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."
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."
"'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!'"
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."
"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-kerchers 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!"
"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!"
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."
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."
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."
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!"
"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!"
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 the guilelessness of her trusting heart, to her child's cradle.
"At length, weary with its restlessness, she threw herself upon the bed and sank into a deep slumber. She dreamed of the flower-wreathed cottage where her childhood was passed, and in fancy she roamed with Harry in the sweet meadows, and revisited the old trysting-place under the trees by the river side, and heard his words of passionate love as in those golden days. She awoke and found the hour was late for Harry's return. Descending the stairs, she bent her footsteps toward the parlor.
"Transfixed, spell-bound, what has hushed the tread of those tiny, slipperless feet upon the soft carpet?
"The moonbeams fell brightly through the large bay window upon the fair Norah. Her opera-cloak had fallen carelessly at her side, displaying her matchless neck and snowy arms. Her eyes, those speaking, bewildering eyes, were bent upon Harry, who sat on a low ottoman at her feet. His hair was pushed carelessly back from his broad white brow, and Helen was no stranger to the look with which he gazed upon Mrs. Melville. Musically slow, but with dreadful distinctness, fell upon her ear the words,
"'Norah, I love you.'
"In that short sentence was compressed for the gentle wife the agony of death. None but those who have given a warm, living heart into unworthy keeping, may know such torture.
"Helen spoke not, nor gave other sign of her presence. Slowly, mechanically, she returned to her room, and, as she sank into a chair, the words 'My God, pity me!' were wrung from her soul's anguish.
"When Harry returned, she sat cold and pale, swaying her figure gently to and fro, slowly repeating,
"'Norah, I love you! Norah, I love you!'
"In the lunatic asylum of ——, may now be seen 'the Village Rosebud.' God forgive the careless hand that so rudely plucked its fresh beauty, but to blight its fair promise, and cast it aside as a withered thing.
"The world still takes by the hand, as an honorable man, the gay Harry Lee; but, in the still midnight hour, a gentle, tearful voice, slowly repeats to his ear alone, amid unquiet slumbers, the words,—'Norah, I love you!'"
What a cheerful, happy, self-congratulating old maid was lost when Fanny became a wife. Only read this extract:—