a parent--and was well qualified
to sympathize with the young widow. They sought mutual consolation in
marriage. But scarce was the honeymoon over, when that mutual
consolation was followed by mutual surprise. Fanny learned to her
sorrow that all husbands are not equally fond and indulgent; and the
bridegroom discovered that Mrs. F. No. 2 wasn't the exact counterpart
of Mrs. F. No. 1. The contrast was, in fact, so vast and amazing, that
it seemed to require solitude and quiet, to consider it in all its
bearings. Accordingly, Mr. Farrington resorted to travel and a change
of scene; journeyed westward; and has not since been seen on the
down-east slope of the continent. The slender tie of affection between
the happy pair, thus long drawn out, like a thread of India rubber,
finally snapped.
At the time of his departure, Fanny was boarding with her children at
the Marlboro' Hotel in Boston. Soon after, however, she removed to
quiet but pleasant lodgings in another quarter of the city.
Mr. Farrington took up his abode in Chicago, and soon after Fanny was
connubially advertised in the columns of the Boston Daily Bee. Then,
from the auction mart of a western court, Mr. F. gave out three
warnings; cried--"Going!--going!!--gone!!!" and legally knocked down
his wife with the hammer of divorce.
Once more separated from her husband, the dashing Fanny wore no
mourning weeds. Her lively circle of acquaintances found her fireside
no less attractive than formerly. Once more a widow she had learned to
wear gracefully her honors.
VI.
FANNY FERN AT HOME.
Fanny Fern's writings are expressive of her character. But, if
possible, she is twice as original, spicy, and entertaining, in her
person as in her sketches. To understand her perfectly, one should see
her and talk with her; and to see her and talk with her to advantage,
one should meet her on terms of chatty familiarity in her own private
apartments.
Fanny's home in Boston is well remembered by her favored
acquaintances. Introduced into her unique parlor, the visitor found
himself surrounded by pleasing evidences of luxury and taste,
characterizing its occupant as a woman of elegant leisure. A subdued,
monastic light, pervading the apartment, never failed to add its charm
to the visit. Convenient shutters, and heavy folds of curtains robbed
the saucy daylight of its too garish beams, and by night, in the still
and quiet hours, a rich shade surrounded the glowing globe of the
astral, tempering its lustre to a soft, mellow effulgence.
Fanny--as we have hinted--is just like her sketches, only "more so."
Bubbles and flashes might be gathered from her conversation, that
would eclipse anything she ever wrote. To have her sit by your side
one hour, and----sparkle, (_talk_ don't express the idea,) is worth
all the Fern Leaves and Ruth Halls in the world. Witty and pathetic by
turns; now running over with fun, and now with tears; always
sprightly, always plain and terse in her language, she is sure to
entertain you for one hour at least, as no other woman can. She will
entertain you another hour, some time, if you choose. But the
probability is, you don't choose. Such women don't wear well. Their
conversations are like "Fern Leaves"--brilliant enough at first, but
presently wearisome, and insipid. Consequently they have a great many
short acquaintances, but no long ones. Their friends are not fast
friends. We doubt if Fanny ever enjoyed an enthusiastic friendship
which lasted more than a couple of years.
Fanny's words are the least of her fascinations. Her manner is that of
a consummate actress. And it is not long before you discover that she
is little else than an actress. Her tears are regular stage tears. If
she desires to excite your sympathy, she knows better than anybody
else, how to do it. She'll improvise a "Ruth Hall" story for you,
inventing wrongs and sufferings to fit the occasion, and drop a few
ready tears, like hot wax, to seal her testimony,--sometimes sobbing a
little, and pressing your hand convulsively, to heighten the effect.
Oh, she can be fascinating as Cleopatra. She knows how to thrill you
with an unexpected touch. Then her voice, how artistically tender its
modulations, how musically mirthful, how musically sad by turns! Oh,
Fanny is a great woman! She should go upon the stage, or institute a
new "school of art and design" for the fair sex.
Fanny has an off-hand, dashing way of entertaining company, which we
have never seen surpassed. If you are so fortunate as to be a favored
visitor, and to find her alone, you may make sure of her, for at least
one evening. No matter who calls; the haughty Mr. A., the foppish B.,
the jealous and frowning C., are all neglected for your sake. "Sit
still," says Fanny, "and they'll have sense enough to see they are not
wanted, and withdraw." Accordingly, in a little while, out goes A.,
very stiffly. Then B. retires, bowing snobbishly, and making insipid
remarks about the weather. Finally comes poor C.'s gruff and lowering
"good evening." And Fanny, clapping her hands, and laughing merrily,
rejoins you upon the sofa, after shutting the door upon her last
visitor--and whispering a consoling word in his ear, behind your back.
Oh, matchless, diplomatic Fanny!
Of course the polite Fanny does the agreeable in introducing you to
her friends. But she entertains odd ideas about names. Sometimes you
are ready to explode in convulsions of mirth, at the delightfully
careless manner in which she bestows upon you some comic patronymic,
never before heard of in your family history. To-night you are Mr.
Pilridge. Last night you figured as Smith. To-morrow you'll be Jenkins
or Jones.
Fanny is consistent, and invents names for all her visitors. You are
no exception. Mr. White is introduced to you as Mr. Brown. (Why,
indeed, shouldn't a lady take the same liberty with her friends' names
as with her own complexion, and just change the color a trifle?) Mr.
Webb becomes Mr. Wing--a mere difference of _a pinion_. Mr. Rose is
transformed into Mr. Minks,--probably on the principle that a rose by
any other name will smell as sweet. In the same way a Walker is
dignified as a Ryder; Dix is expanded into Richards; Rich becomes
Poore, and French is translated into English.
Now mistakes will happen in the best regulated families. Some funny
ones occur in Fanny's. 'Tisn't so easy a thing to remember all her
names. Accordingly, forgetting that you are called Johnson, for this
evening, you gravely address Mr. Howard by that name. That gentleman
replies, with a knowing smile, that Johnson is _your_ name--you laugh,
Fanny laughs, and it passes as a good joke. Or, perhaps, the other
visitor has also become slightly confused, and readily subscribing to
Johnson, bestows Howard upon you, by way of exchange. Or, while
passing for Smith, you meet some one who knew you last week as
Pilridge.
Another pleasant incident is liable to occur. By a coincidence, you
meet at Fanny's some friend whom you astonish into silence. You are
similarly astonished; and observing no signs of recognition, Fanny
proceeds to introduce you. You can scarcely contain yourself on
hearing familiar Bob Peters dubbed as General Budington; and he looks
hugely tickled at your appellation of Rev. Mr. Bird.
One additional circumstance we should not fail to state. You never
meet a lady visitor at Fanny's. There appears to be but little
affinity between her and her own sex. "Cause unknown," as coroners'
verdicts say of "poor deaths" that occur through neglect of the city
authorities.
VII.
EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS.
Fanny first appeared before the public, in the columns of the _Olive
Branch_, sometimes as "FANNY FERN," and in several instances as
"OLIVIA BRANCH." We knew, personally, the good old man, "frosty, yet
kindly," who at that time filled the editorial chair of that paper. We
remember distinctly his own account of some of their frequent
interviews. Like most others who viewed Fanny through the enchanted
medium of a not too intimate acquaintance, he was, in some sense,
dazzled by her fascinations. Fanny is a regular meteor. You cannot
choose but look at her, even if you don't place much faith in a light
so erratic and fitful. The bewildered old gentleman felt the touch of
those magnetic little fingers upon his shoulder, and looked up, over
his spectacles, in absolute bewilderment, at the thing of smiles and
tears standing before him.
No wonder that he thought the sensitive, impulsive Fanny must be
faultless, and sympathized profoundly in her execrations on
hard-hearted parents and tyrannical husbands. No wonder, if defended
by such lips, the worse appeared the better reason--and the price per
column dwindled into comparative insignificance. Mr. Norris was
Fanny's faithful friend. Already tottering toward the grave, he was
not, indeed, able to render her as much actual service as the younger
and more vigorous editor of _The True Flag_, who was, next to Mr. N.,
her earliest patron, but the proprietor of the Olive Branch gave her
employment, friendship and counsel, which should have secured in
return, at least gratitude.
As we have intimated, Fanny had contributed but few articles to the
Olive Branch, before forming an engagement with the _Boston True
Flag_, and our next chapter will be devoted to a graphic description
of her connection with that paper, by its editor.
VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG.
Scene, TRUE FLAG OFFICE, MORNING.--_Industrious Editor at his
desk._--Enter dapper young gentleman, bowing.--Editor, with a pen over
each ear and one in his fingers, looks up, nodding politely.
_Young Gent._--Are you in want of contributions to your paper?
_Ed._--We are always glad to get good original articles, sir. Please
take a seat.
_Y. G._--Thank you, sir. (Sits down in a Flag-bottomed chair--we mean,
a chair with a pile of True Flags in it.) I am not a writer myself,
but I have a lady friend, who, although inexperienced, manifests a
good deal of literary talent, and would like to try her hand at an
article or two for your paper. She belongs to a distinguished
literary family; her father is an editor, and she has a brother who
is also an editor, and the author of several of the most popular books
ever published in this country.
_Ed._--Very well; we should be pleased to see a specimen of what she
can do. (Y. G. withdraws.)
Such was substantially the manner in which the yet unknown authoress,
destined soon to become so celebrated, was first introduced to our
notice. We should not, however, fail to state, in this connection,
that already Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch, had communicated to a
member of our firm the fact, that a sister of Mr. N. P. Willis had
applied to him for employment, and that he had recommended the True
Flag as an additional source of income. Therefore, without the calling
of names, we were prepared to make a shrewd guess at the identity of
the young gent's lady friend.
According to agreement, a couple of fragrant Ferns were plucked in due
season, (no pun on the word _due_,) and sent to our office. We found
the leaves a little coarse in fibre, but spicy, and acceptable. Fanny
wrote upon a big foolscap page, in a large, open, very masculine hand.
The manuscript was characteristic--decidedly Ferny--dashed all over
with astonishing capitals and crazy italics--and stuck full with
staggering exclamation points, as a pin-cushion with pins. In print,
the italics were intended to resemble jolly words leaning over and
tumbling down with laughter, and the interjections were supposed to be
tottering under the two-fold weight of double-entendres and puns. At
first sight, the writing looked as though it might have been paced off
by trained canary-birds--driven first through puddles of ink, then
marched into hieroglyphic drill on the sheet like a militia company on
parade. All Fanny's manuscripts demanded a good deal of editorial care
to prepare them for the press; her first productions, particularly,
requiring as thorough weeding as so many beds of juvenile beets and
carrots.
Fanny's price--we mean the price of her articles--was two dollars a
column. This was readily acceded to; and the young gent received the
money for her first contributions--eight dollars for four columns--the
morning after their delivery into our hands. In this place, it would
be inexcusable not to speak of another characteristic of the Fern
manuscripts. When purchased, paid for, properly pruned and prepared
for the printer's hands, they were invariably found to fall short of
the stipulated amount of reading matter--one of her spread-eagle pages
nestling very quietly and nicely into a few lines of print. So
trifling a circumstance, however, was not, of course, to be
considered, in dealing with a lady.
ANOTHER SCENE. TRUE FLAG OFFICE, TEN O'CLOCK, A. M. _Editor at his
desk, with pens as before, and an additional pencil in his
hair_.--Enter jaunty bonnet, with gay feathers, elegant veil, rich
broadcloth cloak, and silk dress--rather magnificent, if not more so.
Editor hastens to place a chair.
_Jaunty Bonnet_, (in a low, half-whisper, under the veil)--Excuse
me--I'm a little out of breath, running up stairs. I've brought Mr.
Snooks to introduce me.
Mr. Snooks turned out to be a Fern manuscript. The jaunty bonnet
carried him in an elegant reticule, in close proximity to a coquettish
hankerchief, redolent of perfume. The jaunty bonnet turned out to
be--Fanny herself! Mr. Snooks was for sale, and we bought him. Price,
two dollars a column--cheap enough for Snooks. We afterwards dotted
his _i's_, dressed him up a little, changed his name--Snooks was a bad
name--and printed him.
This was our first interview with the witty and brilliant Fanny.
Certainly, we did not judge that so gay and fashionable an attire had
that morning issued from a dismal garret, in a dark and narrow
lane--that those well-rounded proportions drew their sole subsistence
from the "homoeopathic broth" of niggardly landladies. Indeed, no
starving necessity had compelled her to resort to the pen. With a true
woman's spirit, she believed she could do something for herself, and
determined to try. We liked her articles--she liked our pay--so we
engaged her as a regular contributor. We suggested that she should
write stories, in addition to her sketches--by which arrangement she
might easily earn fifteen dollars a week. She pleaded the necessity of
finishing everything she undertook, at one sitting, and her inability
to elaborate a long story. Still she desired more employment; at the
same time, the too-frequent repetition of "Fanny Fern" in our columns
would injure both herself and us; so the matter was compromised by
giving her a second _nom de plume_--that of "Olivia,"--which was
attached to a number of her sketches.
Up to this period, Mrs. Farrington had no reputation whatever as a
writer, and we purchased her articles for their intrinsic merits only,
paying for them what they were actually worth to us. As her reputation
increased, and her value as a contributor was heightened, her
remuneration was augmented accordingly. Although we paid her five
dollars a column,--the columns generally falling short one-third, at
that,--we cheerfully gave her her own terms, until, when she demanded
twelve dollars a column, we thought we would just take three or four
days to scratch our editorial ear, and think about it. In this place,
it may be proper to state that, at one time, without giving us any
notice whatever, she broke her engagement, and entered into a contract
with a New York publisher, by which she was to write exclusively for
his paper for one year. The terms offered were liberal, and for her
sake, we rejoiced at her good future. But munificent promises do not
always lead to rich fulfilment; and it was not long before Mrs.
Farrington gladly returned to those in whose service she had always
been promptly and handsomely paid.
Fanny's style was novel and sparkling, if not very refined, and her
fame sprang up almost in a night-time. Messrs. Derby & Miller,
booksellers, of Auburn, N. Y., had the shrewdness to see that a volume
of her sketches would be apt to make a stir in the market, and wrote
to us for information touching her real name and address. We replied
that we were not then at liberty to divulge the name, but that any
communications directed to our care would reach her. A correspondence
was at once opened, and Mrs. Farrington was offered four hundred
dollars for sufficient material for a volume--or, if she preferred,
ten cents a copy on every edition printed.
Now four hundred dollars cash, was tempting. It would purchase a rich
dress, a dashing shawl, "several pairs of gaiter-boots," and numerous
boxes of those sovereign preparations, noted for the qualities that
"impart a natural beauty to the complexion." In accordance with our
advice, however, (for we foresaw a large sale for the book,) she
resolved to risk a little, in the hope that much might be gained, and
accept the commission of ten cents a copy. The volume was easily
thrown together, being compiled principally from the files of the
Olive Branch and the True Flag. It was stereotyped at the New-England
Foundry, in this city, and all the proof-sheets passed through our
hands.
At this time, Mrs. Farrington and her youngest child, "little Ella,"
boarded with a respectable family, in the spacious brick
dwelling-house, No. 642 Washington-street; her eldest daughter
residing with her grandfather Eldredge. Fanny occupied an elegant
suite of rooms on the second floor. The parlor was sumptuously
furnished; chairs of solid mahogany, covered with velvet--with
centre-table, sofa, carpet, &c., of corresponding richness. The
numerous visitors had no reason to suspect that all these luxuries
were only poverty in disguise. Nor would one readily imagine that the
plump Ella and her blooming mother were accustomed to breakfast on
shadowy dishes of hope, have the same served up, cold, for dinner, and
then go supperless to bed. The landlady had an excellent reputation
for liberality and kindness, and looked like anything but the cruel
ogress represented in Fanny's writings. The fact is--whatever may be
said to the contrary by Fanny and her especial sympathizers,--she was
at this time living in a style of luxury and elegance which would have
reflected no discredit upon any lady of fashion. There may be some
good reason for concealing this suggestive fact, but we cannot
discover any.
"Fern Leaves, from Fanny's Portfolio"--the last part of the title
originated with ourselves, and was adopted by Fanny--finally made its
appearance. She was fortunate in her publishers. Never was book
advertised so lavishly. No expense of time, money, or tact, was
spared, to create a sensation and great sales. The result is known;
Fanny had occasion to thank us for our counsel; her commission
amounted to several thousand dollars. Flushed with success, she moved
from our sober, puritanic town, to the gay metropolis of New-York. But
such reputations are short-lived. "Little Ferns" followed, and met
with but a moderate sale. A second series of Leaves was then
published--but "oh, what a falling off was there!" The demand for the
book was quite limited.
IX.
FANNY FERN IN CHURCH.
During Fanny Fern's residence in Boston she was a regular attendant at
the Park-street (Orthodox) church. Undoubtedly this circumstance arose
from a strong sentiment of natural affection. Not being on
particularly intimate terms with her family, it was without doubt a
great pleasure to catch such stray glimpses of their well-known faces
as might be obtained under the lofty dome of their favorite church.
It must have been by accident that she strayed away, one Sunday, from
the well-beaten Calvinistic path into the new Music Hall, to listen to
the eloquence of Theodore Parker. We regret, however, that she labored
under a misconception with regard to the character of this church.
Meting out justice to all, we must admit that it is the most
democratic place of the kind in Boston. Black and white, rich or poor,
alike are welcome. The seats are free, in pursuance of the old adage,
"first come, first served." Not here, as in too many of our churches,
is the Christian gospel, "Son, give me thy heart," perverted by the
man with the black velvet bag into "Son, give me thy cash!" The
contribution box, that terror to church-goers, is very rarely
encountered, the expenses being defrayed by voluntary yearly
subscriptions. But Fanny, regardless of these facts, must be held
responsible for the sketch which follows:--
"Do you call _this_ a church? Well, I heard a prima dona here a few
nights ago; and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to
moving fans; and opera-glasses and ogling, and fashion and folly
reigned for the nonce triumphant. _I_ can't forget it; I can't get up
any devotion _here_, under these latticed balconies, with their
fashionable freight. Now if it was a good old country church, with a
cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun
staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few
hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should
feel all right; but my soul is in fetters here; it won't soar--its
wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine! Nobody can come in
at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut.
The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean on his staff in the
porch, a long while, before he'd dare venture in, to pick up _his_
crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank God, the unspoken prayer of
penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, though our mocking
church-spires point only with _aristocratic fingers_ to the _rich
man's heaven_.
"That hymn was beautifully read; there's poetry in the preacher's
soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk; now he crosses the
platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered.
What right has _he_ to know there was a woman in the house? Let the
bonnets find their own hymns--'tisn't clerical!
"Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in church.
I hear a great many original, a great many _startling_ things said. I
see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox Calvinistic
sentiments which I nursed in, with my mother's milk, and which (please
God) I'll cling to till I die. I see the polished blade of satire
glittering in the air, followed by curious, eager, youthful eyes,
which gladly see the searching 'Sword of the Spirit' parried. Meaning
glances--smothered smiles, and approving nods, follow the witty
clerical sally. The author pauses to mark the effect, and his face
says--That stroke _tells_! and so it did, for 'the Athenians' are not
all dead, who 'love to see and hear some new thing.' But he has
another arrow in his quiver. How his features soften--his voice is low
and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He speaks of human
love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart vibrates; and
stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles are chased
away.
"Oh, there's intellect there--there's poetry there--there's genius
there; but I remember Gethsemane--I forget not Cavalry! I know the
'rocks were rent' and the 'heavens darkened,' and 'the stone rolled
away;' and a cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear 'Jesus of
Nazareth' lightly mentioned.
"Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish
voice they cry, '_Away with_ HIM!'
"'With Mary,' let me 'bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with
the hairs of my head.'
"And so, I 'went away sorrowful,' that this human teacher, with such
great intellectual possessions, should yet 'lack the _one thing
needful_.'"
X.
FANNY FERN IN BROADWAY.
"Ha! there she comes, Ned!" says Mr. Augustus Smallcane, lounging on
the arm of his friend.
"Mag-nif-i-cent!" drawls Mr. Tapwit, putting his glass in his eye.
"What a bust!"
"Isn't that a gait, Ned!"
"It's a-door-able!"
Mr. Tapwit chuckled, to let Mr. Smallcane see that a pun was intended.
Mr. Smallcane recognized it with an "O, don't now, Ned!"
"Won't we have a splendid sight at her?" exclaimed Mr. Tapwit. "Crowd
this way. What a figure!"
"What a foot!" adds Smallcane.
And the gentlemen continue to stare and make remarks while the lady
passes.
Does she care? She looks as if she liked it! She is none of your
feeble, timid, common-place women. She "goes in" for sensation and
effect--which few know so well how to produce.
Fanny Fern--there! we didn't mean to let the secret out; but it _is_
Fanny we mean--is a full, commanding woman. She looks high, steps
high, and carries her head high. She has light brown hair, florid
complexion, and large, blue eyes. When she appears in company, her
color verges upon the rosy. If you talk with her in broad daylight,
she has a trick of dropping her veil, to prevent a too close scrutiny
of her features. When her veil is up, you can see that she has a
luscious cheek, large nose, slightly aquiline, mouth of character, if
not of beauty, and a vigorous chin. Fanny isn't handsome, and never
was. But she has a splendid form, a charming foot and ankle, a
fascinating expression, and the manners of a queen.
Dress and equipage are not the least part of Fanny. She is as
dependent upon these as a peacock upon his tail. She wears black
because it becomes her better than any other color. A widow of
forty--fair--in mourning--how interesting! Her magnificent, sweeping
flounces occupy the space of any five ordinary, uninflated females.
She moves with a great rustle and swell, majestic.
She is preceded by her eldest daughter, already a young lady, as a
sort of armor-bearer. Her youngest child, "Ella," follows sprucely at
her heels, like a page. And so, up and down Broadway, sails Fanny
Fern, proud, haughty, ambitious, scorned by some, admired by
many--loved by few.
XI.
FANNY AT THE TREMONT HOUSE.
Good John Walter is Fanny's man-at-arms. He is the last and most
faithful of her servants. She needs some person in that capacity, and
shrewdly manages never to be without such a champion. She was
fortunate, after many trials, in falling upon so choice an acquisition
as John Walter.
Fanny cannot be accused of choosing her champion from any such motive
as personal beauty. John isn't alarmingly handsome--not half so
beautiful as he is good. Of tall and gaunt figure, with a
lean-and-hungry-Cassius look, bran-like eyes, an oyster-like open to
his mouth, fiery hair, an incendiary whisker, a windy manner of
talking, and a gaseous atmosphere pervading his person generally--oh,
no! Fanny couldn't have chosen John for his beauty.
John's championship never shone with more dazzling lustre, than on his
visit to Boston, in her train, last summer. He came like the very
Napoleon of snobs. Boston was to be taken by storm. "The three-hilled
city," said John, "shall bow down at our coming." "John," answered
Fanny, "I regard you as a prophet. You are a man of sense. The three
hills shall bow down."
They fortified themselves in the Sebastopol of the Tremont
House,--that stronghold so formidable to turkey,--and sent forth their
proclamations. But, somehow, there was no movement of the three-hilled
city. Not a block trembled. Not a brick stirred. Fanny began to chafe.
In vain she searched the columns of the daily papers, to find
complimentary notices of her arrival. Not a word on the subject. She,
who expected a triumph equal to Jenny Lind's, found herself of no more
account in the three-hilled city, whose duty it was to bow down, than
the wife of John Smith, the joiner, who went on at the same time to
hunt up a second cousin.
Meanwhile good John Walter exerted himself. In his windiest manner, he
thrust that lank figure of his into every nook and corner, where he
hoped to generate a little interest in his famous _protégée_.
"She's come!" whispered John mysteriously, in the ear of an
influential editor.
"Ha!" said the editor, "has she?" and went on with his writing.
"She is at the Tremont House," resumed John, with an air of vast
importance, "where she receives her friends. The rush to see her is
very great, and we have to resort to every means to keep the multitude
at bay. You, of course, would be a privileged one, and I should be
happy to introduce you."
"Thank you," said the editor, as he dipped his pen.
"Do you know,"--John began to bluster--"there are vipers in human
form, in this city, who have dared to sting that woman's reputation?"
"I know nothing of the kind," replied the editor.
"You ought to know it; and I am authorized to say this: Fanny expects
her friends to vindicate her character, and crush these vipers. There
is that rascal, Mr. Blank----"
"Mr. Blank is a friend of mine, sir."
"But"--John waxed bombastic--"You cannot be a friend of his and a
friend of Fanny Fern's. He said, in his paper, that she has a husband
living----"
"Which is true, I believe," remarked the editor, quietly.
"But sir"--here John choked--"she is a _woman_, and no _gentleman_
will make remarks of the kind about a WOMAN,--a woman, sir, is sacred;
and Fanny Fern is one of the noblest of her sex. From your character
as an editor and a man, I had every reason to believe that you would
not hesitate to espouse her cause----"
"Mr. Walter," interrupted the editor, "your assumption is somewhat
astounding, but it has not quite taken away my breath--I have still a
modest word to say. I do not see that it is my duty to go and cudgel
Mr. Blank, nor do I consider the inducement you hold out, quite
sufficient to authorize me to engage in any quarrels except my own. I
will not trouble you to introduce me to Miss Fern. I wish you a good
morning, sir!"
John varied his manner with different people. To some he was
insinuating and smooth; to others, bluff and lowering; but all his
efforts were unsuccessful. Nobody would go and whip Mr. Blank; nobody
cared much about meeting Fanny Fern. And here let us not be
misunderstood. It was no fault of John's, that he did not succeed. He
was zealous to the last degree. Still less was it Fanny's fault. She
was, as he expressed it, "the noblest of her sex." The truth is,--and
to the shame of that city be it spoken,--there was no Don Quixote in
Boston! If Boston could have boasted of so much chivalry, Mr. Blank
would have been cudgelled, and Fanny avenged.
Having utterly failed to create any kind of a sensation,--having
waited in vain to "receive friends" at the Tremont,--it was judged
expedient to make a grand sally upon the town. An open barouche was
accordingly ordered, and Fanny, richly attired, and attended by noble
John Walter, rode ostentatiously through the streets. A kind of
sensation was produced,--but not the right kind. People looked, and
laughed, and winked. Some said, "Lucky John Walter!" Others, who knew
Fanny, said, "Poor John Walter!" Still Fanny was let alone; nobody
troubled her; the world turned round, and Boston turned with it, the
same; and Mr. Blank remains uncudgelled to this day.
And so Fanny and the redoubtable John made haste to evacuate their
Sebastopol, withdrawing their forces quietly, and returned,
inglorious, to New York.
XII.
A KEY TO "RUTH HALL."
Fanny Fern's latest literary effort is the production of a novel
entitled "Ruth Hall." Much curiosity has been excited in the minds of
the public as to the originals of her various portraitures. It will be
fully satisfied by the perusal of the following criticism from the pen
of an able reviewer.
"Wouldn't I call things by their right names? Would I praise
a book because a woman wrote it?"--_Ruth Hall_, p. 307.
"We have called Fanny Fern a literary star. We should qualify the
expression. There is no clear, strong lustre, no steady splendor, no
mild, benignant twinkle, to Fanny. She flashed into our sky like a
meteor, seemingly larger than Jupiter, and for the moment more ruddy
than Venus, more flaming than any planet or fixed star. Or perhaps we
should liken her to a rocket--going up with a great rush and whiz,
then paling, dying, falling, and finishing up with a loud, angry pop,
and a sudden shower of little fiery tadpoles, dropping on the head of
her enemies.
"The 'loud, angry pop' came with the publication of her last work,
'Ruth Hall,'--a book that appears to have been exploded in a fit of
desperation, to revive the writer's sinking fame, and to revenge
herself on her relatives, and everybody she imagines ever injured her.
Fortunately, the rockets' fiery droppings are harmless as moonbeams,
and there is little but hiss, and whiz, and crack, to its anger;--else
some very respectable families had been blown to atoms, and entirely
devoured and eaten up forever by the fiery tadpoles.
"How we used to admire Fanny! We never, indeed, saw much to love in
her writings, but the snap, and vigor, and originality of her style,
was truly refreshing. We could never sufficiently praise these
qualities in her early sketches. Her power was partly owing to native
genius, partly to the circumstances of her life. She was a full-grown
woman when she began to write. The age of feeble sentimentalism was
passed. She had seen the world; enjoyed society; known adversity. She
had been twice a wife, and twice a mother; had lost one husband by
death, and another by--no matter what. In years she was forty; in
experience at least a hundred and forty. And all this life and
knowledge she had kept bottled up, like old wine. How it sparkled and
foamed when the wires were cut and the cork blown out! She poured off
those first sketches, bubbling, frothing, effervescing, like prime
champagne newly opened. Wine of this quality soon deadens; but Fanny
kept pouring out, determined to make up in quantity what was wanting
in flavor; and now--in 'Ruth Hall'--she has squeezed the bottle and
flung it at the heads of the public.
"Speaking of this queer book, the New York Courier says, 'If the
writer ever showed the manuscript to her friends, they acted most
cruelly towards her, in not advising her to throw it into the fire.'
We think so too. We have never seen so sad a revelation of a woman's
heart. There are some flashes of genius in the book, but there are
more flashes of that unmentionable fire, supposed to be familiar to
wicked souls.
"The principal characters in Ruth Hall bristle all over with iron
spikes of selfishness and cruelty. The able critic of the Boston Post
declares that 'art would never admit such stony-hearted monsters in a
story of real life.' Now, 'Ruth Hall' is understood to be an
autobiography. That it was intended as such by the writer, there can
be no doubt in the mind of any person who knows her and reads her
book. Following this view of the subject, we have, first and foremost
among the monsters, Fanny's own father. He is the 'old Ellet' of the
story--a man who 'thinks more of one cent than of any child he ever
had;' who coldly leaves his daughter and grandchildren to suffer
almost the extremes of want and privation; who would not, indeed,
throw them a crumb, were it not that, as a church-member, he has a
'Christian reputation to sustain,' and fears public opinion. The
caricature is gross and awful. Yet it is not even a caricature. Fanny
(Ruth Hall) has daubed the hideous picture of an impossible character,
and scrawled beneath it the angry words, 'This is my father! let all
the world see and abhor him!' O, Goneril! O, Regan! could woman's hate
do more? Oh, dear and sweet revenge upon a parent! because, forsooth,
the white-haired old man, who, even now, totters daily up his office
stairs to earn a livelihood, possessed too much calm wisdom to
impoverish himself in order that she might sit a queen--because he
deemed it sufficient, in all love and justice, to support her
comfortably, as his means afforded--because her own indiscretions, and
extravagant and unreasonable demands, had called down upon her head
deserved severity and reproof--this is the fire kindled in her heart!
We are sorry to speak in this strain. But if we speak at all, we must
utter what justice and truth call out of us. Even were Mrs.
Farrington's charges against her father well-founded, we could not but
cry out in condemnation of the parricidal spirit that seeks so
devilish a revenge.
"Her first husband's father, the late Dr. Eldredge, meets with a
similar treatment. The grave that has closed over him could not shield
his breast from the tearing claws of the vampire of vengeance. He
figures as Dr. Hall--just such another unfeeling, unnatural,
impossible monster, as the old man Ellet. Mrs. Hall (Fanny's
mother-in-law, Mrs. Eldredge,) is a slice from the same raw material,
with the addition of a little feminine salt and pepper. Fanny had an
opportunity to write something of her own spirit in 'Mrs. Hall'--thus
relieving the deadness of the character with occasional sparks of real
human nature.
"Mr. N. P. Willis appears in the book as Mr. Hyacinth Ellet--'a
mincing, conceited, tip-toeing, be-curled, be-perfumed popinjay.' Like
the other monsters, he has not a grain of heart in his composition.
Such a burlesque of a gentleman so well known for his fine qualities
of heart and mind as Mr. N. P. Willis, is simply disgusting. It is too
coarse and flat to be tolerated even in a farce.
"Other monsters in the book may be briefly alluded to. The Millets are
the----s,--represented as horrid people, of course, being so
unfortunate as to be related to Fanny. Mr. Lescom, editor of the
'Standard,' is the late Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch. The True Flag
is personified as 'Mr. Tibbets.'
"Now with regard to the angels in the book. First, of course, is Fanny
herself. She is 'Ruth Hall'--a perfect celestial. We are surprised
that any person, whose judgment was not altogether swallowed up in
vanity and egotism, should have made so bald and sickening an attempt
at self-exaltation. Ruth is a model wife, a model mother, a model
widow, a model saint. She is very beautiful, and a great genius. There
was never a woman on earth until Ruth was let down out of heaven. What
a capital joke, that so rare a creation should have been born the
daughter of old Ellet, and the sister of Hyacinth!
"'Harry Hall' is the name given to Fanny's first husband. It is a
singular fact, by the way, that no allusion is made to her second
marriage. Why is Mrs. Farrington so anxious to suppress the fact, and
the subject of her divorce? She should not have neglected so good an
opportunity to give Mr. F., what in the vulgar idiom is termed 'fits.'
"Mr. Horace Gates, Hyacinth's assistant, on the 'Irving Magazine,' is
Mr. J. Parton, late of the Home Journal. Mr. Parton has recently
written a book for Fanny's new publishers, so she thought proper to
puff him. Mr. P. is a talented writer, and may, for aught we know, be
an excellent man; but he is unfortunate in sitting for the portrait of
Mr. Horace Gates. We should prefer anything rather than praise from
such a quarter.
"But of all the overdone specimens of goodness, the character of
virtuous John Walter is the most ridiculous to those who know the
original. John Walter is----laugh, ye gods! and hold your
sides!--is--but we will spare the poor man's blushes. This pure and
fragrant gentleman--who, by the way, never knew Fanny until after the
establishment of her reputation, and her contract with Derby & Miller,
for the publication of 'Fern Leaves'--has since devoted himself to her
service, contented to lick what crumbs may fall to him from her
table, as a reward for his brave championship. He 'puts through' the
newspaper puffing which heralds her books, acting as her counsellor,
companion, and gentleman friend generally--and so she makes an angel
of him out of gratitude. Delicious John Walter!
"The story of Ruth Hall is nothing. There is no plot whatever; no
thread of interest to hold one to its pages. There are some spicy,
quite Ferny sketches, in the first half of the volume--but the rest is
all chaff, filled in to swell the covers to a respectable
capaciousness. Towards the close, for want of better matter, we are
surfeited with letters from people nobody cares anything about, and a
tedious phrenological examination, designed to set off the
transcendent mental, moral and affectional qualities of that heavenly
creature, Ruth--alias Fanny!
"The book abounds with horrors of cruelty and neglect--which all who
are aware in what style Mrs. Farrington used to live, know to be
false--until we come to the introduction of good John Walter, when
everybody commences laughing. Indeed, such expressions as 'said Ruth,
laughing,' 'said Mr. Walter, laughing,' 'said Katy, laughing,' 'said
Ruth, beginning to laugh,' occur _ad nauseam_. Sometimes we have 'said
Ruth, smiling,' which amounts to the same thing. And so the book
draws to a verbose and feeble close. We are glad to have shut it up,
never to open it again. We love not these bad-hearted books. Let us
then hasten to take leave of this one, and of Fanny Fern, forever. It
was no agreeable task we had to do, but we have done it
conscientiously and faithfully; and here let it end."
XIII.
A WORD ABOUT N. P. WILLIS.
Of the command, "Honor thy father and mother," says the Boston
Transcript, _Ruth Hall_ has been a significant reminder, to those who
know the excellent man vilified in that novel as the heroine's father,
and admitted in many ways to be intended by "Fanny Fern" as a picture
of her own father, Mr. Willis. How differently he is looked upon by
his other children it is a relief to humanity to know, and we are glad
to be able to copy from the "Youth's Companion," the paper which Mr.
Willis publishes in his declining years, the following lines addressed
to him by his son, N. P. Willis, the brother of "Fanny Fern."
TO MY AGED FATHER.
[ON HEARING OF HIS RECENT CALAMITY, IN HAVING HIS OFFICE
DESTROYED BY THE LATE FIRE IN SCHOOL-STREET.]
BY N. P. WILLIS.
Cares thicken round thee as thy steps grow slow,
Father beloved!--not turn'd upon, as once,
And battled back with steadfastness unmov'd--
(That battle without fame or trump to cheer--
That hardest battle of the world--_with care_--
Thy life one patient victory till now!)
Faint has thy heart become. For peace thou prayest--
For less to suffer as thy strength grows less.
For, oh, when life has been a stormy wild--
The bitter night too long, the way too far--
The aged pilgrim, ere he lays him down,
Prays for a moment's lulling of the blast--
A little time, to wind his cloak about him,
And smooth his gray hairs decently to die.
Yet, oh, not vain the victories unsung!
Not vain a life of industry to bless.
And thou, in angel-history--where shine
The _silent self-forgetful who toil on_
_For others until death_--art nam'd in gold
In heaven it is known, thou hast done well!
But, not all unacknowledg'd is it, here.
Children thou hast, who, for free nurture, given
With one hand, while the other fought thy cares,
Grow grateful as their own hands try the fight.
And more--they thank thee more! The name thou leavest
Spotless and blameless as it comes from thee--
For this--their pure inheritance--a life
Of unstained honor gone before our own--
The father that we love an "honest man"--
For this, thy children bless thee.
Cheer thee, then!--
Though hopelessly thy strength may seem to fail,
And pitilessly far thy cares pursue!
What though the clouds follow to eventide,
Which chased thy morn and noon across the sky!
From these thy trying hours--the hours when strength,
Most sorely press'd, has won its victories--
From _life's dark trial clouds_, that follow on,
Even to sunset--glory comes at last!
Clouds are the glory of the dying day--
A glory that, though welcoming to Heaven,
Illumes the parting hour ere day is gone.
XIV.
IDEAS ABOUT BABIES.
Fanny's sentiments on this subject are decidedly contradictory. If one
were to read any two of her articles, without a definite knowledge of
her circumstances, they would be at a loss to determine whether she is
maid or matron. The language of the first article which we shall quote
is certainly very _anti_-motherly.
"FOLLY--For girls to expect to be happy without marriage.
Every woman was made for a mother, consequently, babies are
as necessary to their 'peace of mind,' as health. If you
wish to look at melancholy and indigestion, look at an old
maid. If you would take a peep at sunshine, look in the face
of a young mother."
"Now I _won't stand that_! I'm an old maid myself; and I'm neither
melancholy nor indigestible! My 'PIECE _of mind_' I'm going to give
you, (in a minute!) and I never want to _touch_ a baby except with a
_pair of tongs_! 'Young mothers and sunshine!' Worn to fiddle-strings
before they are twenty-five! When an old lover turns up he thinks he
sees his grandmother, instead of the dear little Mary who used to make
him feel as if he should crawl out of the toes of his boots! Yes! my
mind is _quite_ made up about _matrimony;_ but as to the '_babies_,'
(sometimes I think, and then again I don't know!) but on _the whole I
believe_ I consider 'em a d----ecided humbug! It's a _one-sided_
partnership, this marriage! the _wife casts up all the accounts_!
"'Husband' gets up in the morning and pays his '_devours_' to the
looking-glass; curls his fine head of hair; puts on an immaculate
shirt-bosom; ties an excruciating cravat; sprinkles his handkerchief
with cologne; stows away a French roll, an egg, and a cup of coffee;
gets into the omnibus, looks _slantendicular_ at the pretty girls, and
makes love between the pauses of business during the forenoon
_generally_. Wife must 'hermetically seal' the windows and exclude all
the fresh air, (because the baby had the 'snuffles' in the night;) and
sits gasping down to the table more dead than alive, to finish her
breakfast. Tommy turns a cup of hot coffee down his bosom; Juliana has
torn off the string of her school-bonnet; James 'wants his geography
covered;' Eliza can't find her satchel; the butcher wants to know if
she'd like a joint of mutton; the milkman would like his money; the
ice man wants to speak to her 'just a minute;' the baby swallows a
bean; husband sends the boy home from the store to say _his partner_
will dine with him; the cook leaves 'all flying,' to go to her
'sister's dead baby's wake,' and husband's thin coat must be ironed
before noon. '_Sunshine and young mothers!!_' Where's my
smelling-bottle?"
To the foregoing denunciation of the infant-angels, the following
defence furnishes quite a decided contrast.
"Baby-carts on narrow side-walks are awful bores, especially
to a hurried business man."
"_Are_ they? Suppose you, and a certain pair of blue eyes, that you
would give half your patrimony to win, were _joint proprietors_ of
that baby! _I_ shouldn't dare to stand _very near_ you, and call it 'a
nuisance.' It's all very well for bachelors to turn up their _single
blessed_ noses at these little dimpled Cupids; but just wait till
_their_ time comes. See 'em, the minute their name is written 'Papa,'
pull up their dickies, and strut off down street as if the
Commonwealth owed them a pension! When they enter the office, see
their old married partner (to whom babies have long since ceased to be
a novelty) laugh in his sleeve at the new-fledged dignity with which
_that_ baby's advent is announced! How perfectly astonished they feel
that they should have been so infatuated as not to perceive that a man
is a _perfect cypher_ till he is at the head of a family! How
frequently one may see them now, looking in at the shop windows, with
intense interest, at little hats, coral and bells, and baby-jumpers.
How they love to come home to dinner, and press that little velvet
cheek to their _business faces_! Was there ever music _half_ so sweet
to their ear, as its _first lisped 'Papa'_? Oh, how closely and
imperceptibly, one by one, that little plant winds its tendrils round
the parent stem! How anxiously they hang over its cradle when the
cheek flushes and the lip is fever-parched; and how wide, and deep,
and long a shadow in their happy homes, its _little grave_ would cast!
"My DEAR sir, depend upon it, _one's own baby is never_ '_a
nuisance_.' _Love_ heralds its birth."
It's just possible though, that Fanny may be actuated by a spirit of
sheer contradiction; for, happening in some of her readings, to come
across Tupper's declaration, that
"A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure,"
she takes up the gauntlet, and holds forth in the following vigorous
style:--
"Now, Mr. Tupper, allow me to ask you, did you ever _own_ a baby? I
_meant_ to say, did you ever _have_ one? Because I knew a woman _once_
that _had_; and shall use the privilege of an American '_star and
stripe_' female, to tell you that _that_ English sentiment of yours,
_won't pass this side the water_!
"Ain't we a LITTLE the smartest people on the face of the earth? and
if any country _could_ grow decent babies, wouldn't it be _America_?
Yes, SIR! but I tell you, it's my solemn conviction that they are
nothing more nor less than a '_well-spring_' of _botheration_,
wherever they are raised. Don't _I_ know? Didn't that shapeless,
flimsy, flappy little nuisance I allude to, rule the house from garret
to cellar before it was a month old? Wasn't it entirely at _its_
option, whether the mother dined at 2 o'clock at noon, or 2 at night?
In fact, whether she dined at all? Didn't the little wretch keep its
lack-lustre eyes fixed on her, and the minute she turned her back upon
it and moved towards the door, contrive to poke one eye half out with
its fist, or get its toes twisted into a knot, or some such infantile
stratagem to attract attention? Didn't it know, by _instinct_,
whenever she had an invitation to ride, or walk, or visit? and get up
a fit of sham distress to knock it all in the head? Didn't she throw
away dozens of pairs of good shoes because they creaked? Did she
_ever_ know what she was to be allowed to do the next minute?
"'_Well-spring of pleasure!_' Ha! ha! Ask her husband, Tom! Didn't he
have to emigrate up two flights of stairs because it screeched so
incessantly nights, that it unfitted him for business next day? He's
_very_ fond of babies; HE is!
"Well, Mr. Tupper, we won't mention creeping time--when skeins of
yarn, and pins, and darning needles are swallowed, with a horrifying
ravenousness suggestive of a 'stomach pump;' or its first essays at
walking, when it navigates the carpet like a sailor fresh from 'board
ship;' raising bumps never marked down on any phrenological chart! or
clutching at the corner of the tablecloth, dragging off inkstands,
vases, annuals, and '_Proverbial Philosophys_,' with an edifying
promiscuousness! Then, making for the open door, and taking a 'flying
leap' down two pairs of stairs, to the astonishment of John, Betty and
Sally!
"Now, Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper, 'philosophize' as beautifully as
_only you know how_, but _take an American woman's advice_, and don't
mention babies! unless you'll sketch from _life_ as _I_ do! You
needn't stand up for _English babies_; they're _all alike_, from Queen
Victoria's DOWN to Mike O'Flaherty's, or UP to American babies!
"I'm astonished at you, Mr. Tupper! a _poet_ and a HANDSOME poet,
too!! I'm surprised. _I_ am!"
XV.
PRAISE FROM A WOMAN.
Fanny always _was_ grateful. This well-known fact is humorously
exemplified in the following article, referring to Mrs. H. Marion
Stephens. This lady, in her "Town-Talk," for the Boston Times, made a
few graceful allusions to Fanny's wit and genius, and this friendly
tribute gave birth to
"MISS FANNY FIDDLESTICK'S SOLILOQUY,
"ON READING A COMPLIMENTARY NOTICE OF HERSELF, BY A LADY.
"Praise from a woman! What did I ever do to _injure her_, I'd like to
know? _There's something behind that!_ If she had abused me now, I
should have been as placid as an oyster. Here, pussy, come taste this
cup of tea for me; I'll give you ten minutes to repent of all your
feline flirtations, on that back shed, with _promiskus_ Grimalkins;
for ten to one you'll keel over in a fit as soon as you've swallowed
it. I don't touch it till I know whether it's poisoned or not. There's
more cats than Ferns in the world, and complimentary notices from a
female woman look suspicious. I shall be up and dressed, now I tell
you. There's a bundle just come in. When I open it _alone_, I guess
you'll know it; I've heard of infernal machines before to-day. I don't
touch it off without a minister and Marshal Tukey, I promise you.
Praise from a woman! Oh, this Fanny isn't verdant, if she is a Fern!
There's something behind it! When a woman pats you with one hand you
may be morally certain she's going to scratch you with the other.
Here;--hands off! clear the track of all petticoats! I'm going to the
pistol gallery to take lessons in shooting. That complimentary notice
is the _fore end of a runner_ of something."
XVI.
THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF JEMMY JESSAMY.
"Jemmy Jessamy," writes Fanny Fern, "was a double-distilled old
bachelor. He had occupied the same quarters at ---- Hotel for
five-and-twenty years. The chamber-maid that 'cleared up' No. 25,
dared not, at the price of her scalp, misplace a boot or a
tooth-brush. If his breakfast was brought up five minutes before the
time, it was ordered down again--and woe to the luckless waiter who
brought him hot water when he spoke for cold, or failed to transmit,
with telegraphic speed, any card or parcel left at the bar. The first
thing _he_ knew he didn't know _nothing_. In other words, Jemmy saved
him the trouble of going down stairs, by landing him, 'on his own
hook,' (nolens volens) in the lower entry.
"Jemmy took two or three hours to _make himself up_ in the morning,
emerging from his shell at 10 o'clock in the forenoon, a perfect Beau
Brummell. The most fastidious taste could detect no flaw; the most
critical or censorious eye no foppery. His figure was matchless, or
his tailor, or both together; and his coats always of a shade of color
unattainable by any one but Jemmy. Last, not least, he rejoiced in a
set of dickies that left him at perfect liberty to look east, west,
north or south, without cutting his ears off! He never appeared in
public, 'en dishabille,' either of body or mind. Both were, at such
times, in their holiday suit.
"Now it was very selfish in Jemmy to 'waste his sweetness on the
desert air,' for so many years; but he had two good reasons for it.
The first was that he considered himself too bright a jewel to be in
the possession of any one woman exclusively. The next was, he was
terribly afraid of being taken in. He never made a call on a _single_
woman without taking some male acquaintance (not too attractive) to
neutralize the force of the compliment. A bright eye or a pretty ankle
gave him spasms. He couldn't live away from their owners, and he was
afraid to go too near them.
"He was most at his ease in a large family of sisters, where he could
sprinkle about his attentions and gallantries in homoeopathic
doses; or in the society of married ladies, where a man stands in no
fear of being asked "_his intentions_."
"Susy ---- was the bright, particular star in _this_ firmament. She
was always in choice spirits, sparkling as a bottle of champagne,
well-dressed, good-tempered, always ready for a drive, a walk, a sail
or a pic-nic, and always the belle of the party.
"She was visiting at the house of a friend; and Jemmy felt himself so
_safe_ there. The newest piece of music, the most fragrant of Gibbens'
bouquets, the last of Dickens's perpetrations, found their way to
"Barley Place, No. 5." Susy hemmed three splendid neck-ties, with her
own fair fingers; mended the little rips in his gloves, (that he had
amused himself _making_ for her when he sat alone in his room,) and
told him, confidentially, how to trim his moustache and where to lay
the pruning-knife to his whiskers. Jemmy was a lucky man!
"Jem," said Tom Lane, one night, as they sat smoking their cigars with
their feet ten degrees higher than their heads, "how much longer are
you going to trifle with that little widow? Why don't you ask her and
done with it?"
"Widow! ask her! done with it!" said Jem, with a stupid stare, as his
cigar fell into the ashes. "They said 'her husband was absent.'"
"Absent! Ha! ha! his tombstone will tell you about that!"
"I'm ruined," said Jem, "_ruined_! I have driven her out; walked with
her, sailed with her, praised her eyes and hair, sent her bouquets,
and music, and poetry; I've--I've done everything, Tom. What's to be
done? I won't be married. I'd as lief be hung;" and pronouncing the
latter part of the word _condemnation_, rather audibly, he rushed into
the open air to take breath!
"The next day the following item appeared in the newspapers:
"MYSTERIOUS.--The admirers of James Jessamy, Esq., will be pained to
learn of his sudden and unaccountable disappearance from the ----
Hotel. No clue has as yet been discovered of his whereabouts. His
papers, books and wearing-apparel, are in safe keeping for his
relatives, and may be had on application to Sam Springle, ---- Hotel."
XVII.
JEMMY JESSAMY'S DEFENCE.
To Fanny Fern.--_Miss Fern_: Your wanton and unprovoked attack upon
me, in the last edition of the "True Flag," headed "Look before you
Leap," is a _leetle_ more than I can stand. I should like to know what
on earth has induced you to expend your electricity upon "Jemmy
Jessamy, the double-distilled bachelor?" Calling me by name, and thus
setting me up as a public mark, and proclaiming just the number of
years I have boarded in "---- Hotel, No. 25," and then heralding my
peculiarities in regard to the chamber-maid, has put me in no enviable
predicament. I begin to think it is high time I knew "something."
My hour for rising, I acknowledge, is ten A. M. I am not, then, the
perfect "Beau Brummell" you have described; for I have never obtruded
my calls upon anybody until ten o'clock, by my double repeater. Well,
if I was skittish about approaching women, formerly, what must I be
now, since your virago-tongue has used me up by piecemeal! Talking
about my "dickeys" sitting comfortably! What if I _do_ allow myself a
commendable latitude for turning every way? When _such_ weather-cocks
are in the market, it behooves us to "look before we leap." Besides, I
have never taxed a female eye to stitch a dickey, sew on a button,
make a shirt, or repair an overcoat since I have been in the above
hotel. My tailor has always been my seamstress: and his bills, like
some of the married fraternity, do not remain _unpaid_. But what right
had you to assign my reasons for remaining single, and bestowing my
attentions in "homoeopathic doses upon a whole family of sisters?"
Then I am served up at "No. 5 Barley Place," and a game is made about
myself and the widow "Susy." I am represented as playing the part of a
lover, supposing her a married lady. She never sewed a rip in my
glove, nor cut or curled a single hair of my moustaches in her life.
To be sure, Tom Lane is a joking fellow, and he _did_ talk about her
husband's tombstone; but it was all gas, and, as I thought, ended in
smoke.
But, last of all, I am described as absconding from my hotel.
Heavens! what a tongue you have got. Hadn't I a right to go South to
cure a consumption, without a strange woman's meddling about it? While
I was there, however, Miss Fan, I heard of a place just suited to your
capacities. An editor advertised for a partner "that could write out
thunder and lightning at a stroke." I thought of you, and added, I
knew one that could do that, and throw a powerful deluge along with
it. This is evidently your latitude. People at the South indulge in
personalities, and then challenge each other for a duel. In this way,
you would be spared many of your random shots.
The time was, when I seriously thought of the subject of marriage. I
have bothered over the subject, whether women are really what they
appear, until I am satisfied. If _you_ are an untamed, undisguised,
plain representative of the sex, may heaven protect all future Caudles
from such emblems of affection! If I am an old bachelor, I am
determined to wear the breeches myself. You need not dream about a
codicil being attached to my will,--for your last attack has
completely and forever estranged you from all claims, human or divine
on
JEMMY JESSAMY.
XVIII.
THE GOVERNESS.
The following tale is Fanny Fern's earliest attempt at a long story,
now for the first time given to the world within the covers of a book.
"'If you please, ma'am, a young woman in the hall, dressed in
mourning, wishes to speak with you.' The lady addressed might have
been, (we are aware we are treading on debatable ground,) about
thirty-eight years of age. Time, that had spared her the attraction of
a graceful, pliant form, had robbed her blue eyes of their lustre, and
thinned her flaxen tresses. She still rejoiced, however, in a pair of
diminutive feet and ankles, which she considered it a great sin to
'hide under a bushel,' and had a way of her own of exhibiting on all
occasions, known only to the ingenuity of a practised coquette, or an
ex-belle. She raised her eyes languidly from the last new novel she
was perusing, and with the air of a victim closed the book, as John
ushered in the intruder.
"Slightly raising her eyebrows, she said, 'So you are the young person
who answered my advertisement for a governess?' levelling at the same
time a scrutinizing glance upon her that brought the color into her
fair cheek. 'In mourning, I see; very becoming, but it always gives me
the dismals to see a black dress about; don't cry, child, people will
die when their time comes, it's a thing that can't be helped. I
suppose you understand French, German, Italian, Spanish, and all that
sort of thing, if you are a governess. I desire Meta to be
_fashionably_ educated, and if you stay, I hope you will understand
your business and be thorough, for it is a great bore to me to look
after such things. I shall want you to clear starch my collars and
ruffles, and trim my breakfast caps; I see you look as though you
would object to this, but you won't find such a place as this every
day, and people who are driven to the wall by necessity, and have to
get their own living, can't afford to be fastidious. Pity you are so
pretty, child; never mind, you must keep close; you'll see no company
at my house, and I trust you are no gadder. What is your name? Grace
Clifford? very romantic! Well, if you'd like to stay, John will show
you to your room--but pray put away that mass of curls and wear it
plain, as it looks too childish for a governess. You needn't trouble
yourself to dress for dinner, as you will eat with Meta in the
nursery. John! Show Miss Clifford to her room.'
"And thither, fair reader, we will follow her. Poor Grace! Left to
herself, a sense of her utter loneliness overpowered her, and she wept
like a child. Early left an orphan, dependent through her childhood
and youth, up to the present time, upon relatives who made her feel
each day, each hour, how bitter was that dependence; who grudged the
bread she ate; who, envious of her beauty and superior abilities,
constantly made them the subject of coarse jests and coarser taunts,
Grace gladly answered Mrs. Fay's advertisement, hoping for relief from
the fetters of so galling a chain. Sensitive to a fault, she had
endeavored to nerve herself with strength to endure much that was
annoying and repulsive in the situation she sought; but the total want
of delicacy and courtesy displayed by Mrs. Fay, her coarse allusion to
her late bereavement, (the death of a sister,) her ill-concealed envy
of her personal charms, all combined to depress and dishearten her.
"But Grace Clifford was a Christian. She had been early called to
suffer; she knew _who_ had mixed for her the cup of life, and she
pushed it not away from her lips because the ingredients were bitter.
She knew an ear that was never deaf to the orphan's cry, and that the
promise 'When thy father and mother forsake thee,' was all her own to
claim; and she rose from her knees with a brow calm as an angel's, a
spirit girded for the conflict, and a peace that the world knoweth not
of.
"Grace's patroness, Mrs. Fay, was the only daughter of a petty
shop-keeper in the village of ----. Worshipped by doating parents for
her beauty, of which little now remained, she received from them a
showy, superficial education, which she was taught from childhood to
consider valuable only as a stepping-stone to an establishment in
life. She contemptuously turned the cold shoulder to her rustic
admirers, one after the other. How this human butterfly succeeded in
entrapping a matter-of-fact man, like Mr. Fay, is quite unaccountable.
Be that as it may, the honeymoon saw in its decline the death of his
love, and wearied with her doll face and vacant mind, he sought,
after the birth of his little daughter, his chief pleasure in the
nursery, for which she entertained an unconquerable aversion.
"Reader, have you never in a Summer's day ramble stopped to admire in
some secluded spot a sweet flower that had sprung up as if by
magic--rich in color, beautiful in form, throwing unconsciously its
sweet fragrance to the winds, unappreciated, unnoticed, uncared for,
save by His eye who painted its delicate leaves? Such a flower was
Meta Fay. Delicate, fragile as Spring's first violet, with a brow and
eyes that are seldom seen, save where death's shadow soonest falls;
and with a mind that face belied not, earnest, thoughtful and serious.
"Repulsed by her mother, who saw nothing in that little shrinking form
but a bar to the enjoyment of her empty pleasures, doted on by a
father who was the slave of Mammon, and who, unable to fathom the soul
that looked out from the depths of those clear eyes, lavished as a
recompense for the many unanswered questions prompted by her restless
mind, the costliest toys of childhood. From all these would Meta turn
away dissatisfied, to clasp to her bosom the simplest daisy that
decked the meadow, or to hail with rapture the first sweet star that
came stealing forth at evening.
"Such was Grace Clifford's pupil. All thought of herself was soon lost
in the delight of watching her young mind develop; and if a thought of
her responsibility as its guardian sometimes startled her, yet it also
made her more watchful, more true to her trust. A love almost like
that of parent and child grew up between them. Often, when engaged in
their studies, when Meta's love-speaking eyes were fixed upon her
young teacher, and the flush upon her delicate cheek was coming and
vanishing like the shadows of a Summer cloud, would Grace tremble for
the frail casket that contained so priceless a gem.
"Meantime, Mrs. Fay continued her treadmill round of visiting,
shopping and dressing, occasionally looking into the nursery, quite
satisfied that her child was wonderfully improved in beauty, and
willing to take it for granted everything else was as it should be. On
one of these occasions Meta said,
"'Mamma! Papa and I think Miss Clifford is a beauty.'
"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Fay.
"'Yes, and when I pull out her comb and let all her beautiful hair
down over her shoulders, papa says it looks like waves of gold.'
"Mrs. Fay walked up to her husband and said, in a hissing whisper--
"'So this accounts for the interest you take in the child's studies!
In my opinion that Grace Clifford, with her sly demure face, is a
great flirt--I thought she was too pretty when I engaged her. '_Golden
waves!_' and with a toss of the head, be-tokening a domestic
thunder-storm, her ladyship left the nursery.
"The next day, as Grace sat busy with her work, with Meta beside her,
the child suddenly looked up and said,
"'What is a _flirt_, Miss Clifford?'
"Grace was about to burst into a hearty laugh, but there was a look
almost amounting to distress on Meta's face that checked her.
"'Why do you ask me that question, my pet?'
"'Oh! because mamma told papa yesterday that _you_ was a flirt, and I
thought--and (the child hesitated) it meant something _naughty_,
because mamma was so angry.'
"Poor Grace! The blood rushed in a torrent over cheek, neck and brow.
Meta, frightened at the effect of her question, began to sob as if her
heart would break, when the door opened, and Mr. Fay came in. Grace
rushed precipitately past him, and gaining her own room, burst into a
passionate flood of tears. In vain she taxed her memory to recall an
indiscreet word or action, or anything that a jealous wife could
construe into an invasion of her matrimonial rights. The sin, if there
was any, was not forthcoming. In vain had been all her efforts to
propitiate this weak-minded woman, by pulling away the obnoxious
ringlets, by clear starching her muslins, or trimming with tasteful
fingers her dainty little breakfast caps. The serpent had entered
Eden; and although no 'forbidden fruit' had been tasted, she none the
less clearly saw the flaming sword that was to drive her thence.
Sheltering herself under the plea of a violent headache, she excused
herself from appearing again below, and sat until a late hour at
night, devising the best mode of leaving, as farther stay was
impossible in such a humiliating position. She must go; _that_ was
plain;--but _where_?
"Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of hurrying
feet in the hall. A quick rap at the door, and a summons to Meta's
room followed. She had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Grace
forgot everything in anxiety for her darling, and hastily snatching a
dressing gown, she flew to her room. The poor child was tossing
restlessly from side to side; her little hands were hot and burning,
and her cheeks crimsoned with fever. Mr. Fay hastily resigned her to
Grace's care, while he went for a physician.
"With the tenderness of a mother she changed the heated pillows,
parted the thick curls from her little forehead, bathed the throbbing
temples, and rendered the thousand little nameless services, known
only to the soft step, quick eye, and delicate hand of woman.
"Meanwhile the mother slept quietly in an adjoining room, solacing
herself that the doctor knew better than she what was best for the
child, and fearing the effect of night vigils upon her complexion.
"When Mr. Fay returned with the physician, Meta had sunk into an
uneasy slumber. Resigning her post to him, Grace watched his
countenance with an anxious eye while he felt the pulse and noted the
breathing of her little pupil. Writing his prescriptions, he handed
them to Grace, who had signified her intention of spending the night,
adding as he did so,
"'It is needless to enjoin quiet upon one who seems so well to
understand the duties of a nurse.'
"With a glance at his child, in which all the father was expressed,
and a grateful 'God bless you' to Grace, Mr. Fay left the room.
Shading the small lamp, lest it might waken the child, Grace unhanded
her rich tresses, and loosening the girdle of her dressing gown,
seated herself beside her.
"Silently, slowly, pass the night watches, in the chamber of the sick
and dying! The dull ticking of the clock, falling upon the sensitive
ear of the watcher, strikes to the throbbing heart a nameless terror.
With straining eye, its hours are counted; with nervous hand, at the
appointed time, the healing draught is prepared for the sufferer. The
measured tread of the watchman, as he passes his rounds beneath the
windows, the distant rumble of the stage-coach, perchance the
disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone break the
solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts like unbidden
guests rush in. Life appears like the _dream_ it is; _Eternity_ the
_waking_; and involuntarily the most thoughtless look up for help to
_Him_, by whom 'the hairs of our head are all numbered.'
"The stars, one by one, faded away in the golden light of morning. The
sun rose fair to many an eye that should never see its setting. Meta
was delirious. In fancy she roved with her dear teacher in green
fields, and listened to the sweet song of birds, and was happy.
"'Do not tell me my darling will die,' said the stricken father to the
physician; then turning to Grace, he said, almost in the form of a
command, 'you know how to pray; you taught her the way to heaven, when
I could not; _ask for her life_; God hears the angels.'
"'While there is life there is hope,' said the sympathizing physician,
wiping away a tear; 'all that we can do we will, and leave the event
with a higher power.'
"Day after day, night after night, regardless of food or rest, Grace
kept tireless watch by the little sufferer; the selfish mother
occasionally looking in, declaring her inability to stay in a
sick-room, and expressing her satisfaction that others had more nerve
than herself for such scenes.
"That day a new harp was strung, a white robe was worn, a new song was
heard in heaven. _On earth, 'the child was not!'_
"'Alone _again_ in the world, alone with the _dead_,' faltered Grace,
as she sank insensibly by the little corpse.
"Well was it for the grief-stricken father that a new object of
solicitude was before him; well for the mother that such devotion to
her dead child had at last touched a heart so encrusted with
worldliness. All their united efforts, joined with the skill of the
friend and physician, were needed to rescue Grace from the grave. To
an observing eye, the interest the latter evinced for his fair patient
was not entirely professional. He had been touched by her
self-sacrificing devotion, and her friendlessness, and each day more
and more charmed with her beauty and simplicity.
* * * * *
"Softly fell the moonlight on the countless sleepers in the vast
cemetery of ----. Each tiny flower swaying in the night-breeze was
gemmed with nature's tears. The solemn stillness was unbroken save by
the sweet note of some truant bird returning to his leafy home. How
many hearts so lately throbbing with pain or pleasure lay there
forever stilled! There, in her unappropriated loveliness, slept the
betrothed maiden; there, the bride with her head pillowed on golden
tresses whose sunny beauty e'en the great spoiler seemed loth to
touch; the dimpled babe that yesterday lay warm and rosy in its
mothers breast; the gray-haired sire, weary with life's conflict, the
loving wife and mother in life's sweet prime, deaf to the wail of her
helpless babe and to the agonized cry of its father; the faithful
pastor, gone at last to hear the 'Well done, good and faithful
servant;' the reckless youth, who with brow untouched by care, and
limbs fashioned for strength and beauty, had rushed unbidden into the
presence of his Maker, impatient for the summons of the 'great
Reaper.' On his tombstone, partial friends had written, 'he sleeps in
Jesus,' while underneath, (in 'the handwriting on the wall') methought
I could read, 'no murderer hath eternal life.'
"There lay the miser, who only in death's agony loosened his hold of
his golden god. The widow he has made houseless, and her shivering
orphans, read the mocking falsehood on the splendid marble that covers
him, and murmur in words that are God's own truth, 'It is easier for a
camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter
into the kingdom of God.'
"With a saddened heart I turn to inhale the sweet breath of the
flowers planted by the hand of affection, or strewn in garlands with
falling tears over the loved and lost. Before me, shining in the
moonlight, is a marble tablet; on it I read, '_Our little Meta_.' I
advance toward it; suddenly I see a female figure approaching, looking
so spiritual in the moonlight--with her snowy robe and shining
hair--that I could almost fancy her an angel guarding the child's
grave. She advanced toward it, and kneeling, presses her lips to the
fragrant sod, saying in a voice of anguish,
"'Would to God I had died for thee, my child, my child!'
"A kind friend had followed Grace's footsteps. A rich, manly voice is
borne upon the air. It shall fall like dew upon the stricken flower.
Listen to the chant!
'There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath;
And the flowers that grow between.
'He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He raised their drooping leaves,
It was for the _Lord of Paradise_
He bound them in his sheaves.
'Oh not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth
And took those flowers away.'
"A holy calm has settled upon the face of the mourner. Noiselessly she
retraces her steps, and as she glides away, I hear her murmur, in a
voice of submission:
'Oh! _not_ in cruelty, _not_ in wrath
The Reaper came that day,
'Twas an _angel_ visited the green earth
And took _my flower_ away.'
* * * * *
"The splendid mansion of the physician had for its mistress the orphan
governess. The world, with its sycophantic smile, now flatters, where
it once frowned. Both are alike to Grace, who has given her warm
heart, 'till death do us part,' to one who knows well how to prize the
gift."
XIX.
ALL ABOUT SATAN.
Fanny says herself, she "knows _all_ about him." Now who in the world
so fit to deliver a discourse on the subject, as so intimate an
acquaintance? Beside, we have seen already that Fanny is in the habit
of writing about her friends. Satan _might_ think it a little unjust
to be held responsible for babies and women's rights movements, but
Fanny knows best, so here follows her sermon, text and all:--
"Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do."
"_To be sure he does! I know all about him!_ There's no knowing what
_would_ happen, if the houses now-a-days were not filled up, one half
with babies and the other half with old stockings! Then a man can
tell pretty near, what his wife is about!--sure to find her, year in
and year out, in that old calico wrapper, in that old ricketty
rocking-chair, with the last new twins in her arms, when he wants a
button sewed on his coat to go to the opera. _No other way, you see!_
"Women are getting _altogether_ too smart now-a-days; there _must_ be
a stop put to it! people are beginning to get alarmed! I don't suppose
there has been such a universal crowing since the roosters in Noah's
ark were let out, as there was among the editors when that
'_Swisshelm_' _baby_ was born! It's none of _my_ business, but it
_did_ seem to me _rather_ a _circular singumstance_, that she should
be cut short in her editorial career that way! I suppose, however,
that baby will grow out of her arms one of these days, spite of fate;
and then, if there's no _providential interposition_, she may resume
her pen again. Well, I hope it will be a _warning_! the fact is,
_women_ have no business to be crowding into the editorial chair.
Supposing they _know_ enough to fill it (which I _doubt_! hem!) they
oughter 'hide their light under a b'--aby!
"I tell you, editors _won't stand_ it, to have their masculine toes
trod on that way. They'll have to sign a 'quit claim' to their
'dickeys' by and by! I wonder what the world's coming to! What do you
suppose our fore_fathers_ and _foremothers_ would say, to see a woman
sitting up in the editorial chair, as pert as a piper, with a pen
stuck behind her little ears? phew! I hope _I_ never shall see such a
horrid sight!"
XX.
WELL-KNOWN CHARACTERS.--BY FANNY FERN.
Miss Charity Crackbone was a spinster; not that she ever 'spun street
yarn.' Oh no! but she spun tremendous long 'yarns' with her _tongue_,
and had spun out forty years of her life in single blessedness, in a
shop at the corner of Pin Alley, where you could purchase, for a
consideration, gingerbread and shoe-blacking, hooks-and-eyes and
cholera pills, razors and sugar candy, crackers and castor-oil,
head-brushes and butter, small tooth combs and molasses.
"Not having sufficient employment in superintending her own affairs,
she very philanthropically undertook to manage those of her neighbors;
and, like all persons of weak intellect, had an astonishing memory for
_little_ things; could tell you the very hour, of the very day, of the
very week, and month, and year, you were born; how long you were
employed in cutting your first tooth, what tailoress had the honor of
introducing you into jacket and trowsers, and when you put on your
first long-tail coat.
"Miss Charity's 'outward man' was not remarkably felicitous; her
figure much resembling a barber's pole in its proportions. She
generally preferred dresses of the flabbiest possible material, and a
very tight fit; so that her projecting bones were no mystery, and as
the skirt lacked two or three inches of reaching the ground, it
revealed a pair of feet and ankles evidently intended more for _use_
than _ornament_. Her hair was the color of a dirty blanket, and her
eyes bore a strong resemblance to a drop of indigo in a pan of
buttermilk.
"'Good morning, Charity,' said a fellow gossip; '_such_ a budget of
news!'
"Charity dropped her knitting-work, seized one chair for her visitor,
and placed herself on another in front of her, with both elbows on her
knees, and her face as near Miss Pettingill's as possible, lest she
should lose a word; exclaiming,
"'For the land's sake, make haste and begin. _Who did what?_ The cat's
tail pointed north this morning, and I _knew_ it was the _fore-end of
a runner_ of something.'
"'I declare, I don't know which end _to_ begin,' said Pettingill;
'_such_ a piece of work! This is a wicked, abominable world, Charity.
You know that Mrs. Clark?'
"'Land alive! don't I though? Wasn't I the first one to tell that her
husband ran off and left her; and that she was a flirt and
extravagant? Not that I _knew_ she was, myself, but I heard tell so,
and what you hear said is _most_ always true. Besides, she's pretty,
and that's always against a woman, as you and I know, Pettingill. Who
ever heard any body talk against _us_?' and she set her arms a-kimbo
as if 'pistols for two' would be sent for, if they did! 'Well, what
has the creature done _now_, Pettingill?'
"'Why, you know she boards at Deacon Ephraim Snow's--I wonder at his
having her in his house, and he a _deacon_ too. But you know Mrs.
Clark has 'mazin pretty ways with her, and she's got round him
somehow. Well, you know I do washing for his wife, and speaking of
_that_, she's horrid stingy of her soap. Well, t'other day she sent me
up garret, as it rained, to hang up the clothes, and as I went by Mrs.
Clark's room, it struck me I'd just peep into the key-hole and listen
a bit.' Here Charity drew up her chair so close that the tips of
their noses met; saying, in a hoarse whisper,
"'What _did_ you see?'
"'La! don't frighten me so,' said Pettingill; 'your eyes look like a
cat's in the dark! I saw a very fine-looking gentleman--'
"'_I'll warrant it_,' said Charity, with a triumphant chuckle.
"'And I heard him say, 'Edith, dear--'
"Here Charity pushed back her chair and rolled up the whites of her
eyes like a duck in a thunderstorm.
"'Edith dear,' says he, 'rely upon me; never heed these slanderous
stories; I will be your protector.' There, Charity, what do you think
of that?'
"'She is a church-member,' said Charity, thoughtfully, 'isn't she?
keep quiet, and watch her, the hypocrite! Did you say anything about
it to Mrs. Snow, or the deacon!'
"'Not I,' said Pettingill; 'it would have fetched _me_ out, you know,
for _listening_; but I'm convinced the man has a '_canister_' motive
in going there.'
"'_Sinister_,' said Charity, reprovingly, who considered herself a
scholar.
"'Well, _canister_ or _sinister_, it makes no difference to _me_,'
said Pettingill. 'I know what _I_ think of her. It's no use talking
to the Snow's; _they_ won't believe anything against her.'
"'That's very true,' said Mrs. Snow, who had entered unperceived, and
heard a great part of their conversation. 'Mrs. Clark has been with us
six months, and is blameless and correct in her deportment. She has
been shamefully ill-treated and slandered by her husband, as _I_ know,
and the gentleman about whom you were getting up such a fine story is
her _brother_, who has just returned from Europe. When he said he
'would protect her,' he intended to be as good as his word; and for
your own sakes I would advise you to _bear it in mind_. I have the
pleasure to wish you both good-morning.'
"'There's a tempest in a thimble,' said Charity, as she drew a long
breath.
"'Ain't it, though!' said Pettingill. 'But I'll warrant we shall catch
her tripping yet. These 'grass widows,' you know.'
"'Yes,' said Charity--'and so pretty, too. I never saw a _pretty_
woman that behaved herself."
XXI.
HORACE MANN'S "OPINION."
Horace Mann, in his lecture on "Woman," says: "I see but one reason
why woman should not preach the gospel, and that reason is, that it is
ten thousand times better to go about _practising_ the gospel, than
even to preach it."
"On this hint," Fanny characteristically waxes eloquent.
"I'm perfectly ready to close my female eyes now! Here's justice meted
out to our suffering sex at last, and by a _Man-n_, too! Nobody can
disturb the serenity of my soul to-day. I feel like a crowned martyr;
could shake hands with every enemy I have except ----! Anybody any
'little favors' to ask, now is their time! If my bonnet wasn't bran
new, I'd toss it up till it got hitched on the horn of _some_
celestial dilemma. Wonder if all those democrat cannons are used up?
It's outrageous there's no way provided for a woman to express her
surplus enthusiasm. If I roll up my eyes, it may suggest a pitcher of
water in my face; hysterics would but feebly express my emotions;
(besides, I don't know how they are got up) no use in fainting unless
there's somebody 'worth while' at hand to bring you to. What's to be
done? I'll borrow a 'True Flag,' and hoist it. I'll go into the woods
and shout huzza! Never mind whether he's married or single--he's too
much of a curiosity for a _monopoly_. Barnum must have him; he belongs
to the world in general. He's booked for immortality! Napoleon, and
Hannibal, and Cæsar weren't a circumstance! Just think of Horace
Mann's _moral courage_ in propagating such an unpopular sentiment! I
shall have to get out a Fern dictionary. Can't find words to express
my tumultuous emotions!"
XXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS OF HOT WEATHER.
Shadrach, Meshek, and Molock! how hot it is! I pity omnibus horses and
ministers; I pity the little victims of narrow benches and short
recesses; I pity ignorant young mothers with teething babies; I pity
the Irish who huddle in a cellar and take boarders in each corner; I
pity consumptive semptresses who "sing the song of the shirt" for six
cents per day; I pity dandies with tight boots; I pity cooks and
blacksmiths, and red-haired people; I pity anybody who doesn't live in
a refrigerator, and hasn't a _Fan_ to _temper_ the air.
XXIII.
FAMILY JARS.
This is a subject on which Fanny _ought_ to speak _feelingly_. Her
article thus entitled, is, however, full of funny hits, doubtless much
like the roses which crown the skeleton, or the smiles which hide the
heart-ache. Poor Fanny!
"Domestie peaee can never be _preserved_ in family jars."
Mr. Jeremiah Stubbs was rash enough to remark, one morning, to his
wife Keziah, "that, after all, women had little or nothing to do; that
he only wished she knew the responsibilities of a man of business."
(Jeremiah kept a small shop, well stocked with maple sugar, suspicious
looking doughnuts, ancient pies and decayed lemons.)--"Yes, Keziah, if
you only knew the responsibilities of a _man of business_,' said
Jeremiah, fishing up the corner of his dickey from a questionable
looking red neckerchief that protected his jugular.
"'Well, let me know 'em, then,' said his wife, tying on her bonnet.
'Seeing is believing. We will change works for one day. You get
breakfast, tend the baby, and wash and dress the other three children,
and I'll go down and open shop.'
"Jeremiah didn't exactly look for this termination to the discussion;
but he was a man, and of course never backed out; so he took a survey
of the premises, wondering which end to begin, while Keziah went on
her way rejoicing, took down the shutters like a master-workman,
opened shop, made a fire, arranged the tempting wares above mentioned,
with feminine ingenuity; putting the best side of everything
uppermost, and wishing she had nothing else to do, from day to day,
but stand behind the counter and sell them.
"This accomplished, she went home to breakfast. There sat Jeremiah, in
a chair, in the middle of the room, with one side of his beard shaved
off, and the lather drying on the remainder, trotting a little
blue-looking wretch, in a yellow flannel night-gown, who was rubbing
some soft gingerbread into his bosom with his little fists, by way of
amusement. The coffee had boiled over into the ashes, and Thomas
Jefferson and Napoleon Buonaparte Stubbs were stirring up the
miniature pond with Jeremiah's razor. James Madison was still between
the sheets, vociferating loudly for 'his breakfast.'
"Looking with a curious eye over the pile of scorched toast for a
piece that was eatable, Keziah commenced her breakfast, referring her
interesting young family to their paternal derivative for a supply of
their numerous wants. At last he placed a cup of muddy coffee before
him, congratulating himself that his labors were ended, when the baby,
considering it an invasion of his rights, made a dive at it, and he
sprang from his chair with the scalding contents dripping from his
unwhisperables, and--a word that church-members don't use--hissing
from between his teeth.
"Calm as a summer morning, Keziah replaced her time-worn straw upon
her head, telling Jerry that her children must be prepared for school
at nine o'clock, the room must be swept and righted, the breakfast
things washed, the potatoes boiled, and the mince-meat prepared for
dinner by twelve. Her husband grinned a ghastly smile, and told her
'that was easy done.' No such thing. The comb couldn't be found; he
had to wipe James Madison's presidential phiz-mahogany on the corner
of the table-cloth. Napoleon Buonaparte's pinafore had been used to
wipe the dishes; Thomas Jefferson had rejoiced twice in a pair of
boxed ears, for devouring the contents of the sugar-bowl; and that
little yellow flannel night-gown was clutching at his heels, every
step he took over the floor.
"Miserable Jeremiah! didn't you wish you were a woman? Well, 'time and
tide wait for no man.' Twelve o'clock came, and so did Keziah. Her
husband would rather have seen the ---- hem! The bed was unmade, the
children's hair stood up 'seven ways of a Sunday,' the cat was
devouring the meat, the baby had the chopping-knife, and Napoleon
Buonaparte was playing ball with the potatoes.
"Jeremiah's desire for immediate emancipation overcame his pride, and
passing his arms _half-way_ around Keziah's waist, (it was so large
that he always made a chalk mark where he left off embracing, that he
might know where to begin again,) he told her she was an angel, and he
was a poor miserable wretch, and was ready to acknowledge his mistake.
Keziah very quietly withdrew from his arm, told him the bargain was
made for the day, and she would change works at night; and treating
herself to a piece of bread and butter, she departed. Jerry sat for a
minute looking into the fire, then reaching down a huge parcel of
maple-sugar, he put it on the floor, and seating all the young
hopefuls round it, turned the key on them and the scene of his cares,
mounted his beaver on his aching head, and rushed to ----'s for a
_whiskey punch_! The room was nice and tidy, the fire was comfortable,
the punch was _strong_, and Jeremiah was _weak_. He woke _about dark_,
from troubled dreams of broomsticks and curtain lectures, and not
having sufficient courage to encounter their fulfilment, has left
Keziah to the glorious independence of a '_California widow_.'"
XXIV.
TWO IN HEAVEN.
The following sketch has been pronounced by a talented Boston editor,
to be the finest and sweetest article Fanny Fern ever penned. The very
thought might well have served as inspiration. What roof-tree where
the tears have not fallen? What household that counts not part of its
number by tomb-stones?
"TWO IN HEAVEN.--'You have two children,' said I.
"'I have four,' was the reply; 'two on earth, two in heaven.'
"There spoke the mother! Still hers! only 'gone before!' Still
remembered, loved and cherished, by the hearth and at the board; their
places not yet filled; even though their successors draw life from
the same faithful breast where _their_ dying heads were pillowed.
"'Two in heaven!'
"Safely housed from storm and tempest; no sickness there; nor drooping
head, nor fading eye, nor weary feet. By the green pastures; tended by
the Good Shepherd, linger the little lambs of the heavenly fold.
"'Two in heaven!'
"Earth less attractive! Eternity nearer! Invisible cords, drawing the
maternal soul upwards. 'Still small' voices, ever whispering _come_!
to the world-weary spirit.
"'Two in heaven!'
"Mother of angels! Walk softly! holy eyes watch thy footsteps! cherub
forms bend to listen! Keep thy spirit free from earth-taint; so shalt
thou 'go to them,' though they may not 'return to thee.'"
XXV.
THE PRIVATE HISTORY OF DIDYMUS DAISY, ESQ.--BY FANNY FERN.
Mrs. Daisy styled herself a _pattern wife_; a bright and shining light
in the matrimonial firmament. She had inscribed on her girdle these
words, from John Milton, or Mother Goose, I forget which: '_He_ for
God only, _she_ for God in _him_.'
"She never laced her boots without asking her husband's advice, and
the length of her boddice, or the depth of her flounces, were
dependent upon his final decision. She went into strong convulsions at
sight of a 'Bloomer,' and rolled up the whites of her eyes, like a
duck in a thunderstorm, at the mention of the 'Woman's Rights'
Convention,' and considered any woman who persisted in loving _white_
bread, when her husband ate _brown_, as only fit for the place
where----air-tight stoves and furnaces are unnecessary! Her voice was
soft and oily; she never spoke above her breath, and her motions were
slow, funereal and perpendicular.
"And now I suppose you imagine Didymus was master of his own house!
_Deuce a bit of it!_ There was a look in the corner of his wife's eye
that was as good as a loaded musket, and he fetched and carried
accordingly, like a trained spaniel, tiptoeing through life on a
chalk-mark, and _precious careful_ at _that_; confining his
observation of the world to the latitude and longitude of her
apron-strings. But it was always 'husband,' and 'dear Daisy,' even
when he knew his life wasn't worth two cents if he abated one jot or
tittle of his matrimonial loyalty.
"It was very refreshing to hear her ask him 'his opinion' in company,
and his diplomatic windings and twistings on those occasions were
worthy of the wiliest politician that ever flourished at the 'White
House.' As to speaking to any other female than Mrs. Daisy, he would
as soon have ordered his own coffin; and, truth to tell, this was
where the matrimonial yoke weighed the heaviest, for Didymus (unlucky
wretch) had an eye for a dainty waist or a pair of falling shoulders,
or a light, springing step; but the way he had to '_shoulder!_
_march!_' when they 'hove in sight,' was crucifying to his feelings!
"Mrs. Daisy always went with him, to and from the store, for
'_exercise_.'(?) He was never allowed to go out after dark; his
evenings being mainly occupied in holding skeins of silk, or sorting
knots of 'German Worsted,' to give his wife an opportunity to
immortalize her genius in transforming the same into hump-backed dogs,
deformed lambs and rabbits, with ears twice as long as their bodies.
Under such watchful guardianship he was in a fair way to be able to
omit entirely at his orisons, this petition--'Lead us not into
temptation.'
"This hymeneal strait-jacket was more particularly affecting, inasmuch
as Mrs. Daisy _herself_ was not what her _name_ would seem to suggest,
saving that she was very red. It was the problem of her life to find
dresses and hats that 'agreed with her complexion,' and she might well
have exclaimed 'how _expensive it is to be ugly_.'
"Well, 'it's a long lane that has no turning;' and so Didymus thought,
when he woke up one fine morning and found himself a widower! Did you
ever see a poor robin let loose from a cage? or a mouse released from
the clutches of grimalkin? or a kitten emancipated from an easy-chair,
where she had been mistaken for a cushion by some fat old lady of
about two hundred weight? Well--_I say nothing_! The satisfaction with
which Didymus ordered his 'weeds,' spoke for itself! In HIS mental
rainbow, _black_ was hereafter to be '_couleur de rose_!' He purchased
Mrs. Daisy a _nice_ coffin, and a STRONG one; and his speech to Miss
Maria Fitz Bumble was cut and dried, and ready for delivery as soon as
he had safely planted his _first_ Daisy in the earth!
"Didymus was a _man_ again! He dared to look himself in the face! He
stood up straight, and, clapping his hand on his waistband,
exclaimed--'Daisy, _this_ is living, old boy!' Julius Cæsar! what ails
the man, as he turns his horrified gaze towards the bed!
"'There--there! _that'll do!_' said Mrs. Daisy. 'Don't make a donkey
of yourself, Didymus, because _that_ is unnecessary! I was only in a
_faint_, my dear! A FEINT--ha! ha! I think I understand you _now_,
from Genesis to Revelations. That _black_ coat's a _good fit_;--very
_becoming_, too! _Maria_--_Fitz_--B-U-M-B-L-E-E!! There, that'll DO,
Didymus. _Sorry to disappoint you_, but I'm just as good as _new_!'"
XXVI.
THE WEDDING DRESS.
Under this title appeared in the columns of the True Flag, one of
Fanny's most effective sketches. Thus ran the tale:--
"'Good-bye, dearest mother,' said Emma, as she pressed her lips to her
forehead. 'Let me bring your foot-stool and your spectacles before I
go. We shall have a lovely drive, and I'll not stay after nightfall.'
"As she listened to the sound of the retreating wheels, Mrs. Leland
said to herself, 'I'm selfish to be unwilling to part with Emma, but
she is so good and so beautiful. Her presence is like a ray of
sunshine; my room seems so dark and cheerless when she leaves me; and
yet it will not be long that I can watch over her; and when these dim
eyes are closing, it will be a comfort to know that she has a
protector and a husband.'
"Mrs. Leland was a widow--that name always suggestive of desolation,
want and sorrow. Her husband, however, had left herself and Emma
enough to keep them from suffering, and the latter had made her
musical talents available in driving poverty from the door.
"About a year before the date of my story, Emma had met with Lionel.
Of prepossessing exterior and polished manners, the young merchant had
made himself a welcome guest at the quiet fireside of the widow.
Thoughtful and attentive to Mrs. Leland, he had already yielded her
the devotion of a son. She was alone most of the day, but when Emma
returned to her at night, with her tasks completed, and they were
seated around their little table, and Emma herself prepared the nice
cup of tea that was to refresh her invalid mother, and evening came,
and with it Lionel, with his bright, handsome face, and winning smile
and soft low tones; how quickly the hours fled away! And now she was
soon to be his bride. Their cottage home in the outskirts of the city
was already chosen, and thither they had gone to make arrangements for
their removal. And who so happy as the lovers, that long, bright,
summer afternoon? The little cottage rooms were carefully inspected;
the pretty rosebush was trained anew over the low door-way, and the
gardener had especial orders to take care of the nice flowerbeds and
gravel walks. Amid the last sweet carol of the birds, when the
flowers, heavy with the falling dew, were drowsily nodding their
heads, and the first bright star of evening was timidly stealing
forth; in the dim, fragrant twilight, again and again they exchanged
new vows of love.
"When Emma remembered the dull and cheerless past, life seemed now to
her a fairy dream; she trembled to _be_ so happy. Then a dark shadow
would pass before her eyes, and she would say, shudderingly, '_What if
a change should come!_' but she looked in Lionel's face, and
remembered it no more.
"Home was gained at last, Lionel assisted his fair companion to
alight; she sprang gaily up the steps, and was turning to wave her
hand to him as he left, when she saw a man step up to him, lay his
hand familiarly on his shoulder, and, taking the reins in _his own
hands_, drive off. Supposing him to be some friend, or business
acquaintance, she thought no more of it, and passed into the house.
"'It is needless to ask you if you have enjoyed your ride, my
daughter,' said Mrs. Leland, looking with a mother's admiration at the
bright flush on her cheek, and her sparkling eye.
"'Oh! it was so delightful, mother, at the cottage; and we shall be so
_happy_ there,' said the fair girl, as she laid aside her pretty hat
and shook from their confinement her long, bright tresses. Then,
seating herself at the window, she commenced embroidering a part of
her wedding dress.
"Soon after, a stranger called to see Mrs. Leland on business; and
Emma withdrew to their little bed-room. She was sitting there, busy
with her work; a song, sweet as a bird's carol trembled on her lips,
when Mrs. Leland returned.
"'Emma!'
"She turned her head to see her mother's face overspread with the
pallor of death. Springing to her side, she said, 'Mother! dear
mother! who has dared? what has troubled you? who is this stranger?'
"Her mother pointed to the wedding dress, saying, (as if every word
rent her heart-strings,)
"'Emma, _you'll never need that_! Lionel is arrested for forgery.'
"''Tis false!' Emma would have said, but the words died on her lips,
and she fell heavily to the floor.
"One fainting fit succeeded another through that long, dreary night,
till life seemed almost suspended. Morning came, and woke the sufferer
to consciousness. Passing her hand slowly across her forehead, as if
still bewildered, and unable to realize the dreadful change that had
passed over her, she said,
"'Mother, I must go to Lionel!'
"'No, no,' said Mrs. Leland, ''tis no place for you, Emma.'
"Covering her face, as if to shut out some dreadful vision, she said,
'I care not _where_ I find him, mother! I must go or _die_. Would you
kill your child?'
"The succeeding day found her at the prison door. As the key grated in
the lock for her admittance, she shuddered and hung back; but it was
only for an instant. Nerving herself, as by a strong effort, she
advanced and threw herself, fainting, upon Lionel's breast. As the
jailer came towards her, Lionel started to his feet, and with a fierce
gesture, motioned him off. Pressing his lips to her cold forehead, he
said to himself, 'If she would but pass away thus!' But death comes
not at the bidding of the wretched, and there she lay, that young,
fair thing, with her beautiful head bowed with grief and shame; still
loving, still trusting, through dishonor and pain, with the strong,
deep love of _a woman's heart_. Even the stern jailer, though inured
to scenes of human suffering, brushed away the tears with his rough
hand from his furrowed cheeks, and said, 'God be merciful.'
"Few words were spoken by either, and the allotted hour passed by. One
long embrace--and the wretched man was again _alone_ in his cell, with
an accusing conscience; the darker, the gloomier for the angel-light
that was withdrawn.
"And Emma! She was borne back again to the arms that had pillowed her
infancy, and laid her head upon her mother's breast like a tired
child. The agony of that hour had done the work of years. The rose had
faded from the cheek, the eyes were dim and lustreless. She only said,
'_I'm weary_.'
"And so weeks passed by. Nothing interested her, nothing seemed to
rouse her from her apathy. At length news reached them of Lionel's
escape! The change in Emma was instantaneous. Her manner became
excited, nervous and hurried; she passed about the house arranging
everything to the best advantage, as if expecting some friend or
guest.
"One stormy night they sat at their little table, each busy with
their own sad memories. The wind wailed dismally, and the beating rain
had driven every living thing to seek a shelter. Mrs. Leland spoke of
the fury of the storm, and Emma glanced toward the window. A dark face
was prest close against it! Those eyes! (she passed her hand across
her own, as if to clear her vision,) those eyes were Lionel's!
Tottering as if bent by age, she staggered towards the door, and in a
moment they were in each other's arms. What a night of fear, and
horror, and joy was that! for he must away before the day should dawn.
"'Then you go not _alone_,' said Emma; 'if you have sinned you have
also _suffered_.'
"'Yes, and it's but right he should,' said a rough voice, as the door
was rudely burst, and a stout man advanced to make him prisoner.
"Lionel had prepared himself for _this_. A flash! a report! the lovers
lay side by side. They were _both prisoners_, but _Death_ was the
_jailer_!"
XXVII.
IS IT BEST TO USE ENVELOPES?
On this question hear Fanny!
"Mrs. Joseph Smith was the envy of all the wives in the neighborhood.
Such a _pattern_ husband as Smith was, to be sure! He never went
across the room without hugging his wife first, and language would
fail to describe their melancholy partings when he 'tore himself
away,' to go down to the store. If the wind got round east after he
had left, he always ran back to tell her to put on an extra petticoat;
he cut up her food in homoeopathic infinitessimal bits, to assist
her digestion, and if she wanted an ice-cream or a lobster-salad in
the middle of the night, it was forthcoming. Did she have the
headache, the blinds were closed, the bell was muffled, and he was the
most wretched of Smiths till she was convalescent. He selected her
shoe-strings and corset-lacings himself, and when her health was too
delicate to admit of her accompanying him to church, he always
promised to sit in the middle of the house, so that in case the
galleries should fall he needn't be made any _flatter_ than he was by
nature.
"The present Mrs. Smith was his _fourth_ wife, and as Joseph had been
heard to say, that 'the more he loved his Elenore, the more he loved
his Nancy, and the more he loved his Nancy, the more he loved his
Julia and Mary,' any one with half an eye, could see how peculiarly
felicitious _Mrs. Mary Smith's_ position must be!
"There never was a sweet without a bitter; and so she found out, when
Joseph announced to her that he 'must leave the little heaven of her
smiles, to go on a short 'business trip.' Mary went into the strongest
kind of hysterics, and burnt feathers and sal-volatile couldn't bring
her out of them, till he swore on the dictionary to telegraph to her
every hour, and carry his life preserver and a box of Russia salve.
"On arriving at the depot, a gentleman requested leave 'to place a
lady under his protection,' who was travelling in the same direction.
Smith looked at her; she was young and pretty, and dressed in deep
mourning. 'A widow!' said Smith to himself. 'Certainly, sir, with
pleasure.'
"How they _did_ get on! With opening and shutting the windows in the
cars, pulling that travelling shawl round the pretty shoulders that
_wouldn't_ keep it up, and trying to quiet her nerves when the cars
went through 'the dark places,' Smith didn't know any more than _you_
whether they were travelling through France or Spain, and what's more,
he _didn't care_!
"Arriving at their place of destination much sooner than was
necessary, (conductors and engineers have no bowels of mercy,) he
escorted the widow to the house of her friend, taking the most
disinterested care of the big and little bandboxes, and was strongly
tempted to put an end to the life of the little poodle-dog she carried
in her arms.
"An hour after, he sat down in his lonely quarters at the hotel, and
dutifully drew towards him a sheet of paper to write to his wife. It
ran as follows:--
"'MY DEAREST WIFE: If you knew how utterly desolate I am without you.
I can think of nothing else, and feel entirely unfitted for business.
As for _pleasure_, that is out of the question, without you. I've
been bored to death with the care of an empty-headed woman--(you know
I couldn't _refuse_, my angel); but I never will be hampered so again.
I long for the day that will return me to your arms. Your loving
husband,
"'J. S----.'
"Then drawing towards him a nice sheet of embossed note-paper, he
penned the following:--
"'MY DEAR MADAM: Those blue eyes have never ceased to haunt me since
we parted. Thank you for your flattering acceptance of my invitation
to ride. I will call for you at four this afternoon. Till then, my
heart is with you.
"'Yours, ever,
"'JOSEPH SMITH.'
"Full two mortal hours Joseph spent at his 'twilight,' adorning his
outer man. How those whiskers were curled and perfumed! What a fit
were those primrose kid gloves! How immaculate was that shirt bosom!
How _excruciatingly_ those boots pinched! The very horses pricked up
their ears and arched their necks proudly, as if they knew what a
freight of loveliness they were to carry.
"Arrived at the widow's Joseph handed the reins to a servant and was
settling his pet curl, preparatory to mounting the stairs, when a
letter was rudely thrust into his hand, and he was unceremoniously
seized by _that_ dickey and sent spinning out upon the side-walk. As
soon as he recovered breath, he picked himself up, and looked at the
letter. Horror of horrors! He had placed the letters in the wrong
envelopes! The widow had his wife's, and what was worse, his wife the
widow's! Oh, Smith! Oh, JOSEPH Smith!
"MORAL.--Some think it wise to use envelopes, 'some _othewise_.'
_Joseph_ inclines to the _latter_ opinion, and advises all 'pattern
husbands' to be of the same mind. His message hails from California!"
XXVIII.
FEMININE WISDOM.
We insert the following for the special benefit of the ladies. It is
true, Fanny very characteristically informs us, that they 'don't all
know as much as _she_ does,' but then that is hardly to be expected.
"Tupper, speaking of the choice of a wife, says, 'Hath she wisdom? it
is precious, but _beware that thou exceed_!'
"My dear sir, wasn't you caught napping that time? Didn't you speak in
meeting? Didn't cloven feet peep out of your literary shoes? Don't it
take an American woman to see through you! Isn't that a tacit
acknowledgment that there _are_ women who do 'exceed?' Wouldn't you
think so if you lived _this_ side the pond? Hope you don't judge _us_
by John Bull's daughters, who stupefy themselves on roast-beef and
porter. I tell you Yankee women are on the squirrel order. You'd lose
your English breath trying to follow them. There isn't a man here in
America that knows as much as his wife. Some of them _own_ it, and
some don't, but they all believe it, like gospel. They ask our opinion
about everything. Sometimes straightforward, and sometimes in a
circle--but they _ask it_! There are petticoats in the pulpit,
petticoats in the editorial chair, petticoats in the lecturer's desk,
petticoats behind the counter, petticoats labelled 'M. D.' Oh, _they
'exceed_!' no mistake about that. All femality is wide awake over
here, Mr. Tupper. They crowd, and jostle, and push, just as if they
wore hats. I don't uphold them in _that_, because, as I tell them,
'tis better policy to play possum, and wear the mask of submission. No
use in rousing any _unnecessary_ antagonism. _But they don't all know
as much as I do._ I shall reach the goal just as quick in my velvet
shoes, as if I tramped on rough-shod as they do, with their _Woman's
Rights Convention brogans_!"
XXIX.
ALWAYS SPEAK THE TRUTH.
Why, Fanny Fern! Did you ever hear any old saying about practising and
preaching? How came you ever to think of this sentiment? Oh, Fanny!
you are a born _writer of fiction_. Didn't you prove your genius for
that sort of thing when you wrote the following 'Fern.'
"Well, now, do you know I did that, till I came very near being mobbed
in the street for a curiosity? I was verdant enough to believe that
'honesty was the best policy.' The first astonisher that I had, was on
the occasion of the visit of a vain old lady to our house, before I
was out of pantalettes. Her bonnet was stuck full of artificial
flowers, looking as much out of place as a wreath of rosebuds on a
mummy! Some such thought was passing through my mind, as I stood
looking at her--when, mistaking my protracted gaze for one of
_admiration_, she faced square about, and asked me if I didn't think
they were _becoming_? '_No ma'am_,' said I, never flinching a hair.
_Didn't_ I get a boxed ear for that?
"Well, I didn't make out much better in my subsequent attempts to
'speak the truth;' and what visionary ever concocted such nonsense,
_I'm_ at a loss to know.
"I'd like to put the question to you, and _you_, and YOU, and
YOU!--Would the wheels of creation ever 'go ahead' without one
everlasting intolerable squeak, if they were not 'oiled up' constantly
with flattery? No shirking, now! no dodging the question! OF COURSE
they wouldn't! I humbly confess I ain't broke in myself, as much as I
ought to be, but I'm learning by degrees! I can't help looking over my
shoulder occasionally when anybody says a pretty thing to me to see if
'cloven foot' is anywhere round! but that will wear off in time. It
almost killed me the first time I did the agreeable to a person I had
no more respect for than Judas Iscariot, but I lived through it,
though I don't take to it naturally!
"I've a tell-tale trick of blushing, too, when I'm being delivered of
a lie, that stands very much in my light. I'm afraid there's some
defect in my organization. I've applied to two or three young
physicians, but they only aggravate my complaint. I'm thinking of
putting myself under the tuition of ----; if I don't 'take my degree'
THEN, I'll _give up_ and done with it!
"Oh dear! it's an awful thing to grow up! to find your catechise, and
Jack the Giant-Killer, and your Primer, and Mother Goose, all a
humbug! To come across a wolf making 'sheep's eyes' at a lamb; to be
obliged to make a chalk-mark on the saints to know them from the
sinners; to see husbands, well--THERE! when I think of THEM, I must
wait till a new dictionary is made before I can express my
indignation! Wish I'd been introduced to Adam before he found out it
was beyond him to keep the commandments. If there's anything I hate,
_'tis an apple_!"
XXX.
MOSES MILTIADES MADISON.
Everybody knows Moses. He and others like him, "carry the bag" in too
many of our churches. But nobody seems to know him so well as Fanny;
so we will let her relate his "experience," in her own words:
"Moses Miltiades Madison would fain have the world believe that the
stumbling-block the fallen angels tripped over was no besetting sin of
_his_.
"The very tails of his coat hung around him in a helpless kind of a
way, as if they knew they _ought_ to be suggestive of their owner's
_humility_. No sinful zephyrs presumed to dally with the straight
locks, plastered with such puritanical precision over his diminutive
head; his mouth had a sanctimonious drawing down at the corners, and
his voice was a cross between a groan and a wail. At every
prayer-meeting and conventicle, Moses was on the ground,
(simultaneously with the sexton,) made the most long-winded prayer;
elaborated to _seventh_-LIE, the verse he was expounding, and kept one
note ahead of the singing-choir in the 'doxology;' knew exactly how
long it would be before the natives of the Palm Tree Islands would
dress more fashionably than the wild beasts around them, and was
entirely posted up about the last speech and confession of the very
latest missionary whom the savages had made mince-meat of.
"Now Moses had an invalid wife; and his 'path of duty,' after evening
meeting, generally laid in the direction of Widow Gray's house. _She_
was '_afraid_' and _he--wasn't_! So he took the prayer-book, the
Bible, and the widow, under his protection, and went the longest way
round. His wife, to be sure, before his return, came to the conclusion
that it was a '_protracted_ meeting,' but then _Moses_ was 'a burning
and a shining light,' (at least so the 'church' said,) and if _Mrs._
Moses was of a different opinion, she kept it to herself. That he did
occasionally pervert Scripture words and phrases, and make a very
'carnal' use of the same, when none of the congregation were present,
was an indisputable fact; that the crickets, and chairs and tables,
sometimes changed places in a hurry, was another; but the last was
probably owing to his being a 'medium' for some '_spiritual_
rappings.'
"But if Mrs. Moses 'kept dark,' Jeremiah Jones wouldn't! He was as
thorough and straight-forward in his religion as he was in building
houses; he detested 'sham foundations,' as he professionally expressed
it!
"One night, in an evil hour, Moses popped up, as usual, from his seat
in meeting, intending to give an extra touch to his devotional
exercises, as he contemplated taking a longer walk than usual with
little Widow Gray. So he told 'the brethren,' (through his nose,) that
'if ever there _was_ a sinner that deserved a _very_ uncomfortable
place hereafter, it was _him_--(_Moses!_)--that it was a marvel to him
that he was permitted to cumber the earth, that his sins were more
than the hairs on his head,' (and, by the way, that was a very
moderate computation!)
"So Jeremiah Jones seemed to think; for he 'riz' very demurely, and
remarked that 'he had been brother Moses Madison's neighbor for many
years, and was qualified to endorse that little statement of his, with
regard to himself, as _substantially correct in every particular_!'
Moses fainted!"
XXXI.
TOM VERSUS FAN; OR, A LITTLE TALK ABOUT LITTLE THINGS.
In the sketch thus entitled, we are once more presented with a life
picture, a veritable transcript of the writer's own mind. It will be
seen that Fanny is _au fait_ in the mysteries of coquetry; understands
the use of long dresses, and "gaiter-boots" to perfection. Just
listen:--
"'Well, Fan; any room for _me_ here?' said Tom Grey, as he seated
himself in a large arm-chair in his sister's boudoir.
"'Possession is nine points of the law, Tom; it's no use answering in
the negative _now_.'
"'I'm in a very distracted state of mind, sis, and I've come to make a
clean breast of it to you.'
"'Mercy on us! if you are going to confess your sins, I shall beat a
retreat; the catalogue is longer than my patience.'
"'Listen; you know yesterday was one of my days for walking?'
"'Boisterous wind, hey?'
"'Yes; and a man _must_ use his eyes when the gods favor him. Just
before me, in Washington-street, I saw _such_ a pair of feet! Now you
know pretty feet are my passion, and 'Cinderella's' were not a
circumstance to these. So I travelled on behind them, in a state of
mute ecstacy, and they might have led me to the Dead Sea, and I
shouldn't have stopped to ask any questions!'
"'Did you see her face?'
"'_Face?_--I didn't think of such a thing. _I_ shouldn't have cared if
she hadn't any face. Of course it was pretty; nature wouldn't have
perfected those continuations to that degree and left--but no matter,
they were 'the _greatest_' feet for _little feet_, I ever saw. All of
a sudden my goddess vanished into a shoe-store, and I stood gaping in
at the window and wishing I was the clerk. Presently, the young man
handed her a pair of boots, and going round the counter, down he goes
on one knee, and, by the blessed saints! if _he didn't take that dear
little foot in his lap and try on those boots_! The rascal was twice
as long about it as he need be, too, for after it was all laced on,
he kept 'smoothing out the wrinkles,' as _he_ said, 'on the instep.'
St. Crispin! _wasn't_ I furious!'
"'Well--didn't you see her face, all this time?'
"'No, I tell you; she had one of those curs--I beg pardon--_curious_
veils that you women are so fond of playing _beau peep_ with! But her
shawl fell off, and you'd better believe there was a figure under it
even _those feet_ might be proud to carry.'
"'Well--let's have the denouement.'
"'She got into an omnibus--didn't I wish I was the mat in the bottom
of it? No room for another soul, outside or in, or I should have
followed her. Wish I might wake up and find myself _married to those
feet_, some morning!'
"'Fan--these long skirts are very effective weapons in the hands of a
pretty woman. They are provocative of curiosity. Now Bloomers--ugh! (a
man is disenchanted at once;) but a nice, plump, little, cunning foot,
creeping in and out, _mice-like_, from under those graceful
folds--depend upon it, no woman who knows anything, will ever shorten
her skirts. A coquette does as much execution with them as a Spanish
dame with her fan and mantilla.'
"'Many a woman, when she thinks it worth her while, 'gets up' an
imaginary quagmire, and, presto! _there's_ a pair of feet for you!
and then down goes the long skirt again, and a man's senses with it.
Jupiter! _don't_ they understand it?'
"'Tom, if you was worth the trouble, I'd box your ears! Look out the
window there, I _suppose_ that's a man; a _cane and a coat-tail
walking behind a moustache_! Well, here's the thermometer up to
boiling point, and his coat is buttoned up tight to his jugular, _to
show his chest_ to the best possible advantage. I don't believe if he
was stifling, he'd let his throat out of prison. Oh, _vanity!_ thy
name is _man_! I sat here at the window, laughing till I had fits, to
see that fellow _prink_, the other morning, and make himself
beautiful. The _attitudes_, he practised! the different styles of
_hair_ he 'got _up_,' and brushed _down!_ the neck-ties he tried on!
the way his _bosom-pin_ wouldn't _locate_ to his satisfaction! were
all excruciating to my risibles.'
"'Well, Fan, you've no mercy, so I might as well say--I suppose, as to
the comparative vanity of men and women,--it's six of one and
half-a-dozen of the other; but to change the subject. Do you know I
was thinking, to-day, that _dentistry_ might be made a very
fascinating occupation if one could but choose one's customers?'
"'As how?' said Fan.
"'Why _I_ should proceed after _this_ fashion. When a pretty woman
came to me, I should plant her down in the crucifying chair; open
sundry mysterious-looking drawers, spread out a formidable array of
instruments under her little nose, take up all the files, and saws,
and scrapers, one by one, and hold them up to the light to see if they
were ready primed. Then I'd step round behind her chair (getting
napkin, basin, and footstool fixed to my satisfaction.) The effect I
calculated on being produced, the little blue-eyed victim would turn
pale and look deliciously imploring into my face--then I'd use a
little 'moral suasion,' as the ministers say--and quiet her nerves.
Then follows an examination of her mouth, (I should make a long job of
that!) Very likely the light would not be right, and I should have to
move her head a little nearer to my shoulder, then it is more than
probable her long curls would get twisted round the buttons of my
coat; _there'd_ be a web for two to unweave! Then we'd commence
_again_; the file in my hand makes an unlucky move against some
sensitive tooth,--by that time it is to be hoped she'd be ready to
faint, and need something held to her lips! Oh, Fan, my mind is in a
state of vibration between _dentistry_ and the _shoe business_!'
"'What do you think of the _clerical_ profession?' said Fan,
laughing. '_That_ would give you an opportunity to ask them plump,
without any circumlocution or _circumbendibus_, the state of their
hearts? You'd be of the Methodist persuasion, of course, and patronize
'Love Feasts.'
"'Not a bit of it. If I went into _that_ line of business, I'd be a
Roman Catholic priest, and get up a confession box, and the first
exercise of my authority after that would be to get _you_ into a
nunnery _somewhere_. I never saw a 'Fanny' yet that wasn't as
mischievous as Satan.'
"'The _name_ is infectious, my dear; can't you get it _changed_ for
me? Speaking of that, Tom, you know that 'miserable young man' that
talked so freely of 'prussic acid and daggers' once on a time? May I
die an old maid if he isn't the owner of a pretty little wife and two
or three children--he is as fat as a porpoise, merry as a cricket, gay
as a lark--don't he sing out to me 'how d'ye do Fan?' in the most
_heart-whole_ fashion, as if he never said anything _more_ than that
to me all the days of his life! Oh, Tom! _men have died_--and _worms
have eaten 'em_--but--_not for love_!'
"'Do _women_ ever die for love?'
"'Heaven forbid! I _did_ see a man the other day, though, oh
Tom!!--never mind; he's gone--with your '_little feet_;' vanished into
that grave of our mutual hopes--an omnibus! my heart went with
him--_such_ a figure as he had! Saints and angels! wouldn't I like to
see him again? I've had an overpowering sensation of _goneness_ ever
since! and speaking of _goneness_, won't you _walk out_, before you
light that horrid cigar.'"
XXXII.
A LETTER TO THE TRUE FLAG.
Next get into the habit of writing letters to your female
acquaintances, which will draw from them replies; from both
of which sources you will in time learn enough of female
vanity and sentimentality to form the ground-work of a
love-story.--_True Flag_, No. 39.
Dear Mr. True Flag:--I'm appointed 'a committee of one,' to inquire
_who_ perpetrated that sentiment in your last week's paper? _Trot him
out!_ please, and let me put my two eyes on him; and if _looking_ will
annihilate him, there shan't be anything left for the undertaker to
shovel up. I'm _indignant, very_! and what's more; _I don't like it_!
"'_Female vanity and sentimentality!_' Oh, Delilah, Dolly, Julia,
Jane, Agnes, Amelia, Kathleen, Kitty, your letters fell into the hands
of the Philistines, and _that's_ their epitaph!
"'_Female vanity and sentimentality!_' _O-o-h!_ May you never have a
string to your dickey, or a dickey to your string! button to your
coat, or a pair of _whole_ gloves or stockings. May you sit in a state
of utter inconsolability over your unswept, untidy hearth, and
bachelor fire. May you never have a soft place to lay your head when
it aches; no nice little hand to magnetize away the blue devils;
nobody to jump up on a cricket and tie your neck-cloth in a pretty
little bow! No bright eyes to look proudly out the window after you
when you go down to the store! no pretty little feet to trip to the
door to meet you when you come back! May your coffee be smoky, your
toast burnt, your tea be _water-bewitched_; your razor grow dull, your
moustache _turn the wrong way!_ your boots be '_corned!_' your lips be
innocent of a kiss from this day, henceforward and forever; and may
you die a cantankerous, crusty, captious, companionless, musty, fusty
_old Benedict_! Amen!
"FANNY FERN.
"P. S.--If he's _handsome_, dear Mr. Flag, we'll remove the anathema,
and let him off with a slight reprimand, under promise of better
behavior.
"F. F."
XXXIII.
THE ORPHAN.--BY FANNY FERN.
It was a rough, dark, unsightly-looking, old farm-house. The doors
were off the hinges, panes of glass were broken in the windows, the
grass had overgrown the little gravel-path, and the pigs and poultry
went in and out the door as if they were human. Farmer Brady sat
sunning his bloated face on the door-step, stupid from the effects of
the last debauch; his ungainly, idle boys were quarrelling which
should smoke his pipe, and two great romps of girls, with uncombed
locks and tattered clothes, were swinging on the gate in front of the
house.
"Everything _within_ doors was in keeping with the disorder that
reigned without, save a young, fair girl, who sat at the low window,
busily sewing on a coarse garment. Her features were regular and
delicate, her hands and feet small and beautifully formed, and
despite her rustic attire, one could see with a glance that she was a
star that had wandered from its sphere.
"'I say, Lilla,' said one of the hoydens, bounding into the kitchen
and pulling the comb out of Lilla's head, as she bent over her work,
shedding the long, brown hair around her slight figure till her white
shoulders and arms were completely veiled; 'I say, make haste about
that gown. Ma said you should finish it by noon, and you don't sew
half fast enough.'
"Lilla's cheeks flushed, and the small hands wandered through the mass
of hair in the vain attempt to confine it again, as she said, meekly,
'Won't you come help me, Betsey? my head aches sadly, to-day.'
"'No, I won't. You think because you are a lady, that you can live
here on us and do nothing for a living; but you _won't_, and you are
no better than Peggy and I, with your soft voice, and long hair and
doll face.' So saying, the romp went back again to her primitive
gymnasium, _the gate_.
"Lilla's tears flowed fast, as her little fingers flew more nimbly,
and by afternoon her task was completed, and she obtained permission
from her jailers to take a walk. It was a joy to Lilla to be alone
with nature. It was a relief to free herself from vulgar sights and
sounds, to exchange coarse taunts, and rude jests, and harsh words,
for the song of birds, the ripple of the brook, and the soft murmur of
the wind as it sighed through the tall tree-tops.
"Poor Lilla! with a soul so tuned to harmony, to be condemned to
perpetual discord! Through the long, bright, summer days, to drudge at
her ceaseless toil, at the bidding of those harsh voices; at night, to
creep into her little bed, but to recall tearfully a dim vision of
childhood. A gentle, wasted form; a fair, sweet face, growing paler,
day by day; large, lustrous, loving eyes, that still followed her by
day and night; then, a confused recollection of a burial--afterwards a
dispute as to her future home, ending in a long, dismal journey. Since
then, scanty meals, the harsh blow, coarse clothing, taunting words
and bitter servitude; and then she would sob herself to sleep as she
asked, 'Must it _always_ be thus? is there none to care for me?'
"The golden days of summer faded away; the leaves put on their dying
glory, the soft wind of the Indian summer lifted gently the brown
tresses from Lilla's sweet face. She still took her accustomed walks,
but it was _not alone_. A stranger had taken up his residence at the
village inn. He had met Lilla in her rambles, and his ready ingenuity
soon devised a self-introduction. He satisfied himself that she
claimed no affinity to the disorderly inmates of the farm-house; he
drew from her her little history, and knew that she was an orphan,
unprotected in her own sweet innocence, save by Him who guards us all.
"And so--the dewy, dim twilight witnessed their meetings, and the
color came to the pale cheek of Lilla, and her eyes grew wondrously
beautiful, and her step was as light as her heart, and harsh household
words fell to the ground like arrows short of the mark--for _Lilla was
happy_. In the simplicity of her guileless heart, how should _she_
know that Vincent lived only for the present? that she was to him but
_one_ of _many_ beautiful visions, admired _to-day_--forgotten
_to-morrow_! It was such a joy to be near him to feel herself
appreciated, to know that she was beloved!
"And so time passed on; but their meetings had not been unnoticed;
rough threats were uttered to Lilla if they were continued, for she
had made herself too useful to be spared. All this was communicated to
her lover, as they met again at the old trysting-place, and _then_, as
she leaned trustingly on his arm, Vincent whispered in her ear words
whose full import she understood not. Slowly the truth revealed
itself! Her slight figure grew erect, as she withdrew from his
supporting arm--her soft eye flashed with indignation, and the man of
the world stood abashed in the presence of innocence. A moment--and
_he was alone_, beneath the holy stars!
"That night, Lilla fled her home; she could scarce be more desolate or
unprotected. The next day found her, foot-sore and weary, in the heart
of the great city, startled and trembling like the timid deer fleeing
from its pursuers.
"Lilla knew that she was beautiful. She read it in the lengthened gaze
of the passers-by. Friendless, houseless and beautiful! God help thee,
Lilla!
* * * * *
"In a dark, unhealthy garret sat Lilla! Her face, still lovely, was
pale as marble; her fingers flew with lightning rapidity over the
coarse work that yielded her only a _shelter_; but there were angel
faces, (unseen by her,) smiling approval, and she could clasp those
small hands when the day's toil was over, and say '_Our Father_,' with
the innocent heart of childhood, and invisible ones had charge to
guard her footsteps, and 'He who feedeth the ravens,' gave her 'daily
bread.'
"One day she took her little bundle, as usual, to the shop of her
employers, and, while waiting for the small pittance due, her eye
fell upon an advertisement 'for a housekeeper,' in a newspaper before
her. But how could _she_ obtain it? without recommendation, without
friends. She resolved to try. Her little hand trembled nervously as
she pulled the bell of the large, handsome house. She was preceded by
the servant into the library, where sat a fine-looking man in the
prime of life. He looked admiringly upon the shrinking, modest face
and form before him. She told him, in a few simple words, her history.
"The eccentric old bachelor paused for a moment, then taking her hand,
he said, 'I advertised for a _housekeeper_--but I'm more in need of a
_wife_. _Will you marry me?_'
"And so Lilla became a happy, honored wife; and if a flush passes over
her sweet face when she meets Vincent in the circle of her husband's
acquaintances, it is from no lingering feeling of affection for the
treacherous heart that held in such, light estimation the sacred name
of _orphan_."
XXXIV.
AN ANSWER TO MRS. CROWE.--BY FANNY FERN.
"'I incline to think that a girl really in love--one who
bore the evident symptoms of the malady--would be thought
very improper; yet I have often fancied that there must be a
man born in the world for every woman; one whom to see would
be to love, to reverence, to adore; one with whom her
sympathies would so entirely blend, that she would recognize
him at once her true lord. Now and then these pairs come
together; and woe to her who meets this other self too
late.'"
--_Mrs. Crowe._
Oh, my dear Mrs. Crowe, don't speak of it! Isn't it _dreadful_ to
think of? It is not only _woe_, but WHOA!! You mustn't _look_ at him,
woman alive; nor _think_ of him. Just number over all _Mr._ Crowe's
excellencies on your ten fingers; get married over again, (if it will
help you any); do anything but think of that '_other self_.' I've no
manner of doubt but Satan will send him across your path at every turn
and corner. Turn your _head_ away, if you can't your _heart_. The more
you like him, the more you mustn't let him see it; but, my gracious!
you MUSTN'T like him! of course you understand THAT! Shut your eyes to
moonlight and starlight; peruse Euclid and _Walker's Dictionary_, (NOT
WEBSTER'S!) and _Lives of the Martyrs_, and the Almanac. Don't make
your heart soft, reading poetry, or hearing music. _Live low_ and
_look high_; redouble your attention to _Mr. Crowe_; drive round as if
you hadn't a minute to live; where you used to put _one_ stitch in
your husband's coat, put a _dozen_ now! Take good care of the _little
'Crowes_!' and NEVER let Mr. Crowe go on a journey, in these days of
steamboat accidents and railroad collisions! He might _get hurt_, you
know! How can you tell? 'TISN'T SAFE!'"
XXXV.
MRS. FARRINGTON ON MATRIMONY.
Fanny _has_ "tried it," and she knows.
"Sambo, what am your 'pinion 'bout de married life? Don't
you tink it de most happiest?"
"Well, I'll tell you 'bout dat ere--'pends altogether how
dey enjoy themselves."
"Sambo! Sambo! be quiet! You needn't _always_ tell the truth. White
folks don't. Just as sure as you do it, you'll lose every friend you
have.
"Don't roll up the whites of your eyes at me that way. It's gospel I'm
telling you. I promise you I don't go through creation with my eyes
shut; and I've found out that good people always tell the truth _when
it don't conflict with their interests_; and they like to hear it from
you when it hits none of their peculiaristicks! There's your chart and
compass, so shape your course accordingly.
"I hope you don't intend to insinuate that matrimony isn't paradise!
Guess you forget how bewitching they look when they stand up before
the minister, promising all sorts of pretty things and afraid to look
each other in the eye! Orange wreaths and bouquet de humbug--alabaster
kid gloves--hair curled within an inch of their lives--Brummel
neck-tie, patent boots, satin slippers and palpitating hearts! Oh,
Sambo! can't make _me_ believe a cloud ever comes over such a blue
sky--no indeed! They're just as contented a twelve month after, as a
fly in a spider's web.
"You never saw a husband yet, that wasn't as docile as a lamb _when
everything went to his mind_. Don't they always love and cherish their
wives as long as there is a timber left of them? Wouldn't they
extinguish the lamp of life for any man, or woman, who dare say a word
to their dispraise? Would they ever do that same _themselves_? Answer
me that?
"And as to wives; they are as easily driven as a flock of sheep when a
locomotive comes tearing past. _Oh!_ y-e-s, Sambo, matrimony is a
'blessed institution,' so the ministers say, (finds 'em in _fees_, you
know!) and so everybody says--except those who have _tried it_? So go
away, and don't be _wool_-gathering. You'll never be the 'Uncle Tom'
of your tribe."
XXXVI.
A WHISPER TO ROMANTIC YOUNG LADIES.
"A crust of bread, a pitcher of water, a thatched roof, and
love,--there's happiness for you."
Girls! _that's a humbug!_ The very _thought_ of it makes me groan.
It's all moonshine. In fact, men and moonshine in my dictionary are
synonymous.
"Water and a crust! RATHER spare diet! May do for the honey-moon.
Don't make much difference _then_, whether you eat shavings or
sardines--but when you return to _substantials_, and your wedding
dress is put away in a trunk for the benefit of posterity, if you can
get your husband to _smile_ on anything short of a 'sirloin' or a
roast turkey, you are a lucky woman.
"Don't every married woman know that a man is as savage as a New
Zealander when he's hungry? and when he comes home to an empty
cupboard and meets a dozen little piping mouths, (necessary
accompaniments of 'cottages' and 'love,' clamorous for supper, '_Love_
will have the _sulks_,' or my name isn't Fanny. Lovers have a trick of
getting disenchanted, too, when they see their Aramintas with dresses
pinned up round the waist, hair powdered with sweeping, faces scowled
up over the wash-tub, and soap-suds dripping from red elbows.
"We know these little accidents never happen in novels--where the
heroine is always 'dressed in white, with a rose-bud in her hair,' and
lives on blossoms and May dew! There are no wash-tubs or gridirons in
_her_ cottage; _her_ children are born cherubim, with a seraphic
contempt for dirt pies and molasses. _She_ remains 'a beauty' to the
end of the chapter, and 'steps out' just in time to anticipate her
first gray hair, her husband drawing his last breath at the same time,
as a dutiful husband _should_; and not falling into the unromantic
error of outliving his grief, and marrying a second time!
"But this humdrum life, girls, is another affair, with its washing and
ironing and cleaning days, when children expect boxed ears, and
visitors picked-up dinners. All the 'romance' there is in it, you can
put under a three-cent piece!
"St. Paul says they who marry do well enough, but they who _don't_
marry do WELL-ER! Sensible man that. Nevertheless, had _I_ flourished
in those times, I would have undertaken to change his sentiments; for
those old-fashioned gentlemen were worth running after.
"One half the women marry for fear they shall be old maids. Now I'd
like to know why an old maid is to be snubbed, any more than an old
bachelor? Old bachelors receive 'the mitten,' occasionally, and old
maids have been known to _outlive several 'offers.'_ They are both
useful in their way--particularly old bachelors!
"Now _I_ intend to be an old maid; and I shall found a mutual
accommodation society, and admit old bachelors honorary members. They
shall wait on _us_ evenings, and we'll hem their pocket
hand-ker_chers_ and mend their gloves. No _boys under thirty_ to be
admitted. Irreproachable dickeys, immaculate shirt-bosoms and
faultless boots _indispensable_. Gentlemen always to sit on the
_opposite_ side of the room--no refreshments but _ices_! _Instant
expulsion_ the consequence of the first attempt at love-making! No
allusion to be made to Moore or Byron! The little '_bye-laws_' of the
society _not_ to be published! Moonlight evenings, the sisters are not
at home! the moon being considered, from time immemorial, an
unprincipled magnetiser!"
XXXVII.
A WOMAN WITH A SOUL.
"A new affectation is to speak of the soul as _feminine_.
For example, the London papers announce the third edition of
'The Soul, HER sorrows, and HER aspirations.'"
I always _thought_ John Bull was a goose; now I _know_ it! _A woman
with a soul!_ I guess so! (made out of an old _spare-rib_!) What on
earth does _she_ want of a _soul_? First thing you know, she'd be
eating of the 'tree of knowledge,' and we had enough of that in
_Eve's_ day; I tell you there are none but _masculine souls_.
"It is a matter of astonishment and thanksgiving to me that _men_
condescend to notice _us_ at all. I trust all the sisters feel their
inferiority, and know how to keep their place, as well as _I_ do! It's
next door to martyrdom when they speak to _me_, I'm in such a
'fluster' for fear I shall make some wretched blunder. It is as much
as ever I dare to LOOK at them, but when it comes to TALKING, I'm
entirely nonplussed! If by good luck I _catch_ an idea, I chase it
round till I lose it; and if I were to swallow a whole dictionary, I
couldn't clothe that idea in words! _Oh_, dear! wish I _had_ a 'soul,'
just to see how it _would seem_! It would be so refreshing to have a
_new sensation_!"
XXXVIII.
CLERICAL COURTING.
The following sketch, published by Mrs. Farrington under the name of
Fanny Fern, is a graphic life-picture. We are informed that a worthy
gentleman connected with her family by marriage, sat for the portrait
of Ephraim.
"Mr. Ephraim Leatherstring labored under the hallucination that he had
a call to preach the gospel to the heathen. He had hitherto hid his
'light under a bushel' in the worldly occupations of mending fences,
felling trees, driving cattle and shoeing horses. Conceiving that the
chief qualifications for his new office were _a pair of green
spectacles, and a long, petticoat-y, ministerial cloak_, he forthwith
equipped himself in this spiritual armor, and presented himself before
'the _Board_;' by whom, after examination, he was pronounced a
perfect--_shingle!_ and forthwith set apart for the work.
"His passage was spoken in the Sea-Gull for the Ourang Outang Islands,
and his sea-chest duly stored with 'Village Melodies' and penny
tracts, when it was intimated to him by 'the Board' that it would be
advisable for him to provide himself with a help-meet before starting.
Whether they feared his yoking with an unbeliever, or--well--no
matter; any way, two days' grace were allowed him _to find Mrs.
Ephraim Leatherstring_. Letters of introduction to three damsels were
given him, whose parents' principles were known to be 'dyed in the
wool.'
"Now this little matrimonial luxury had not been thought of by
Ephraim; or, if it had, was quickly banished from his mind as a
temptation of Satan, and quite incompatible with his new calling.
However, coming to him recommended by such high authority, 'Barkis was
willing!'
"His first call was upon Miss Charity Church. She was absent on a
visit. Unfortunate female!! No chance for _her_ to see the Ourang
Outang Islands! Ephraim began to feel nervous, for, now he had made up
his mind to be a victim, he didn't like to be disappointed.
"Nothing daunted, he wended his way to Deacon Pettebone's. His
daughter Merinda was as round as a barrel and much the same shape, as
rosy as an apple and quite as sweet, and had been brought up by _the
deacon_, and that's _enough said_! Eph. made known his errand to the
deacon, who was highly delighted at the honor about to be conferred on
his family, and left him alone with his chubby daughter, not doubting
that she would be of the same opinion. Now Ephraim, (spite of his long
cloak and green spectacles,) _had_ made the acquaintance of _several
other_ damsels in the course of his earthly pilgrimage; but he knew
that this missionary wooing was to be got up on a new principle; so he
decorously seated himself in the farthest corner of the room, placed
the palms of his hands together, allowing the two forefingers to meet,
and began to tell 'his experience,' by way of solemnizing her mind, to
all of which Merinda appeared to listen with becoming gravity. He then
informed her, that he and 'the Board' had decided to invite her to be
his co-worker and fellow-laborer in the Ourang Outang vineyard. Then,
peering over his green spectacles at Merinda, who sat stuffing the
corners of her checked apron in her mouth, he said, '_Silence gives
consent. Let us pray._' When he arrived at _Amen_, and turned his
head to reward himself with a long look at his future wife, Merinda
was among the missing; rolling on the grass at the back part of the
house, in a perfect paroxysm of laughter! Eph. had no more time to
waste on such a sinner, so he picked himself up, and his cloak was
soon seen fluttering in the wind, in the direction of Parson
Clutterbuck's.
"Now it was foreordained that Kezia should be the chosen vessel. She
was always at home, and there he found her; as straight and
perpendicular as if she had swallowed the meeting-house steeple. His
errand was soon made known--the form slightly varying from the first
order of performances. Kezia straightened down the folds of her
stiffly-starched neckerchief, and said meekly, that 'she felt inclined
to think it was the path of duty for her;' which Eph. ventured to
subscribe to, with the first holy kiss; when he started back in
consternation, on observing that her red hair was _curled_ around her
face. He shook his head ominously, and said, 'he was afraid 'the
Board' would think it had a carnal look,'--but upon Kezia's informing
him that it was a defect she was _born with_, they made up their minds
that a little patience and pomatum might, in time, remove this
obstacle to their usefulness, and forthwith embarked on the sea of
matrimony, 'fetching up' at the Ourang Outang Islands, just in the
wane of the honeymoon, strong in the belief that the fate of heathen
millions, _long since unborn_ (as Mrs. Partington might say,) lay in
their matrimonial hands."
XXXIX.
WHAT FOWLER SAYS.
Fowler, the phrenologist, who, probably, never saw Fanny Fern,
sanctions and publishes the following from one of her friends--honest
John Walter, we suspect. The reader who has perused the preceding
pages can judge of its truthfulness:
"Fanny Fern is the most retiring and unobtrusive of human beings. More
than any other celebrity we have ever known, she shrinks from personal
display and public observation. During her residence in this city she
has lived in the most perfect privacy, never going to parties or
soirees, never giving such herself, refusing to enlarge her circle of
friends, and finding full employment as well as satisfaction in her
domestic and literary duties. She has probably received more
invitations to private and public assemblies, and her acquaintance
has been more frequently sought by distinguished persons, during the
period of her residence here, than any other individual. To all
solicitations of this kind she returns a mild but decided negative. In
the hotels at which she has resided, no one, neither landlord nor
guest, has ever known her as Fanny Fern. Indeed, she has an abhorrence
of personal publicity, and cannot be persuaded to sacrifice any part
of the comfort of an absolute _incog._ We cannot but approve her
resolution.
"Fanny Fern is a sincerely religious woman, the member of an
evangelical denomination, and a regular attendant at church. We never
knew any one who believed in a belief more strongly than she in hers,
or who was more deeply grieved when that belief was treated with
disrespect. No one stands less in awe of conventionalities, no one is
more strict on a point of honor and principle than she. She is a
person who is able to do all that she is convinced she ought, and to
refrain from doing all that she is sure she ought not. In strength of
purpose, we know not her equal among women.
"The word which best describes Fanny Fern is the word Lady. All her
ways and tastes are feminine and refined. Everything she wears, every
article of furniture in her rooms, all the details of her table, must
be clean, elegant, tasteful. Her attire, which is generally simple and
inexpensive, is always exquisitely nice and becoming. In the stormiest
days, when no visitor could be expected, she is as carefully dressed
and adorned as though she was going to court. We say as carefully,
though, in fact, she has a quick instinct for the becoming, and makes
herself attractive without bestowing much time or thought upon the
matter. Her voice is singularly musical; her manner varies with her
humor; but it is always that of a lady. One who knows Fanny Fern has
an idea what kind of women they must have been for whom knights-errant
did battle in the Middle Ages.
"With all her strength, Fanny Fern is extremely sensitive. She can
enjoy more, suffer more, love more, hate more, admire more and detest
more, than any one whom we have known. With all her gentleness of
manner, there is not a drop of milk and water in her veins. She
believes in having justice done. Seventy times and seven she could
forgive a repentant brother; but not once, unless he repented.
"Fanny Fern writes rapidly, in a large, bold hand; but she sends no
article away without very careful revision; and her manuscript is
puzzling to printers from its numberless erasures and insertions. She
writes from her heart and her eye; she has little aptitude or taste
for abstract thought. She never talks of her writings, and cares
little for criticism, however severe. She is no more capable of
writing an intentional _double entendre_, than the gross-minded men
who have accused her of doing so are capable of appreciating the worth
of pure womanhood.
"Such are some of our impressions of Fanny Fern, to which we may add,
that she has the finest form of any woman in New York, and that no one
of the names recently assigned her in the papers is her true name. In
ordinary circumstances, we should not have thought it right thus to
describe the characteristics of a lady; our sole, and we think,
sufficient justification is, the publication of statements respecting
her, only less vulgar than calumnious."
XL.
THE OTHER SIDE.
The following review of Ruth Hall is from the pen of a talented woman,
far above any feelings of pique or jealousy.
"Our first recollections of 'Fanny Fern' are connected with her
appearance in the Olive Branch a few years since. We were then
entirely ignorant of her real name and position, nor did we, in common
with the indifferent public, feel any particular interest or curiosity
respecting them. The impression of the careless reader would have been
that the spicy scraps bearing this signature were the production of
some hoydenish school-girl, ambitious to see her writings in print.
With the supposition that they were the work of a young lady, was
associated an indefinite, but slightly painful feeling that the
writer was not sufficiently endowed with female delicacy. While a
perfect sketch, artistically wrought out, and disfigured by no defects
of style or coarse inuendoes, partially filled a column, the same
column often contained another article, full of these blemishes.
Vulgar expressions and exclamations were often used, though when these
writings were afterwards collected and published in a book, these were
carefully pruned away. Some judicious friend had evidently guided the
pen to strike out phraseology which would have been injurious if not
fatal to Fanny's rising fame. Whether this judicious friend was the
'Mr. Tibbetts' through whose agency her first work was introduced to
the publishers, who received and forwarded to her all the proofs,
reading the whole aloud to her as fast as it appeared in type, we are
not able to say. Upon 'Fern Leaves,' and successive volumes, thus
carefully pruned of what too plainly revealed a certain coarseness in
the habits of thought of the writer, the public has doubtless passed a
just verdict. With the fame thus won, and the independence thus
secured, would that 'Fanny Fern' had been satisfied.
"We do not intend to attempt an elaborate review of 'Ruth Hall.' As a
novel it will not bear it. We have read it through twice without
catching any clew to its merits or intentions as a work of art.
Disjointed fragments of what should be a beautiful and complete
edifice, are all that meet the eye. As in the newly discovered remains
of ancient cities, monstrous faces, caricatures of humanity, glare
upon us when we look for 'the human face divine.' One cannot but feel
that the mind of the artist must have been itself deformed to have
designed such monstrosities. On looking over the preface, we perceive
that the author disclaims the intention of writing a novel. We will
therefore examine 'Ruth Hall' as an auto-biography.
"A work which appears before the world, heralded as such, with the
evident intention of being so understood, should above all else, be
distinguished for truth. Exaggerated, instead of correct descriptions,
imaginary instead of real conversations and letters, which if genuine,
have no point, and if fictitious, no interest, should not have been
admitted to its pages. The work abounds in these. If 'Ruth Hall' is
'Fanny Fern,' then the incognito of the latter is forever laid aside.
Half the charm attached to her writings has already vanished. She is
no longer a 'Maid of the Mist,' whose silvery veil conceals
deformities and enhances beauties, but plain 'Fanny Fern;' and 'Ruth
Hall' is 'Fanny Fern' described by herself. Let us look at this
description.
"'Ruth Hall' is not without vanity. In the very first chapter, 'her
lithe form had rounded into _symmetry_ and _grace_, her slow step had
become _light_ and _elastic_, her _smile winning_, and her _voice
soft_ and _melodious_.'
"Again on page 48th.
'It was blessed to see the love light in Ruth's _gentle_
eyes; to see the _rose_ chase the lily from her cheek; to
see the old spring come back to her step; to follow her from
room to room while she draped the pretty white curtains, and
_beautified unconsciously everything she touched_.'
"We have not space for farther quotations, but must refer our readers
to the 59th, 61st, 70th, and other pages of the work, not forgetting
the lengthy and flattering phrenological description commencing at
page 278.
"Another very striking characteristic of 'Ruth Hall' is her want of
filial piety. If we omit the evidences of this, half the book
disappears. Whether the parents of her deceased husband, respect for
whose memory at least should have restrained her pen, or her own
relatives, become the subjects of her notice, vulgar ridicule and
pointless wit are unsparingly lavished upon them. Whatever may have
been the faults of those connected with 'Fanny Fern's' past history, a
decent self-respect should have withheld her from thus parading them
before the world. It is well known to the public that 'Fanny Fern' has
been twice married, but all allusion to this circumstance is omitted
in 'Ruth Hall.' How are we then to know that this suppressed history
may not contain a partial justification of the course pursued by her
friends? One intimate with her first husband, long ago informed us
that she was a 'poor housekeeper,' and 'did not make him a comfortable
home.' We have therefore been half inclined to sympathize with 'Mrs.
Hall's' lamentations over the missing accomplishment of bread-making.
"But for infringing on the sacredness of communications intended to be
private, we could give a different aspect to other allusions in 'Ruth
Hall.' Whatever may have been the defects of 'Hyacinth Ellet,' he has
never publicly failed to 'know his father and his mother.' The gray
hairs which 'are a crown of glory when found in the way of
righteousness,' should have shielded an aged parent from the
irreverent attacks of the daughter, and the hollow cough of an invalid
struggling with a yet more pitiless foe, should have found its way to
the heart of the sister. When the clods of the valley shall rest upon
the heads of both father and brother, we shall not envy the emotions
of 'Fanny Fern.'
"'Ruth Hall' proves herself capable of ingratitude. Her earliest
benefactor, the kind-hearted and benevolent man who first encouraged
and rewarded her timid efforts, has not been safe from her attacks,
even in the grave. Later friends have been as unhesitatingly deserted
and abused. Well may they feel 'how sharper than a serpent's tooth it
is, to have a thankless' friend. By the aid of these, she stepped from
obscurity into public notice, and now 'has no farther occasion for her
stepping-stones.'
"But self-esteem, ingratitude, and want of filial piety, are venial
sins compared with the irreverence for things sacred, which sullies
the pages of 'Ruth Hall.' The conversation of the dressmaker, that of
Mr. Ellet with his ministerial friend, the allusion to Hyacinth's
description of the Saviour, with many other briefer passages, had they
been written by Dickens, would have been pronounced impious. Written
by a professed Christian, what then shall we call them? Filial
disrespect and religious irreverence are blended in almost every page.
"But 'Ruth Hall' is represented as a model woman, and an exemplary
Christian. All that 'Fanny Fern's' descriptive talent could do to
throw a charm about her character has been done. Whether the defects
of the heroine thus unintentionally betrayed, may not lessen our
desire to copy this model, we will leave the unprejudiced reader to
judge. One deeply read in human nature has said,
"'Sweet are the uses of adversity
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.'
"Knowing how 'sweet are the uses of adversity' rightly received and
improved, we cannot but regret that 'Fanny Fern's' adversity should
have left to her so much of the 'venomous.'
"Out of four hundred pages in 'Ruth Hall' seventy-five are entirely
blank. Had the remaining pages been left equally so, we believe it
would have been better for 'Fanny Fern' and for the world."
XLI.
THE GOOD-NATURED BACHELOR.
This individual, Fanny Fern says:--"Is jolly, sleek, and rolly-pooly.
Lifts all the little school-girls over the mud-puddles, and kisses
them when he lands them on the other side. Admires little babies,
without regard to the shape of their noses, or the strength of their
lungs. Squeezes himself into an infinitessimal fragment, in the corner
of an omnibus, to make room for that troublesome individual
_one_--_More_! Vacates his seat any number of times at a crowded
lecture, for distressed looking single ladies. Orders stupid
cab-drivers off the only dry crossing, to save a pretty pair of feet
from immersion, and don't forget to look the other way when their
owner gathers up the skirts of her dress to trip across. Is just as
civil to a shop-girl as if she were a Duchess; pays regularly for his
newspaper, lends his umbrella and goes home with a wet beaver; has a
clear conscience, a good digestion, and believes the women to be all
angels with their wings folded up. Here's hoping matrimony may never
undeceive him!"
XLII.
CATCHING THE DEAR.--BY FANNY FERN.
"A Roman lady who takes a liking to a foreigner does not
cast her eyes down when he looks at her, but fixes them upon
him long and with evident pleasure. If the man of her choice
feels the like sentiment, and asks--'Are you fond of me?'
she replies with the utmost frankness, 'Yes, my dear.'"
You double-distilled little simpleton! don't you know better than
that? Don't you know that courtship is like a vast hunting
party?--_all the pleasure lies in the pursuit?_ That the sport is all
over when the _deer_ is caught? Certainly; you don't catch an American
girl 'doing as the Romans do.' _She_ understands the philosophy of the
thing, and don't drop down like a shot pigeon at the first arrow from
Cupid's quiver. If she is wounded ever so bad, she spreads her wings
and flies off, alighting here, there, and everywhere; leading her
pursuer through bog, ditch and furrow; sometimes flapping her bright
wings close to his face, and then, out of sight--the mischief knows
where--to return again the next minute. In this way she finds out how
much trouble he is willing to take for her; and the way he knows how
to prize her when she is caught would astonish your Roman
comprehension, my dear.
"Now, I never saw a masculine Roman, but I will just tell you, in
passing, that American gentlemen go by the rule of contraries. If
there are any of them whom you desire _most particularly not to be
bored with_, all you have to do is to make a pretence of the most
_intense_ desire for their acquaintance; and vice-versa.
"Bless my soul! you haven't got so far as A, B, C; you are in an
_awful_ benighted state for a female. I labored under the impression
that the Foreign Mission Society had attended to the evangelization of
Rome. I'll have some 'col-porteurs' sent over, without loss of
time--you little verdant Abigail! saying 'yes, my dear,' the minute
you are 'looked at!' If I hadn't so many irons in the fire I'd attend
to your education myself, you poor, ignorant little heathen!"
XLIII.
HELEN, THE VILLAGE ROSE-BUD.
The following tearful sketch was contributed by Fanny Fern to the True
Flag, under the name of 'Olivia.' It is one of Fanny's sweetest
efforts.
"You couldn't help loving our 'Village Rose-bud.' Not because she was
beautiful, though those pouting lips and deep blue eyes were fair to
see; nor because her form had caught the grace of the waving willow;
nor for the gleaming brightness of her golden hair. But because her
sable dress bespoke your tender pity for the orphan; and for the
thousand little nameless acts of love and kindness, prompted by her
gentle and affectionate heart.
"The first sweet violets that opened their blue eyes to greet the
balmy spring, the earliest fruits of summer, and autumn's golden
favors, were laid as trophies at her feet. For each and all, she had a
gentle, kindly word, and a beaming smile; none felt that their
offerings would be overlooked or slighted, because they were
unpretending.
"Helen Gray's means and home were humble, but the apartment she
occupied in the house of the kind Widow More might have vied for taste
and comfort with many more expensively furnished. The tasteful
arrangement of a few choice books and pictures; the flower-stand, with
its wealth of sweet blossoms; the tiny porcelain vase, that daily
chronicled the hopes of her rustic admirers as expressed in the shape
of rose-buds, heart's-ease, mignonette, and the like; the snowy
curtain, looped gracefully away from the window, over which the
wild-rose and honey-suckle formed a fairy frame for the sweet face
that so often bewildered the passing traveller--many an hour did she
sit there, watching the fleecy cloud; the fragrant meadow, through
which the tiny stream wound like a thread of silver; the waving trees,
with their leafy music; the church, with its finger of faith pointing
to Heaven; and the village graveyard, where were peacefully pillowed
the gray-haired sire and loving mother, whom she still mourned; and
each and all wound their own spell around the heart and fancy of the
orphan Helen.
"But there is yet another spell that holds her in its silken fetters.
Ah, little Helen! by those morning walks and star-lit rambles, by that
rose fresh with dew, glittering amid your ringlets, by those dainty
little notes, that bring such a bright flush to your cheek and add
such lustre to your eyes; you are a _plighted_ maiden.
"Harry Lee knew well how to woo, and win 'the village rose-bud.'
Master of a handsome fortune, he had early exhausted all the sources
of enjoyment to be found in his native city. For the last three years
he had been a voluntary exile in foreign lands; he had daguerreotyped
upon his memory all that was grand, majestic and lovely, in natural
beauty; all that was perfect in painting and sculpture. He had
returned home, weary in the search of pleasure, sick of artificial
manners and etiquette, longing for something that would interest him.
"In such a mood he met Helen. Her naive manners, her innocent and
childish beauty, captivated his fancy. He was rich enough to be able
to please himself in the choice of a wife, and the orphan's sweet
gentleness gave promise of a ready compliance with every selfish
desire. As to Helen, she had only her own heart to ask. All the
villagers thought 'Mr. Lee was such a _handsome_ man.' _Mr. Lee
thought so himself._
"Fair and bright shone the sun on Helen's bridal morning! No father,
nor mother, nor brother, nor sister, were there to give the young
bride away. She had yielded her innocent and guileless heart without a
fear for the future. Her simple toilette required little care. The
golden tresses, the graceful, symmetrical figure, the sweet face, over
which the faint blush flitted with every passing emotion, could gain
nothing by artificial adornment.
"Helen could have been happy with her husband in a far less costly,
less luxurious home; but well did she grace its fair halls. Her
perfect and intuitive tact served her in place of experience of the
gay world. Her husband was amused as well as gratified at her ease and
self-possession, and marked with pride the world's admiration of his
choice.
"It is needless to say how the orphan's heart went out to him who was
_all_ to her. With what fond pride she looked up to him whom she
believed to be all that was noble, good and true--how delicately she
anticipated every wish, and dissipated by her sunny brightness every
cloud of care.
"How perfect and far-sighted that Wisdom that shrouds the future from
our sight! Who among us, with rude hand, would willingly draw back the
dark curtain, and palsy the hearts now beating high with hope and
promise?
"Time passed on, and Helen had another claimant for her love. Never
was infant so caressed by a doating mother; never one whose little
lamp of life needed such careful watching lest it should be
extinguished.
"Helen looked in vain to read in her husband's eyes the love she felt
for her child. Its cries were intolerable to him, and the quiet and
tedium of a sick-room annoying to the last degree. He missed the light
step that bounded to meet him on his return, the bright face that
smiled upon him at their quiet meal, the touch of fairy fingers on his
heated brow. He thought not of a mother's pain; he felt no gratitude
for the life that had been spared him; he had no admiration for the
patient devotion of the young mother. He took not into account the
monotony of a sick-room to a nervous, excitable temperament like
Helen's; he looked not beyond his own selfish feelings.
"Helen was grieved, yet she would not admit to herself that Harry had
changed. She made an effort to appear stronger and brighter than she
really was, and in the unselfishness of her love she said, 'It must be
_I_ who have changed; I will yet win him back to me.' But her babe was
feeble, and required much of her time, and Harry's brow would cloud
with displeasure when the eyes of his gentle wife would fill with
tears; then with an impatient 'pshaw!' he would leave the room,
'wondering what nurses were made for, if they couldn't keep babies
from being a bore.'
"Poor Helen! All this told upon her feeble health and spirits; she
became nervous and hysterical, and trembled when she heard Harry's
footsteps. She consulted her glass to see if sickness had robbed her
of the charms that had won him. Still it reflected back the same
wealth of golden hair, the fair, pure brow, the sweet blue eyes. The
rose had faded from her cheek, 'tis true, but that would bloom again
with exercise and fresh air; and so she redoubled her attentions,
patiently counting the tedious hours of his unwonted absence, nor met
him with an ungentle word or look of reproach on his return.
"Helen had often met, at the house of a friend of Harry's, a young
widow lady by the name of Melville. One day her husband told her that
he wished an invitation to be sent to her to make them a visit,
adding, 'she will cheer you up and help you appear more like yourself
again.'
"The next week found Norah Melville their guest. Married at the age of
nineteen to a man the age of her father, she found herself a year
after a widow, with unimpaired beauty, and a fortune sufficiently
ample to cover every want or desire. She had a thorough knowledge of
human nature, and was a perfect woman of the world. Her figure was
tall and queenly, she had large liquid black eyes, a complexion of
marble paleness, a profusion of raven black hair, and a voice like the
wind-harp in its sweetness. She knew that eyes like hers were made for
_use_, and she _acted upon that principle_.
"Nothing could exceed her kindness to Helen, who only saw that her
husband's old glad smile had come back again, and that he was once
more gay and cheerful.
"Mrs. Melville sang them all her choicest songs, always appeared in an
unexceptionable toilette, displayed a foot equal to Cinderella's, and
was, by turns, pensive or gay, thoughtful or witty, brilliant or sad;
but in all _bewitching_!
"Helen could see nothing exceptionable in her manners or conversation,
and agreed with the rest of her admirers that she was a 'splendid
woman.'
"One day, as they sat at dinner, a proposal was made by Harry that
they should attend the theatre that evening. Helen dared not leave her
child until so late an hour, but begged them not to stay at home on
her account. When the hour arrived she herself placed the spotless
camellia in Mrs. Melville's raven hair, clasped the glittering diamond
bracelet upon her fair, round arm, and went back, in
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