The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern

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.

"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\.

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.

"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.

"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

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 homœopathic 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 "homœopathic 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!