“Mine forever,” whispered Percy, as he drew Fanny’s hand within his
arm, on their wedding morning, and led her to the carriage.
Not a word was spoken on the way; even the rattling Kate vailed her
merry eyes under their soft lashes, and her woman’s heart, true to
itself, sent up a prayer for the orphan’s happy future. And Percy; he
was to be all to Fanny--father, brother, husband; there were none to
divide with him the treasure he so jealously coveted.
Happy Percy! The lightning bolt, indeed, had fallen; riving the
stately tree, dissevering its branches, but again it is covered with
verdure and blossoms, for lo--the cloud has rolled away, the rainbow
arches the blue sky, and hopes, like flowers, sweeter and fresher for
nature’s tears, are springing thick in his pathway.
All this and more, passed through Percy’s mind as he watched the
shadows come and go on Fanny’s changeful cheek.
“Get out of the way,” thundered the coachman, to a man who, with
slouched hat, and Lucifer-ish frown, stood before the carriage. “Get out
of the way, I say;” and he cracked his whip over his shoulders. “Staring
into the carriage window that way, at a young ’oman as is going to be
married. Get out of the way!”
“Go to ----,” muttered the man. “Get out of the way! ha--that’s
good--it will be a long time before _I_ get out of the way, I can
promise you. But, drive on--drive on--I’ll overtake you--and ride over
you all, too, rough-shod, hang me, if I don’t. ‘The horns of the altar,’
as the ministers call it, will prove the horn of a dilemma to you, Mr.
Percy Lee, or there was no strength in the horn I swallowed this
morning.”
* * * * *
The words were said which never may be unsaid; the twain were one--joy
to share together--sorrow to bear together--smooth or rough the path,
life’s journey to travel together. A few words from holy lips--a short
transit of the dial’s fingers--a blush--perchance a tear--a low
response--and heaven or hell, even in this world, was to be their
portion.
The bridal party turn from the altar. Through the stained
windows--under the grand arches--past the fluted pillars, the dim light
slants lovingly upon the soft ripples of the young bride’s hair--upon
the fleecy folds of her gossamer vail--upon the sheen of her bridal
robe; the little satin shoe peeps in and out from under the lustrous
folds, whose every rustle is music to Percy’s ear.
Hark! Fanny’s lip loses its rose--as she clings, tremblingly, to
Percy’s arm. A scuffle--curses--shouting--the report of a pistol--then a
heavy fall--then a low groan!
“Is he _quite_ dead? Does his pulse beat?”
“Not a flutter,” said the policeman, laying the man’s head back upon
the church steps.
“How did it happen?”
“Well, you see, he was intoxicated like, and ’sisted upon coming in
here, to see the wedding, though I told him it was a private ’un. Then
he muttered something about jail-birds and the like ’o that--intending
to insinivate something ag’in me, I s’pose. Well, I took him by the
shoulder to carry him to the station-house, and in the scuffle, a loaded
pistol he had about him went off; and that’s the end of him. His name is
in his hat, there. ‘John Scraggs.’ A ruffianly-looking dog he is, too;
the world is none the worse, I fancy, for _his_ being out of it.”
* * * * *
As at the birth, so at the bridal, Life and Death passed each other on
the threshold; new-born love to its full fruition; the still corpse to
its long home.
There are homes in which Love folds his wings contented _forever_ to
stay. Such a home had Fanny and Percy.
“The love born of sorrow, like sorrow is true.”
MORAL MOLASSES;
OR, TOO SWEET BY HALF.
The most thorough emetic I know of, is in the shape of “Guide to Young
Wives,” and kindred books; as if one rule could, by any possibility,
apply to all persons; as if every man living did not require different
management (bless me, I did not intend to use that torpedo word, but it
is out now); as if, when things go wrong, a wife had only to fly up
stairs, read a chapter in the “Young Wife’s Guide,” supposed to be
suited to her complaint, and then go down stairs and apply the worthless
plaster to the matrimonial sore. Pshaw! as well might a doctor send a
peck of pills into a hospital, to be distributed by the hands of the
nurse, to any and every male patient brought there, without regard to
complaints or constitutional tendencies. I have no patience with such
matrimonial nostrums.
“Always meet your husband with a smile.” That is one of them. Suppose
we put the boot on the other foot, and require the men to come grinning
home? no matter how many of their notes may have been protested; no
matter how, like Beelzebub, their business partner may have tormented
them; no matter how badly elections go--when they do it, may I be there
to see! Nor should they. Passing over the everlasting monotony of that
everlasting “Guide Book” smile, let us consider, brethren (sisters not
admitted), what matrimony was intended for. As I look at it, as much to
share each other’s sorrows, as to share each other’s joys; neither of
the twain to shoulder wholly the one or the other. Those of you,
brethren, who agree with me in this lucid view of the subject, please to
signify it by rising.
’Tis a vote.
Well then, do people in moments of perplexity generally grin? Is it
not asking too much of female, and a confounded sight too much of male
nature, to do it when a man’s store burns down, and there is no
insurance? or when a misguided and infatuated baby stuffs beans up its
nose, while its mamma is putting new cuffs on her husband’s coat,
hearing Katy say her lesson, and telling the cook about dinner? And when
this sorely afflicted couple meet, would it not be best to make a clean
breast of their troubles, sympathize together over them, have a nice
matrimonial cry on each other’s shoulders, and wind up with a
first-class kiss?
’Tis a vote.
Well then--to the mischief with your grinning over a volcano;--erupt,
and have done with it! so shall you love each other more for your very
sorrows; so shall you avoid hypocrisy and kindred bedevilments, and pull
evenly in the matrimonial harness. I speak as unto _wise_ men.
Lastly, brethren, what I particularly admire, is the indirect
compliment to your sex, which this absurd rule I have quoted implies;
the devotion, magnanimity, fortitude, and courage, it gives _you_
fair-weather sailors credit for! But what is the use of talking about
it? These guide books are mainly written by sentimental old maids; who,
had they ever been within kissing distance of a beard, would not so
abominably have wasted pen, ink, and paper; or, by some old bachelor,
tip-toeing on the outskirts of the promised land, without a single clear
idea of its resources and requirements, or courage enough to settle
there if he had.
A WORD TO SHOP-KEEPERS.
In one respect--nay, in more, if so please you--I am unfeminine. I
detest shopping. I feel any thing but affection for Eve every time I am
forced to do it. But we must be clean and whole, even in this
dirt-begrimed, lawless city; where ash-barrels and ash-boxes, with
spikes of protruding nails for the unwary, stand on every sidewalk,
waiting the bidding of balmy zephyrs to sift their dusky contents on our
luckless clothes. All the better for shop-keepers; indeed, I am not at
all sure, that they and the street-cleaning gentry do not, as doctors
and druggists are said to do, play into each other’s hands!
Apart from my natural and never-to-be-uprooted dislike to the little
feminine recreation of shopping, is the pain I experience whenever I am
forced to take part in it, at the snubbing system practiced by too many
shop-keepers toward those whose necessities demand a frugal outlay. Any
frivolous female fool, be she showily dressed, may turn a whole
storefull of goods topsy-turvy at her capricious will, although she may
end in taking nothing away but her own idiotic presence; while a poor,
industrious woman, with the hardly-earned dollar in her calico pocket,
may not presume to deliberate, or to differ from the clerk as to its
most frugal investment. My blood often boils as I stand side by side
with such a one. I, by virtue of better apparel, receiving respectful
treatment; she--crimsoning with shame, like some guilty thing, at the
rude reply.
Now, gentlemen, imagine yourselves in this woman’s place. _I_ have no
need to do so, because I have stood there. Imagine her, with her
fatherless, hungry children by her side, plying the needle late into the
night, for the pitiful sum of seventy-five cents a week, as I once did.
Imagine her, with this discouraging price of her eye-sight and strength,
creeping forth with her little child by the hand, peeping cautiously
through the glass windows of stores, to decide unobtrusively upon
fabrics and labeled prices, or vainly trying to read human feeling
enough in their owners’ faces to insure her from contemptuous insult at
the smallness and cheapness of her contemplated purchase. At length,
with many misgivings, she glides in amid rustling silks and laces, that
drape hearts which God made womanly and tender like her own, but which
Fashion and Mammon have crushed to ashes in their vice-like clasp;
hearts which never knew a sorrow greater than a misfitting dress, or a
badly-matched ribbon, and whose owners’ lips curl as the new-comer holds
thoughtfully between her thin fingers the despised fabric, carelessly
tossed at her by the impatient clerk.
Oh, how can you speak harshly to such a one? how can you drive the blood
from her lip, and bring the tear to her eye? how can you look sneeringly
at the little sum she places in your hand, so hardly, _virtuously_,
_bravely_ earned? She has seen you!--see her, as she turns away,
clasping so tightly that little hand in hers, that the pained child
would tearfully ask the reason, were it not prematurely sorrow-trained.
Oh, _you_ have never (reversing the order of nature) leaned with a
breaking heart, upon a little child, for the comfort and sympathy that
you found nowhere else in the wide world beside. _You_ never wound your
arms about her in the silent night, drenching brow, cheek and lip with
your tears, as you prayed God, in your wild despair, dearly as you loved
her, to take her to himself; for, living, she, too, must drink of the
cup that might not pass away from your sorrow-steeped lips.
It is because I have felt all this that I venture to bespeak your more
courteous treatment for these unfortunates who can only weep for
themselves.
A MUCH-NEEDED KIND OF MINISTER’S WIFE;
OR, A HAIR-BREADTH ESCAPE FOR SOME PARISH.
I once had a narrow escape from being a minster’s wife. No wonder you
laugh. Imagine a vestry-meeting called to decide upon the width of _my_
bonnet-strings, or the proper altitude of the bow on that bonnet’s side.
Imagine my being called to an account for asking Mrs. A. to tea, without
including the rest of the alphabet. Imagine my parishioners expecting me
to attend a meeting of the Dorcas Society in the morning, the Tract
Society in the afternoon, and the Foreign Mission Society in the
evening, five days in the week--and make parish calls on the
sixth--besides keeping the buttons on my husband’s shirts, and taking
care of my “nine children, and one at the breast.” Imagine a
self-constituted committee of female Paul Prys running their arms up to
the elbows in my pickle-jar--rummaging my cupboards--cross-questioning
my maid-of-all-work, and catechizing my grocer as to the price I paid
for tea. Imagine my ministerial progeny prohibited chess and checkers by
the united voice of the parish. Christopher!
Still, the world lost a great deal by my non-acceptance of that
“call.” What would I have done? I would not, on Saturday afternoon (that
holiday which should never, on any pretext, be wrested from our
over-schooled, over-taught, children), have put the finishing touch to
the crook in their poor little spines, by drumming them all into a
Juvenile Sewing Society, to stitch pinafores for the Kankaroo heathen.
What would I have done? I would have ate, drunk, slept, and laughed,
like any other decent man’s wife. I would have educated my children as
do other men’s wives, to suit myself, which would have been to turn them
out to grass till they were seven years old, before which time no child,
in my opinion, should ever see the inside of a school-room; and after
that, given them study in homœopathic, and exercise in allopathic
quantities. I would have taken the liberty, as do other men’s wives,
when family duties demanded it, to send word to morning callers that I
“was engaged.” I should have taken a walk on Sunday, if my health
required it, without asking leave of the deacons of my parish. I would
have gone into my husband’s study, every Saturday night, and crossed out
every line in his forthcoming sermon, _after “sixthly.”_ I would have
encouraged a glorious beard on my husband’s sacerdotal chin, not under
the cowardly plea of a preventive to a possible bronchitis, but because
a minister’s wife has as much right to a good-looking husband as a
lay-woman. I would have invited all the children in my parish to drink
tea with me once a week, to play hunt the slipper, and make molasses
candy; and I would have made them each a rag-baby to look at, while
their well-meaning, but infatuated Sunday-school teachers, were
bothering their brains with the doctrine of election. That’s what _I_
would have done.
PARENT AND CHILD;
OR, WHICH SHALL RULE.
“Give me two cents, I say, or I’ll kick you!”
I turned to look at the threatener. It was a little fellow about as
tall as my sun-shade, stamping defiance at a fine, matronly-looking
woman, who must have been his mother, so like were her large black eyes
to the gleaming orbs of the boy. “Give me two cents, I say, or I’ll kick
you,” he repeated, tugging fiercely at her silk dress to find the
pocket, while every feature in his handsome face was distorted with
passion. Surely she will not do it, said I to myself, anxiously awaiting
the issue, as I apparently examined some ribbons in a shop-window;
surely she will not be so mad, so foolish, so untrue to herself, so
untrue to her child, so belie the beautiful picture of healthy
maternity, so God-impressed in that finely-developed form and animated
face. Oh, if I might speak to her, and beg her not to do it, thought I,
as she put her hand in her pocket, and the fierce look died away on the
boy’s face, and was succeeded by one of triumph; if I might tell her
that she is fostering the noisome weeds that will surely choke the
flowers--sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind.
“But the boy is so passionate; it is less trouble to grant his request
than to deny him.” Granting this were so; who gave you a right to weigh
your own ease in the balance with your child’s soul? Who gave you a
right to educate him for a convict’s cell, or the gallows? But,
thoughtless, weakly indulgent, cruel-kind mother, it is not easier, as
you selfishly, short-sightedly reason, to grant his request than to deny
it; not easier for him--not easier for you. The appetite for rule grows
by what it feeds on. Is he less domineering now than he was yesterday?
Will he be less so to-morrow than he is to-day? Certainly not.
“But I have not time to contest every inch of ground with him.” Take
time then--make time; neglect every thing else, but neglect not that.
With every child comes this turning point: _Which shall be the
victor--my mother or I?_ and it must be met. She is no true mother who
dodges or evades it. True--there will be a fierce struggle at first; but
be firm as a rock; recede not one inch; there may be two, three, or even
more, but the battle once won, as won it shall be if you are a faithful
mother, it is won for this world--ay, perhaps for another.
“But I am not at liberty to control him thus; when parents do not pull
together in the harness, the reins of government will slacken; when I
would restrain and correct him, his father interferes; children are
quick-witted, and my boy sees his advantage. What can I do, unsustained
and single-handed?” True--true--God help the child then. Better for him
had he never been born; better for you both, for so surely as the beard
grows upon that little chin, so surely shall he bring your gray hairs
with sorrow to the grave; and so surely shall he curse you for your very
indulgence, before he is placed in the dishonored one your parental
hands are digging for him.
These things need not be--ought not to be. Oh! if parents had but a
firm hand to govern, and yet a ready ear for childish sympathy; if they
would agree--whatever they might say in private--never to differ in
presence of their children, as to their government; if the
dissension-breeding “Joseph’s coat” were banished from every
hearthstone; if there were less weak indulgence and less asceticism; if
the bow were neither entirely relaxed, nor strained so tightly that it
broke; if there were less out-door dissipation, and more home-pleasures;
if parents would not forget that they were once children, nor, on the
other hand, forget that their children will be one day parents; if there
were less form of godliness, and more godliness (for children are
Argus-eyed; it is not what you preach, but what you practice), we should
then have no beardless skeptics, no dissolute sons, no runaway
marriages, no icy barriers between those rocked in the same
cradle--nursed at the same breast.
THE LAST BACHELOR HOURS OF TOM PAX.
To-morrow, at eleven, then, I am to be married! I feel like a mouse
conscious of coming cheese. Is it usual for bachelors to feel this way,
or am I a peculiar institution? I trust the parson, being himself a
married man, will be discreet enough to make a _short_ prayer after the
ceremony. Good gracious, my watch has stopped! no it hasn’t, either; I
should like to put the hands forward a little. What to do with myself
till the time comes, that’s the question. It is useless to go over to
Mary’s--she is knee-deep in dressmaker’s traps. I never could see, when
one dress is sufficient to be married in, the need women have to
multiply them to such an indefinite extent. Think of postponing a man’s
happiness in such circumstances, that one more flounce may be added to a
dress! Phew! how stifled this room is! I’ll throw up the window; there
now--there goes a pane of glass; who cares? I think I will shave; no I
won’t--I should be sure to cut my chin--how my hand trembles. I wonder
what Mary is thinking about? bless her little soul. Well, for the life
of me I don’t know what to do with myself. Suppose I write down
TOM PAX’S LAST BACHELOR WILL AND TESTAMENT.
In the name of Cupid, Amen.--I, Tom Pax, being of sound mind,
and in immediate prospect of matrimony (praised be Providence for
the same), and being desirous of settling my worldly affairs while
I have the strength and capacity to do so, I do, with my own hand,
write, make, and publish this, my last Will and Testament:
And in the first place, and principally, I commit my heart to
the keeping of my adorable Mary, and my body to the parson, to be
delivered over at the discretion of my groomsmen, to the aforesaid
Mary; and as to such worldly goods as a kind Providence hath seen
fit to intrust me with, I dispose of the same in the following
manner (I also empower my executors to sell and dispose of my real
estate, consisting of empty demijohns, old hats, and cigar boxes,
and invest the proceeds in stocks or otherwise, to manage as they
may think best; all of which is left to their discretion):
I give and bequeath to Tom Harris, my accomplice in single
blessedness, my porcelain punch-bowl, white cotton night-cap, and
large leathern chair, in whose arms I first renounced bachelordom
and all its evil works.
I give and bequeath to the flames the yellow-covered novels and
plays formerly used to alleviate my bachelor pangs, and whose
attractions fade away before the scorching sun of my prospective
happiness, like a snow wreath between a pair of brass andirons.
I give and bequeath to Bridget Donahue, the chambermaid of this
lodging-house (to be applied to stuffing a pin-cushion), the
locks of female hair, black, chestnut, brown, and tow-color, to be
found in my great coat breast pocket.
I give and bequeath to my washwoman, Sally Mudge, my buttonless
shirts, stringless dickeys, gossamer-ventilator stockings, and
unmended gloves.
I give and bequeath to Denis M‘Fudge, my bootblack, my half box
of unsmoked Havanas, which are a nuisance in my hymeneal nostrils.
I give and bequeath to my benighted and unconverted bachelor
friend, Sam Scott, my miserable and sinful piejudices against the
blessed institution of matrimony, and may Cupid, of his infinite
loving-kindness, take pity on his petrified heart.
In witness whereof, I, Tom Pax, the Testator, hereunto set my
hand and seal, as my last Will and Testament, done this twelfth day
of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and
fifty-six.
TOM PAX. [L.S.]
Witness, FANNY FERN.
TOM PAX’S CONJUGAL SOLILOQUY.
Mrs. Pax is an authoress. I knew it when I married her. I liked the
idea. I had not tried it then. I had not a clear idea what it was to
have one’s wife belong to the public. I thought marriage was marriage,
brains not excepted. I was mistaken. Mrs. Pax is very kind: I don’t wish
to say that she is not. Very obliging: I would not have you think the
contrary; but when I put my arm round Mrs. Pax’s waist, and say, “Mary,
I love you,” she smiles in an absent, moonlight-kind of a way, and says,
“Yes, to-day is Wednesday, is it not? I must write an article for ‘The
Weekly Monopolizer’ to-day.” That dampens my ardor; but presently I say
again, being naturally affectionate, “Mary, I love you;” she replies
(still abstractedly), “Thank you, how do you think it will do to call my
next article for ‘The Weekly Monopolizer,’ ‘The Stray Waif?’”
Mrs. Pax sews on all my shirt-buttons with the greatest good humor: I
would not have you think she does not; but with her thoughts still on
“The Weekly Monopolizer,” she sews them on the flaps, instead of the
wristbands. This is inconvenient; still Mrs. Pax is kindness itself; I
make no complaint.
I am very fond of walking. After dinner I say to Mrs. Pax, “Mary, let
us take a walk.” She says, “Yes, certainly, I must go down town to read
the proof of my article for ‘The Monopolizer.’” So, I go down town with
Mrs. Pax. After tea I say, “Mary, let us go to the theater to-night;”
she says, “I would be very happy to go, but the atmosphere is so bad
there, the gas always escapes, and my head must be clear to-morrow, you
know, for I have to write the last chapter of my forthcoming work,
‘Prairie Life.’” So I stay at home with Mrs. Pax, and as I sit down by
her on the sofa, and as nobody comes in, I think that this, after all,
is better, (though I must say my wife looks well at the Opera, and I
like to take her there). I put my arm around Mrs. Pax. It is a habit I
have. In comes the servant; and brings a handful of letters for her by
mail, directed to “Julia Jesamine!” (that’s my wife’s _nom-de-plume_). I
remove my arm from her waist, because she says “they are probably
business letters which require immediate notice.” She sits down at the
table, and breaks the seals. Four of them are from fellows who want “her
autograph.” _Mrs. Pax’s_ autograph! The fifth is from a gentleman who,
delighted with her last book, which he says “mirrored his own soul” (how
do you suppose Mrs. Pax found out how to “mirror _his_ soul?”) requests
“permission to correspond with the charming authoress.” “Charming!” my
wife! “his soul!” Mrs. Pax! The sixth is from a gentleman who desires
“the loan of five hundred dollars, as he has been unfortunate in
business, and has heard that her works have been very remunerative.”
Five hundred dollars for John Smith, from my wife! The seventh letter is
from a man at the West, offering her her own price to deliver a lecture
before the Pigtown Young Men’s Institute. _I like that!_
Mrs. Pax opens her writing desk; it is one I gave her; takes some
delicate buff note-paper; I gave her that, too; dips her gold pen (my
gift) into the inkstand, and writes--writes till eleven o’clock. Eleven!
and I, her husband, Tom Pax, sit there and wait for her.
The next morning when I awake, I say, “Mary dear?” She says, “Hush!
don’t speak, I’ve just got a capital subject to write about for ‘The
Weekly Monopolizer.’” Not that I am _complaining_ of Mrs. Pax, not at
all; not that I don’t like my wife to be an authoress: I do. To be sure
I can’t say that I knew _exactly_ what it involved. I did not know, for
instance, that the Press in speaking of her by her _nom-de-plume_ would
call her “OUR Julia,” but I would not have you think I object to her
being literary. On the contrary, I am not sure that I do not rather like
it; but I ask the Editor of “The Weekly Monopolizer,” as a man--as a
Christian--as a husband--if he thinks it right--if it is doing as he
would be done by--to monopolize my wife’s thoughts as early as five
o’clock in the morning? I merely ask for information. I trust I have no
resentful feelings toward the animal.
TEA AND DARNING NEEDLES “FOR TWO!”
Not long since, John Bull, in the columns of an English newspaper,
growled out his intense disgust at the “trash in the shape of American
lady books,” which constantly afflicted him from the other side of the
Atlantic.
Here is a book called “Letters from the United States, Canada, and
Cuba,” by the Hon. Amelia M. Murray, a lady of supposable refinement,
education, and of the highest social position in England; a lady whose
daily bread was _not_ dependent upon the immediate publication of her
book; who had leisure and opportunity carefully to write, and to correct
and revise what she had written.
We propose giving a few extracts to show what advance has been made
upon American literature, by our aristocratic British sister. But before
beginning, we wish to throw our glove in John Bull’s face, and defy him
to produce a greater, or even an _equal_ amount of stupid twaddle,
unrhetorical sentences, hap-hazard conclusions, petty, egotistical,
uninteresting details, narrow-minded views, and utter want of talent,
from between the covers of any _American_ lady book yet published.
The political question discussed by “the Hon.” authoress, we shall not
meddle with further than to say, first, that her book contains not one
new idea upon the subject; secondly, that her advocacy of a system
which condemns a portion of her own sex to helpless, hopeless, brutal
prostitution, reflects as little credit on her standard of what is
lovely and of good report in woman, as does her book upon female English
literature.
We quote the following specimens of Miss Murray’s style:
“At the house of his sister I saw another work by the same artist: two
children, the one as an angel leading the awakened soul of the other,
with an inscription below; very pretty!”
Again.
Speaking of the cholera in Boston, and the practice of using hot
vinegar there, as a disinfective, she says:
“I was told a carriage of this _fumigated_ liquid had been driven
through the streets; there are deaths here every day and some at
Newport, but _it_ is not believed to be contagious at present, only
carrying off the profligate and the debilitated.”
Again.
“Till my introduction to the Governor of New York I did not know that
each State has a Governor. Governor Seymour lives at Albany. Some of
those Governors are only elected for two years, _and_ this gentleman
does credit to popular choice.”
So much for the _Queen’s_ English! Now for one or two specimens of her
penetration. The first quotation we make will undoubtedly cause as much
surprise to the very many benevolent associations in Boston (which are
constantly deploring their inability to meet the voices of distress
which cry, help us!), as it did to ourself:
“I never met a beggar in Boston, not even among the Irish, and ladies
have told me that _they could not find a family on which to exercise
their benevolent feelings_!”
Governor Seymour, Miss Murray’s friend, will doubtless feel flattered
by the following patronizing mention of him. And here we will say, that
it would have been more politic in the Hon. Miss Amelia, when we
consider England’s late relations to Sebastopol, had she omitted to
touch upon so ticklish a subject as British military discipline.
Speaking of Governor Seymour’s review of the New York troops, on
Evacuation Day, she says:
“Governor Seymour reviewed these troops in front of the City Hall with
as much tranquillity of manner and simple dignity _as might have been
evinced by one of the most experienced of OUR public men_!”
One more instance of Miss Murray’s superior powers of observation:
“I have found out the reason why ladies, traveling alone in the United
States, must be extravagantly dressed; without that precaution they meet
with no attention, and little civility, decidedly much less than in any
other country, so here it is not as _women_, but as ladies, they are
cared for, and this in Democratic America!”
In the first place, every body but Miss Murray knows that an American
LADY never “travels expensively dressed.” That there are females who do
this, just as they walk our streets in a similar attire, and for a
similar purpose, is undeniable; and that they receive from the opposite
sex the “attentions” which they seek, is also true; but this, it seems
to us, should hardly _disturb the serenity of a “Maid of Honor_!”
As an American woman, and proud of our birth-right, we resent from our
British sister her imputation upon the proverbial chivalry of American
gentlemen. We have traveled alone, and in threadbare garments, and we
have never found these garments non-conductors of the respectful
courtesy of American gentlemen; they have never prevented the coveted
glass of water being proffered to our thirsty lips at the dépôt; the
offer of the more eligible seat on the shady side of the cars; the offer
of the beguiling newspaper, or book, or magazine; the kindly excluding
of annoying dust or sun by means of obstinate blinds or windows,
unmanageable by feminine fingers; the offer of camphor or cologne for
headache or faintness, or one, or all, of the thousand attentions to
which the chivalry of American gentlemen prompts them without regard to
externals, and too often (shame on the recipients!) without the reward
of the bright smile, or kindly “thank you,” to which they are so surely
entitled.
I could cite many instances in contradiction of Miss Murray’s
assertion that it is “not as _women_ but as ladies,” that American
gentlemen care for the gentler sex in America. I will mention only two,
out of many, which have come under my own personal observation.
Every body in New York must have noticed the decrepit old woman, with
her basket of peanuts and apples, who sits on the steps near the corner
of Canal-street (for how long a period the oldest inhabitant only
knows). One day toward nightfall, when the execrable state of the
crossings almost defied petticoat-dom, I saw her slowly gather up her
decrepit limbs, and undiminished wares, and, leaning upon her stick,
slowly totter homeward. She reached the point where she wished to cross;
it was slippery, wet, and crowded with a Babel of carts and carriages.
She looked despondingly up and down with her faded eyes, and I was
about to proffer her my assistance when a gentlemanly, handsome young
man stepped to her side, and drawing her withered hand within his arm,
safely guided her tottering footsteps across to the opposite sidewalk;
then, with a bow, graceful and reverential enough to have satisfied even
the cravings of the honorable and virginal Miss Murray, he left her. It
was a holy and a beautiful sight, and by no means an uncommon one,
“_even in America_.”
Again. I was riding in an omnibus, when a woman, very unattractive in
person and dress, got out, leaving a very common green vail upon the
seat. A gentleman present sprang after her with it in his hand, ran two
blocks, placed it in her possession, and returned to his place, not
having received even a bow of thanks from the woman in whose service his
nicely polished boots had been so plentifully mud-bespattered.
If “the honorable Miss Murray” came to this country with the
expectation that a coach-and-six would be on hand to convey her from
every dépôt to the hotel she was to honor with her aristocratic
presence, or that gentlemen would remain with their heads uncovered, and
their hands on the left side of their vests as she passed, in honor of
the reflected effulgence of England’s Queen (supposed to emanate from
Miss Murray’s very ordinary person), it is no marvel she was
disappointed. We should like to be as sure, when we travel in England,
of being (as a woman), as well and as courteously treated by John Bull
as was the honorable Miss Amelia by Brother Jonathan in America.
That there may be men, “even in America,” who measure out their nods,
and bows, and wreathed smiles, by the wealth and position of the
recipient, we do not doubt; for we have seen such, but would gently
suggest to “the honorable Miss Amelia” that in the pockets of such men
she will generally find--_naturalization papers_!
A HOUSE WITHOUT A BABY.
There was not a child in the house, not one; I was sure of it, when I
first went in. Such a spick-and-span look as it had! Chairs--grown-up
chairs, plastered straight up against the wall; books arranged by rule
and compass; no dear little careless finger-marks on furniture, doors,
or window-glass; no hoop, or ball, or doll, or mitten, or basket, or
picture-book on the premises; not a pin, or a shred on the angles and
squares of the immaculate carpet; the tassels of the window shades, at
which baby-fingers always make such a dead set, as fresh as if just from
the upholsterer’s. I sat down at the well-polished window, and looked
across the street. At the upper window of a wooden house opposite, I saw
a little bald baby, tied into a high chair, speculating upon the
panorama in the street, while its little fat hands frantically essayed
to grab distant pedestrians on the sidewalk. Its mother sat sewing
diligently by its side. Happy woman! she has a baby! She thought so,
too; for by-and-by she threw down her work, untied the fettering
handkerchief, took the child from its prison-house, and covered it with
kisses. Ah! she had heard a step upon the stairs--_the_ step! And now
there are _two_ to kiss the baby; for John has come to his dinner, and
giving both mother and child a kiss that made my lips work, he tosses
the babe up in his strong arms, while its mother puts dinner on the
table.
But, pshaw!--here come the old maids I was sent to see. I hear the
rustle of their well-preserved silks in the entry. I feel proper all
over. Vinegar and icicles! how shall I ever get through with it? Now the
door opens. What a bloodless look they have?--how dictionary-ish they
speak!--how carefully they lower themselves into their chairs, as if the
cushions were stuffed with live kittens!--how smooth their ruffs and
ribbons!
Bibs and pinafores! Give _me_ the upper room in the wooden house, with
kissing John and the bald baby!
GLANCES AT PHILADELPHIA.
NUMBER ONE.
And this is Philadelphia! All hail, Philadelphia! Where a lady’s
aching fingers may be reprieved from the New York thraldom of
skirt-holding off dirty pavements; where the women have the good taste,
in dress, to eschew the gaudy tulip and array themselves like the lily;
where hoops are unknown, or at least so modified as to become debateable
ground; where lady shop-keepers know how to be civil to their own sex,
and do not keep you standing on one leg an hour after you hand them a
bill, while with hawk eye and extended forefinger they peruse that
nuisance called the “Counterfeit Detector.” Where the goods, not better
than in New York, save in their more quiet hue, are never crammed down a
customer’s unwilling throat; where omnibus-drivers do not expectorate
into the coach-windows, or bang clouds of dust into your doomed eyes
from the roof, thumping for your fare, or start their vehicles before
female feet have taken leave of what has nearly proved to so many of us
the _final_ step! where the markets--but hold! they deserve a paragraph
by themselves.
Ye gods! what butter! Shall I ever again swallow the abominable
concoction called butter in New York? That I--Fanny Fern--should have
lived to this time, and never known the bliss of tasting Philadelphia
butter!--never seen those golden pounds, each separately folded in its
fresh green leaf, reposing so temptingly, and crying, Eat me, so
eloquently, from the snow-white tubs! What have the Philadelphians done
that they should be fed on such crisp vegetables, such fresh fruits, and
such _creamy_ ice-creams? That their fish should come dripping to their
mouths from their native element. That their meat should wait to be
carried home, instead of crawling by itself? Why should the most
circumscribed and frugal of housekeepers, who goes with her snowy basket
to buy her husband’s dinner, be able to _daintyfy_ his table with a
fragrant sixpenny bouquet? Why should the strawberries be so big, and
dewy, and luscious? Why should the peas, and cauliflowers, and
asparagus, and lettuce--Great Cæsar! what _have_ the Philadelphians
done that they should wallow in such high-stepping clover?
_I have it!_
It is the reward of virtue--_It is the smile of Heaven on men who are
too chivalric to puff tobacco-smoke in ladies’ faces which beautify and
brighten their streets_. They deserve it--they deserve their
lily-appareled wives and roly-poly, kissable, sensibly-dressed children.
They deserve to walk up those undefiled marble-steps, into their blessed
home sanctuaries, overshadowed by those grand, patriarchal trees. They
deserve that their bright-eyed sons should be educated in a noble
institution like “The Central High School,” where pure ventilation and
cheerfulness are considered of as much importance as mathematics, or
Greek and Latin. Where the placid brow and winning smile of the
Principal are more potent auxiliaries than ferules or frowns. Give me
the teacher on whose desk blooms the bouquet, culled by a loving pupil’s
fingers; whose eye, magnetic with kindness--whose voice, electric with
love for his calling, wakes up into untiring action all that is best and
noblest in the sympathetic, fresh young hearts before him. A _human_
teacher, who recognizes in every boy before him (be he poorly or richly
clad--be he glorious in form and face as a young Apollo, or cramped and
dwarfed into unshapeliness in the narrow cradle of poverty) an immortal
soul, clamorous with its craving needs, seeking the light, throwing out
its luxuriant tendrils for something strong and kindly to cling to,
longing for the upper air of expansion and strength. God bless the
_human_ teacher who recognizes, and _acts_ as if he recognized this!
Heaven multiply such schools as “The Philadelphia High School,” with its
efficient Principal, its able Professors and teachers, and its graduates
who number by scores the noble and honored of the land, and of the sea.
I love to linger in cemeteries. And so, in company with an editorial
friend, Colonel Fitzgerald, of the Philadelphia _City Item_, to whose
hospitality, with that of his lovely wife, I am much indebted, I
visited “Laurel Hill.” The group “Old Mortality” at its entrance needs
no praise of mine. The eye might linger long ere it wearied in gazing
at it. I like cemeteries, but I like not elaborate monuments, or
massive iron railings; a simple hedge--a simple head-stone (where the
tiny bird alights, ere, like the parting spirit, it plumes its wings
for a heavenward flight) for its inscription--the words to which
the universal heart has responded, and will respond till time
shall be no longer--till the graves give up their dead;
“Mother”--“Husband”--“Wife”--“Child”--what epitaph can improve this?
what language more eloquently measure the height and breadth, and length
and depth of sorrow?
And so, as I read these simple words at “Laurel Hill,” my heart
sympathized with those unallied to me, save by the common bond of
bereavement; and thus I passed on--until I came to an author’s
grave--no critic’s pen again to sting that heart;--pulseless it must
have been, not to have stirred with all the wealth of bud and blossom,
waving tree and shining river, that lay bathed in the golden, summer
sunlight above him. So, God willing, would I sleep at last; but not
yet--not yet, my pen, till thou hast shouted again and again--_Courage!
Courage!_--to earth’s down-trodden and weary-hearted.
GLANCES AT PHILADELPHIA.
NUMBER TWO.
If you want to see unmasked human nature, keep your eyes open in
railroad cars and on steamboats. See that man now, poring over a
newspaper, while he is passing through scenery where the shifting lights
and shadows make pictures every instant, more beautiful than an artist
ever dreamed. See that woman, who has journeyed with her four children
hundreds of miles alone--as I am proud to say women may safely journey
in America (if they behave themselves)--travel-stained, care-worn and
weary, listening to, and answering patiently and pleasantly the thousand
and one questions of childhood; distributing to them, now a cracker, now
a sip of water from the cask in the corner, brushing back the hair from
their flushed brows, while her own is throbbing with the pain, of which
she never speaks. In yonder corner are two Irish women, each with a
little red-fretted baby, in the universal Erin uniform of yellow; their
little heads bobbing helplessly about in the bumping cars, screaming
lustily for the comfort they well know is close at hand, and which the
public are notified they have at last found, by a ludicrously
instantaneous suspension of their vociferous cries. Beautiful as
bountiful provision of Nature! which, if there was no other proof of a
God, would suffice for me.
There is a surly old fellow, who won’t have the windows open, though
the pale woman beside him mutely entreats it, with her smelling-salts to
her nose. Yonder is an old bachelor, listening to a sweet little
blue-eyed girl, who, with untasked faith in human nature, has crept from
her mother’s side, and selected him for an audience, to say--“that once
there was a kid, with two little totty kids, and don’t you believe that
one night when the old mother kid was asleep,” etc., etc. No wonder he
stoops to kiss the little orator; no wonder he laughs at her naïve
remarks; no wonder she has magnetised the watch from his pocket “to hear
what it says;” no wonder he smooths back the curly locks from the frank,
white brow; no wonder he presses again and again his bachelor lips to
that rosy little mouth; no wonder, when the distant city nears us, and
the lisping “good-by” is chirruped, and the little feet are out of sight
and sound, that he sighs,--God and his own soul know why! Blessed
childhood--thy shortest life, though but a span, hath yet its mission.
The tiniest babe never laid its velvet cheek on the sod till it had
delivered its Maker’s message--heeded not then, perhaps--but coming to
the wakeful ear in the silent night-watch, long after the little
preacher was dust. Blessed childhood!
It is funny, as well as edifying, to watch hotel arrivals; to see the
dusty, hungry, lack-luster-eyed travelers drag into the
eating-room--take their allotted seats--enviously regard those consumers
of dainties who have already had the good fortune, by rank of
precedence, to get their hungry mouths filled; to see them at last “fall
to,” as Americans only know how. Heaven help the landlord! Beef-steak,
chicken, omelette, mutton-chops, biscuit and coffee--at one fell swoop.
Waiters, who it is to be hoped, have not been kept breakfastless since
early daylight, looking on calm, but disgusted. Now, their appetites
appeased, that respectable family yonder begin to notice that Mr. and
Mrs. Fitzsnooks and Miss Fitzsnooks opposite, who are aristocratically
delicate in their appetites, are shocked beyond the power of expression.
They begin, as they wipe their satisfied lips with their table-napkins,
and contemplate Miss Fitzsnooks’s showy breakfast-robe, to bethink them
of their dusty traveling-dresses; as if--foolish creatures--they were
not in infinitely better taste, soiled as they are, than her gaudy
finery at so early an hour--as if a man was not a man “for a’ that”--ay,
and a woman, too--as if there _could_ be vulgarity without
pretension--as if the greatest vulgarity was not ostentatious
pretension.
“_Fairmount_,” of which the Philadelphians are so justly proud, is no
misnomer. He must be cynical, indeed, hopelessly weak in the
_understanding_, who would grumble at the steep ascent by means of which
so lovely a panorama is enjoyed. At every step some new beauty develops
itself to the worshiper of nature. In the gray old rocks, festooned with
the vivid green of the woodbine and ivy, considerately draping statues
for eyes--I confess it, more prudish than mine. The placid Schuylkill
flowing calmly below, with its emerald-fringed banks, nesting the homes
of wealth and luxury; enjoyed less, perhaps, by their owners, than by
the industrious artisan, who, reprieved from his day’s toil, stands
gazing at them with his wife and children, and inhaling the breeze, of
which, God be thanked, the rich man has no monopoly.
Of course I visited Philadelphia “State-House;” of course I talked
with the nice old gentleman who guards the country’s relics; of course I
stared--with my ’76 blood at fever heat--upon the big bell which clanged
forth so joyfully our American independence; of course I stared at the
piece of stone-step, from which the news of our Independence was first
announced; and of course I wondered how it was possible for it, under
such circumstances, to _remain_ stone. Of course I sat down in the
venerable, high-backed leather chair, in which so many great men of
that time, and so many little men of this have reposed. Of course I
reverently touched the piece of a pew which formerly was part of “Christ
Church,” and in which Franklin and Washington had worshiped. Of course I
inscribed my name, at the nice old gentleman’s request, in the mammoth
book for visitors. And of course I mounted to the Cupola of the State
House to see “the view;” which, with due submission, I did not think
worth (from that point) the strain on my ankles, or the confused state
of my cranium, consequent upon repeated losses of my latitude and
longitude, while pursuing my stifled and _winding_ way.
“The Mint?” Oh--certainly, I saw the Mint! and wondered, as I looked
at the shining heaps, that any of Uncle Sam’s children should ever want
a cent; also, I wondered if the workmen who fingered them, did not grow,
by familiarity, indifferent to their value--and to their possession. I
was told that not the minutest particle of the metal, whether fused or
otherwise, could be abstracted without detection. I was glad, as I
always am, in a fitting establishment, to see _women_ employed in
various offices--such as stamping the coin, etc., and more glad still,
to learn that they had respectable wages. Heaven speed the time when a
thousand other doors of virtuous labor shall be opened to them, and
silence for ever the heart-rending “Song of the Shirt.”
GLANCES AT PHILADELPHIA.
NUMBER THREE.
Always an _if_! _If_ the Philadelphians would not barricade their
pretty houses with those ugly wooden outside shutters, with those ugly
iron hinges. I am sure my gypsy breath would draw hard behind one. And
_if_ the Philadelphians would not build such garrison-like walls about
their beautiful gardens. Why not allow the passer-by to view what would
give so much pleasure? certainly, we would hope, without abstracting any
from the proprietors. Clinton avenue, as well as other streets in
Brooklyn, is a beautiful example of this. Light, low iron railings about
the well-kept lawns and gardens--sunset groups of families upon piazzas,
and O--prettier yet--little children darting about like butterflies
among the flowers. I missed this in Philadelphia. The balmy air of
evening seemed only the signal for barring up each family securely
within those jail-like shutters; behind which, I am sure, beat hearts as
warm and friendly as any stranger could wish to meet, I must say I feel
grateful to any householder who philanthropically refreshes the _public_
eye with the vines and flowers he has wreathed about his home. I feel
grateful to any woman I meet, who rests my rainbow-sated eye by a
modest, tasteful costume. I thank every well-made man who passes me with
well-knit limbs and expanded chest, encased in nice linen, and a coat
he can breathe in; yes--why not? Do you purse up your mouth at this? do
you say it was not _proper_ for me to have said this? I hate the word
proper. If you tell me a thing is not proper, I immediately feel the
most rabid desire to go “neck and heels” into it. Proper! it is a fence
behind which indelicacy is found hidden much oftener than in the open
highway. Out upon proper! So I say again, I like to see a well-made
man--made--not by the tailor--but by the Almighty. I glory in his
luxuriant beard; in his firm step; in his deep, rich voice; in his
bright, falcon eye. I thank him for being handsome, and letting me see
him. We all yearn for the beautiful; the little child, who drew its
first breath in a miserable cellar, and has known no better home, has
yet its cracked mug or pitcher, with the treasured dandelion or clover
blossoms. Be generous, ye householders, who have the means to gratify a
taste to which God himself ministers, and hoard not your gardens and
flowers for the palled eye of satiety. Let the little child, who, God
knows, has few flowers enough in its earthly pathway, peep through the
railing, and, if only for a brief moment, dream of paradise.
The Philadelphia Opera House, which I am told is a very fine one, I
did not see, as I intended, as also many institutions which I hope yet
to visit, when I can make a longer stay. Of one of the principal
theaters I will say, that she must be a courageous woman who would dare
to lean back against its poisonously dirty cushions. Ten minutes
sufficed me to breathe an atmosphere that would have disgraced the “Five
Points;” and to listen to tragic howlings only equaled in the drunken
brawls of that locality. Upon my exit, I looked with new surprise upon
the first pair of immaculate marble steps I encountered, and putting
this and that together, gave up the vexed problem. New York streets may
be dirty, but our places of amusement are clean.
At one public institution I visited, we were shown about by the most
dignified and respectable of gray-haired old men; so much so, that I
felt serious compunctions lest I should give trouble by asking questions
which agitated my very inquiring mind. Bowing an adieu to him, with the
reverence with which his appearance had inspired me, we were about to
pass down the principal stairs to the main entrance, when he touched the
gentleman who accompanied me on the shoulder, and said in an undertone,
not intended for my ears, “Please don’t offer me money, sir, _in the
presence of any one_!” A minute after he had pocketed, with a bow, the
neatly-extracted coin (which _I_ should as soon have thought of offering
to General Washington), and with a parting touch of his warning
forefinger to his lip, intended for my companion, we found ourselves
outside the building, doing justice to his generalship by explosive
bursts of laughter. So finished was the performance, that we admiringly
agreed to withhold the name of the venerable perpetrator.
We found the very best accommodations at the hotel where we were
located, both as to the fare and attendance. I sent a dress to the
laundry-room for a little re-touching, rendered necessary by my ride the
day before. On ringing for its return, the summons was answered by a
grenadier-looking fellow, with a world of whisker, who, as I opened the
door, stood holding the gauzy nondescript at arm’s length, between his
thumb and finger, as he inquired of me, “Is this the item, mem?” _Item!_
Had he searched the dictionary through, he could not have better hit
it--or me. I have felt a contempt for the dress ever since.
Having had the misfortune to set the pitcher in my room down upon
vacancy, instead of upon the wash-stand, and the natural consequence
thereof being a crash and a flood, I reported the same, lest the
chambermaid should suffer for my careless act. Of course, I found it
charged in my bill, as I had intended, but with it the whole cost of the
set to which it belonged! It never struck me, till I got home, that by
right of proprietorship, I might have indulged in the little luxury of
smashing the remainder--which I think of taking a special journey to
Philadelphia to do!
GLANCES AT PHILADELPHIA.
NUMBER FOUR.
I wonder--I suppose a body may wonder--if the outward sweeping and
garnishing one sees in Philadelphia is symbolical of its inward purity?
If the calm placidity of its inhabitants covers up smoldering volcanoes?
It is none of my business, as you say; for all that, the old
proverb--“Still waters run deepest”--would occur to me, as I walked
those lovely streets. An eye-witness to the constant verification of
this truth, in the white-washed, saintly atmosphere of the city of
Boston, may certainly be forgiven a doubt. Do the Philadelphia churches,
like theirs, contain a sprinkling of those meek-faced Pharisees, who
weary Heaven with their long prayers, and in the next breath blast their
neighbor’s character; who contribute large sums to be heard of men, and
frown away from their doors their poverty-stricken relatives? Do those
nun-like Philadelphia women ever gossip, “Caudle lecture” and pout? Do
those correct-looking men know the taste of champagne, and have they
latch-keys? Are their Quaker habits pulled off, when they come “on
business” to this seething Sodom? Or--is it true of them, as Mackay says
of Lady Jane--
“Her pulse is calm--milk-white her skin,
She hath not blood enough to sin.”
It is none of my business, as you say; but still I know that white
raiment is worn alike by the rosy bride and the livid corpse.
Mischief take these microscopic spectacles of mine! mounted on my nose
by the hypocrites I have known, who glide ever between my outstretched
arms of love and those whom I would enfold. Avaunt! I like Philadelphia,
and I like the Philadelphians, and I _will_ believe in appearances once
more before I die.
Like a cabinet picture in my memory, is lovely “Wissahickon;” with its
tree-crowned summits--its velvety, star-blossomed mosses; its feathery
ferns, and its sweet-breath’d wild flowers. If any one thinks an editor
is not agreeable out of harness, let him enjoy it, as I did, with Mr.
Fry of “The New York Tribune,” whose early love it was in boyhood. In
such an Eden, listening to the low whisper of the shivering trees, the
dreamy ripple of the wave, and the subdued hum of insect life--well
might the delicate artistic ear of song be attuned.
But “Wissahickon” boasts other lions than Fry--in the shape (if I may
use a Hibernicism) of a couple of live bears--black, soft, round,
treacherous, and catty; to be gazed upon at a distance, spite of their
chains; to shiver at, spite of their owner’s assurance, as they came as
far as their limits through the trees to look at us, “that they wouldn’t
do nothing to nobody.” It would be a speculation for some Broadway
druggist to buy that one who stood upon his hind legs, and taking a
bottle of Sarsaparilla Soda in his trained fore-paws, drained it
standing with the gusto of a connoisseur.
Not one beggar did I see in Philadelphia. After witnessing the squalor
which contrasts so painfully with New York luxury and extravagance, this
was an untold relief.
Philadelphia, too, has what we so much need here--comfortable,
cleanly, convenient, _small_ houses for mechanics; comprising the
not-to-be-computed luxury of a bath-room, and gas, at the attainable
rent of seventy-five or a hundred dollars a year. No house ever yet was
built, broad enough, wide enough, and high enough, to contain two
families. Wars will arise over the disputed territory of front and back
stairs, which lawless childhood--bless its trustful nature--will persist
in believing common ground. But apart from the cozy pleasure of having a
little snuggery of one’s own--where one may cry, or laugh, or sneeze,
without asking leave--this subject in its _moral_ aspect is well worth
the attention of humane New York capitalists--and I trust we have such.
IN THE DUMPS.
What does ail me? I’m as blue as indigo. Last night I was as gay as a
bob-o’-link--perhaps that is the reason. Good gracious, hear that wind
howl! Now low--now high--till it fairly shrieks; it excites me like the
pained cry of a human. There’s my pretty California flower--blue as a
baby’s eyes; all shut up--no wonder--I wish my eyes were shut up, too.
What _does_ ail me? I think it is that dose of a Boston paper I have
just been reading (for want of something better to do), whose book
critic calls “Jane Eyre” an “_immoral_ book.” Donkey! It is vain to hope
that _his_ life has been as pure and self-sacrificing as that of
“Charlotte Bronte.” There’s the breakfast-bell--and there’s Tom with
that autumn-leaf colored vest on, that I so hate. Why don’t men wear
pretty vests? why can’t they leave off those detestable stiff collars,
stocks, and things, that make them all look like choked chickens, and
which hide so many handsomely-turned throats, that a body never sees,
unless a body is married, or unless a body happens to see a body’s
brothers while they are shaving. Talk of women’s throats--you ought to
see a whiskered throat I saw once----Gracious, how blue I am! Do you
suppose it is the weather? I wish the sun would shine out and try me.
See the inch-worms on that tree. That’s because it is a pet of mine.
Every thing I like goes just that way. If I have a nice easy dress that
I can sneeze in, it is sure to wear out and leave me to the crucifying
alternative of squeezing myself into one that is not broke into my
figure. I hate new gowns--I hate new shoes--I hate new bonnets--I hate
any thing new except new--spapers, and I was born reading them.
There’s a lame boy--now why couldn’t that boy have been straight?
There’s a rooster driving round a harem of hens; what do the foolish
things run for? If they didn’t run, he couldn’t chase them--of
course not. Now it’s beginning to rain; every drop perforates my
heart. I could cry tears enough to float a ship. Why _need_ it
rain?--patter--patter--skies as dull as lead--trees nestling up to each
other in shivering sympathy; and that old cow--I hate cows--they always
make a dive at me--I suppose it is because they are females; that old
cow stands stock still, looking at that pump-handle just where, and as
she did, when I went to bed last night. Do you suppose that a cow’s tail
ever gets tired lashing flies from her side; do you suppose her jaws
ever ache with that eternal munching? If there is any place I like, it
is a barn; I mean to go a journey this summer, not “to see Niagara”--but
to see a barn. Oh, the visions I’ve had on haymows! oh, the tears I’ve
shed there--oh, the golden sunlight that has streamed down on me through
the chinks in the raftered roof--oh, the cheerful swallow-twitterings on
the old cross-beams--oh, the cunning brown mice scampering over the
floor--oh, the noble bay-horse with his flowing mane, and arching neck,
and satin sides, and great _human_ eyes. Strong as Achilles--gentle as a
woman. Pshaw! women were never half so gentle to me. _He_ never repulsed
me when I laid my head against his neck for sympathy. _Brute_ forsooth!
I wish there were more such brutes. Poor Hunter--he’s dead, of course,
because I loved him;--the _trunk-maker_ only knows what has become of
his hide and my books. What of that? a hundred years hence and who’ll
care? I don’t think I love any thing--or care for any thing to-day. I
don’t think I shall ever have any feeling again for any body or any
thing. Why don’t somebody turn that old rusty weather-cock, or play me a
triumphant march, or bring me a dew-gemmed daisy?
There’s funeral--a _child’s_ funeral! Oh--what a wretch I am! Come
here--you whom I love--you who love me; closer--closer--let me twine my
arms about you, and God forgive me for shutting my eyes to his
sunshine.
PEEPS FROM UNDER A PARASOL.
People describe me, without saying “by your leave;” a little thought
has just occurred to me that two can play at that game! I don’t go about
with my eyes shut--no tailor can “take a measure” quicker than I, as I
pass along.
There are Drs. Chapin and Bethune, whose well-to-do appearance in this
world quite neutralizes their Sunday exhortations to “set one’s
affections on a better.” There’s Greeley--but why describe the town
pump? he has been handle-d enough to keep _him_ from Rust-ing. There’s
that Epicurean Rip-lie, critic of the “New York Tribune;” if I have
spelt his name wrong, it was because I was thinking of the unmitigated
fibs he has told in his book reviews! There’s Colonel Fuller, editor of
the “New York Evening Mirror,” handsome, witty, and saucy. There’s Mr.
Young, editor of “The Albion,” who looks too much like a gentlemen to
have abused, in so wholesale a manner, the lady writers of America.
There’s Blank-Blank, Esq., editor of the “New York Blank,” who always
reminds me of what the Scotch parson said to his wife, whom he noticed
asleep in church: “Jennie! Jennie! you have no beauty, as all the
congregation may see, and if you have no grace, I have made but a poor
bargain of it!” There’s Richard Storrs Willis, or, Storrs Richard
Willis, or, Willis Richard Storrs (it is a way that family have to keep
changing their names), editor of the “Musical World,” not a bad paper
either. Richard has a fine profile, a trim, tight figure, always
unexceptionably arrayed, and has a gravity of mien most edifying to one
who has eat bread and molasses out of the same plate with him.
Behind that beard coming down street in that night-gown overcoat, is
Mr. Charles A. Dana, of the “New York Tribune,” who is ready to say,
“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,” when he shall have made
the “New York Tribune” like unto the “London Times;” Charles should
remember that the motto of the “London Times” is “Fair Play”--not the
_appearance_ of fair play. And here is Philander Doesticks, of the “New
York Picayune,” and “New York Tribune,” a delightful specimen of healthy
manhood, in a day whose boys at sixteen look as though they had
exhausted life; may his wit continue as keen as his eyes, his heart as
fresh as his complexion, and his fancy as luxuriant as his beard.
There’s Bayard Taylor, “the Oriental Bayard.” Now I don’t suppose Bayard
is to blame for being a _pretty_ man, or for looking so nice and
bandbox-y. But if some public benefactor _would_ tumble his hair and
shirt collar, and tie his cravat in a loose sailor knot, and if Bayard
himself _would_ open that little three-cent piece mouth of his a
l-i-t-t-l-e wider when he lectures, it would take a load off my mind! I
write this, in full view of his interest in the Almighty “Tribune,” and
also set up before him certain “Leaves” for a target, by way of
reprisal.
And there is George P. Morris--General George Morris--and Briga-_dear_
General at that, with an eye like a star; and more vitality in him than
there is in half the young men who might call him father. May Time, who
has dealt so gently with “The Woodman,” long delay to cut him down.
* * * * *
One day, after my arrival in New York, I met a man striding down
street, in the face of a pin-and-needle wind, that was blowing his long
hair away from his bloodshot eyes, and forcing him to compress his lips,
to keep what breath he had--inside--to warm him; tall and lank, he
clutched his rough blanket shawl about him like a brigand. Fearing he
might be an escaped lunatic, I gave him a wide berth on the sidewalk.
Each day, in my walks, I met him, till at last I learned to watch for
the wearied, haggard-looking face; I think the demonism of it magnetized
me. After looking at the kidded dandies, who flourished their perfumed
handkerchiefs past, the sight of him was as refreshing as a grand, black
thunder cloud, looming up in the horizon, after the oppressive
hum-drum-ness of a sultry day. One night I was at the opera; and amid
its blaze, and glitter, and glare, was that haggard face, looking
tenfold more satanic than ever. Grisi charmed him not, nor Mario either.
Ah--that strain! who could resist it? A luminous smile in an instant
transforms Lucifer--was that the same haggard face, upon which, but one
moment ago, every passing hour had seemed to set its seal of care, and
sorrow, and disappointment?
What was that smile like?
It was like the glorious outbursting of the sun on bud and tree, and
blossom, when the thunder cloud has rolled away. It was like the sudden
flashing of light through a crystal vase, revealing the delicate tracery
of _His_ fingers who made man _originally_ “but little lower than the
angels.”
And so when I hear Mr. Fry, the musical thunderer of the “Tribune,”
called “gaunt” and “ugly”--I shake my head incredulously; and when I
read in the “Tribune” a biting article from his caustic pen, dissecting
poor Napoleon (who certainly expiated all his sins, even that wretched
divorce, when he fretted his eagle soul away at St. Helena, beating his
strong, but powerless wings, heavily against his English prison bars);
when I read Mr. Fry’s vulture-like dissection of Napoleon, I recall that
luminous music-born smile, and rejoice that in every man’s heart is an
oasis which the Simoon-breath of worldly care, and worldly toil and
ambition has no power to blight!
And here comes Barnum--poor Barnum! late so _riant_ and rosy. Kick not
the prostrate lion, ye crowing changelings; you may yet feel his paws in
your faces; Mammon grant it! not for the love I bear to “woolly horses,”
but for the hate I bear to pharisaical summer friends.
Ah! here comes Count Gurowski; Mars of the “Tribune.” Oh! the
knowledge buttoned up in that shaggy black overcoat! Oh! the prophet
eyes hid by those ugly green goggles! Not a move on the European
checker-board escapes their notice; but no film of patriotism can cloud
to their Russian owner the fall of Sebastopol; and while we gladly
welcome rare foreign talent like his to our shores, our cry still must
be, “Down with tyranny and tyrants.”
And there is Briggs; whilome editor of “Putnam’s Monthly,” now
factotum of the “New York Times,” a most able writer and indefatigable
worker. People judge him to be unamiable because his pen has a sharp
nib. Fudge! one knows what to expect from a torpedo, but who can count
on an eel? I trust no malicious person will twist this question to the
disparagement of Briggs’s editorial coadjutor.
And here, by the rood, comes FANNY FERN! FANNY is a woman. For that
she is not to blame; though since she first found it out, she has never
ceased to deplore it. She might be prettier; she might be younger. She
might be older; she might be uglier. She might be better; she might be
worse. She has been both over-praised and over-abused, and those who
have abused her worst, have imitated and copied her most.
One thing may be said in favor of FANNY: she was NOT, thank
Providence, born in the beautiful, backbiting, sanctimonious,
slandering, clean, contumelious, pharisaical, phiddle-de-dee,
peck-measure city--of Boston!
Look!
Which? How? Where?
Why _there_; don’t you see? there’s Potiphar Curtis.
Potiphar Curtis! Ye gods, what a name! Pity my ignorance, reader, I
had not then heard of the great “Howadji”--the only Potiphar I knew of
being that much-abused ancient who--but never mind him; suffice it to
say, I had not heard of “Howadji;” and while I stood transfixed with his
ridiculous cognomen, his coat tails, like his namesake’s rival’s, were
disappearing in the distance. So I can not describe him for you; but I
give you my word, should I ever see him, to do him justice to the tips
of his boots, which, I understand, are of immaculate polish. I have read
his “Papers” though, and to speak in the style of the patronizing
critics who review lady-books, they are very well--_for a man_.
* * * * *
I was sauntering along one sunny day last week, when I saw before me a
young girl, hooped, flounced, fringed, laced, bugled, and ribboned,
regardless of cost. Her mantilla, whether of the “Eugenie” or “Victoria”
pattern I am too ignorant to inform you, was of black, and had more
trimming than I could have believed the most ingenious of dressmakers
could pile on _one_ mantilla, though backed by every dry goods merchant
in New York. Venus! what a figure it was hung on! Short, flat-chested,
narrow-shouldered, angular, and stick-like! her bonnet was a marvel of
Lilliputianism, lightness, and lilacs. Raphael! what a face was under
it! Watery, yellow, black eyes, a sallow, unwholesome skin,
and--Bardolph! what a nose! Imagine a spotted “Seckle pear”--imagine a
gnarled bulb-root--imagine a vanquished prize-fighter’s proboscis, and
you have it! That such a female, with such repulsive features, living in
a Christian country, where there were looking-glasses, should strain
back from the roots what little hair she had, as if her face were
beautiful in its outline--it was incredible.
Who, or what, was she? One of those poor, bedizened unfortunates who
hang out signal “Barkis” flags? The poor thing had no capital, even for
that miserable market; nobody would have bid for her, but a pawnbroker.
While I speculated and wondered, she slowly lifted her kidded
forefinger. I was all eyes and ears! A footman in livery sprang forward,
and obsequiously let down the steps of a superb carriage, in waiting, on
whose panels was emblazoned a coat-of-arms. The bundle of millinery--the
stick-like figure inside the hoops--the gay little bonnet, and the
Bardolphian nose, took possession of it. The liveried footman mounted
behind, the liveried coachman cracked his whip on the box, the sleek,
shiny horses arched their necks, the silver-mounted harness glistened
in the sunlight, and the vision was gone. F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! is there no
limit to your ignorance? You had been commiserating--actually
_commiserating_--one of the _élite_ of New York!
All-compensating nature! tossing money-bags to twisted features, and
divorcing beauty from brains; unfortunate they, whom in thy hurry thou
hast overlooked, bestowing neither beauty, brains, nor money!
That was not all I saw from under my parasol, on that sunny morning. I
saw a young girl--bonnetless, shawlless--beautiful as God often makes
the poor--struggling in the grasp of two sturdy policemen. Tears
streamed from her eyes, while with clasped hands, as she shrank away
from their rough gripe, she plead for release. What was her sin I know
not. It might have been the first downward step in a life of unfriended
and terrible temptation; for the agony in that young face could not have
been feigned; or--she might have been seized only on suspicion; but in
vain she begged, and prayed, and wept. Boys shouted; men, whose souls
were leprous with sin, jeered; and heartless, scornful women “passed by
on the other side.”
The poor young creature (none the less to be pitied, _had_ she sinned)
goaded to madness by the gathering crowd, seized her long trailing
tresses, and tossing them up like a veil over her shame-flushed and
beautiful face, resigned herself to her fate.
Many will think any expression of sympathy for this poor unfortunate,
uncalled for. There are enough to defend that side of the question, and
to them I willingly leave it; there are others, who, with myself, could
wish that young girls thus (it may be _innocently_) accused, should not,
before trial, be dragged roughly through the public streets, like
shameless, hardened offenders. There are those who, like myself, as they
look upon the faces of their own fair young daughters, and think of the
long life of happiness or misery before them, will wish that the sword
of the law might be tempered with more mercy.
The two scenes above recorded, are not _all_ that I saw from under my
parasol, on that sunny morning. I passed the great bow-windows of the
St. Nicholas--those favorite lounging-places for male guests, and other
gentlemen, well pleased to criticise lady pedestrians, who, thanks to
the inventor of parasols, can dodge their battery of glances at will.
Not so, the gentlemen; who weary with travel and sight-seeing,
unthinkingly fall asleep in those luxurious arm-chairs, in full
view of the public, with their heels on the window-sill, their heads
hanging on one side, and their wide-open mouths so suggestive of
the----_snore_--that I fancy I hear. Heaven forgive these
comical-looking sleepers the cachinatory sideaches they have often given
me!
Was there _ever_ any thing uglier than a man asleep? Single women who
have traveled in railroad cars, need not be too modest to answer!
One of the first things I noticed in New York, was the sharp, shrill,
squeaking, unrefined, vixenish, _uneducated_ voices of its women. How
inevitably such disenchanting discord, breaks the spell of beauty!
Fair New Yorkers, keep your mouths _shut_, if you would conquer.
By what magnetism has our mention of voices conjured up the form of
Dr. LOWELL MASON? And yet, there he is, as majestic as Old Hundred--as
popular--and apparently as indestructible by _Time_. I would like to see
a pupil of his who does not love him. I defy any one to look at this
noble, patriarchal chorister (as he leads the _congregational singing_
on the Sabbath, in Dr. Alexander’s church) with an unmoistened eye. How
fitting his position--and oh! how befitting God’s temple, the praise of
“_all_ the people.” Should some conquering hero, whose blood had been
shed, free as water, for us and ours, revisit our shores, oh, who, as
his triumphal chariot wheels rolled by, would _pass over to his neighbor
for expression_ the tumultuous gratitude with which his own heart was
swelling?
That the mantle of the father should have fallen on the son, is not
surprising; and they who have listened delightedly at Mr. William
Mason’s “Musical Matinée’s” must bear witness how this inherited gift
has been enriched by assiduous culture. Nature in giving him the ear
and genius for a pianist, has also finished off his hands with such
nicety, that, as they dart over the keys, they look to the observer like
little snow-white scampering mice.
Ah--here is Dr. Skinner! no misnomer that: but what a logician--what
an orator! Not an unmeaning sentence--not a superfluous word--not an
unpolished period escapes him. In these day of superficial, botched,
evangelical apprentice-work, it is a treat to welcome a master workman.
Thank Providence, _all_ the talent is not on the side of Beelzebub!
Vinegar cruets and vestry meetings! here come a group of Bostonians!
Mark their puckered, spick-and-span self-complaisance! Mark that
scornful gathering up of their skirts as they sidle away from that
gorgeous Magdalen who, God pity and help her, _may_ repent in her robes
of unwomanly shame, but they in their “mint and anise,” whitewashed
garments--_never_!
I close with a little quotation, not that it has any thing to do with
my subject, but that it is merely a poetical finish to my article. Some
people have a weakness for poetry; I have; it is from the pen of the
cant-hating HOOD.
“A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth,
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse,
A London pride--in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better, and some worse;
But of all prides, since Lucifer’s attaint,
The proudest swells a _self-elected saint_.
To picture that cold pride, so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock, in a poultry-yard;
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and planted stiff
In all his pomp and pageantry, as if
_He felt “the eyes of Europe” on his tail_!”
THE CONFESSION BOX.
I confess to being nervous. I don’t admire the individual who places a
foot upon the rounds of the chair on which I am sitting; or beats a
prolonged tattoo with his fingers on the table; or stands with his hands
on a creaking door, moving it backward and forward, while he performs an
interminable leave-taking; or spins napkin-rings, while he waits for the
dessert; or tips his chair back on its hind legs, in the warmth of
debate; or tells jokes as old as Noah’s ark; or levels volleys of puns
at me when I am not in the laughing mood.
Yes, I’m nervous. I would rather not hear a dog bark more than half
the night. The scissors-grinder’s eternal bell-tinkle, and the soap-fat
man’s long-drawn whoop, send me out of my chair like a pop-gun. I break
down under the best minister, after “forty-ninthly;” and am prepared to
scream at any minute after every seat in a street car is filled, and
every body is holding somebody in their laps; and somebody is treading
on every body’s toes in the aisle; and every door and window is shut;
and onions and musk, and tobacco and jockey-club, and whisky, and
patchouli are mingling their sweets; and the unconscionable conductor
continues to beckon to misguided females upon the sidewalk, with whole
families of babies (every one of whom is sucking oranges or
sugar-candy), to crowd in, and add the last drop of agony to my brimming
cup.
Yes, I think I may say I am nervous. I prefer, when the windows of an
omnibus are open, and the wind “sets that way,” that the driver should
not ex-spit-orate any oftener than is necessary. If the skirt of my
dress _must_ be torn from my belt by hasty feet upon the sidewalk, I
prefer it to be done by a man’s boot rather than a woman’s
un-apologizing slipper; if the fringe of my mantle is foreordained “to
catch,” the gods grant it may be in a surtout button rather than on a
feminine watch-chain. If women shopkeepers were less lavish of cross
looks, and crossed sixpences, I might have more faith in the predicted
“millennium.” I don’t wish the Irish woman any harm who tortures me by
grinding on her accordeon in the cars, but, if I thought she had settled
her little reckoning with the priest, I should be happy to peruse her
obituary. I had rather not exchange a pleasant parlor circle for the
company of a huge bundle of “proof, to be called for by seven o’clock
the next morning;” and I had rather not have the pianos, in five
different houses near, each playing different tunes while I am revising
it. I don’t wish to interfere with infant boys who are fond of
bonfires, but if they could make them of something beside dried leaves,
it would be a saving to my bronchial apparatus. If people who address me
would spell “Fanny” with two ns, I should be more likely to answer their
letters. If the little cherub, in jacket and trowsers, who blows the
organ of a Sunday, would stand behind a screen, it would materially
assist my devotions. If all the men in New York had as handsome a beard
as the editor of the ----, I would not object to see them h--air ’em. I
should rather the New Yorker would not say that such and such a
paragraph would “go all over,” instead of “everywhere.” I should rather
the Connecticuter, when he does not comprehend me, would not startle me
out of my chair with a sharp _Which?_ I should rather the Yankee would
not say “he was going to wash _him_,” or speak of the “back _side_ of
the church.” And, lastly, if all the people who are born with seven
fingers on one hand, or feet minus toes, or two noses, would not select
me in the street to inspect their monstrosities, my epitaph might
possibly be deferred a while longer.
A WORD TO PARENTS AND TEACHERS.
I have before me a simple but imploring letter from a little child,
begging me “to write her a composition.” I could number scores of such
which I have received. I allude to it for the sake of calling the
attention of parents and teachers to this cruel bugbear of childhood,
with which I can fully sympathize, although it never had terrors for me.
The multiplication table was the rock on which I was scholastically
wrecked; my total inability to ascertain “if John had ten apples, and
Thomas took away three, how many John would have left,” having often
caused me to wish that all the Johns in creation were--well, never mind
that, now. I have learned to like Johns since!
But to return to the subject. Just so long as themes like “The Nature
of Evil,” or “Hydrostatics,” or “Moral Science,” and kindred subjects,
are given out to poor bewildered children, to bite their nails and grit
their teeth over, while the ink dries on the nip of their upheld pens,
just so long will “composition day” dawn on them full of terrors. Such
themes are bad enough, but when you add the order to write three pages
at a mark, you simply invite them to diffuse unmeaning repetitions, as
subversive of good habits of composition as the command is tyrannical,
stupid, and ridiculous. You also tempt to duplicity, for a child,
cornered in this way, has strong temptations to pass off for its own
what is the product of the brains of another; and this of itself, as a
matter of principle, should receive serious consideration at the hands
of these child-tormentors. A child should never be allowed, much less
_compelled_ to write words without ideas. Never be guilty of such a
piece of stupidity as to return a child’s composition to him with the
remark, “It is very good, but it is _too short_.” If he has said all he
has to say, what more would you have? what more can you get but
repetition? Tell him to _stop when he gets through if it is at the end
of the first line_--a lesson which many an adult has yet to learn.
In the first place, give a child no theme above his comprehension and
capacity; or, better still, allow him to make his own selection, and
always consider one line, intelligibly and concisely expressed, better
than pages of wordy bombast. In this way only can he be taught to write
well, sincerely, and fluently. Nature teaches you this: The little bird
at first takes but short flights to the nearest twig or tree. By-and-by,
as his strength and confidence grow, they are voluntarily and
pleasurably lengthened, till at last you can scarce follow him, as he
pierces the clouds. This forcing nature--pushing the little fledgeling
rudely out of the nest, can result only in total incapacity, or, at
best, but crippled flights. In the name of the children, I enter my
earnest protest against it, and beg teachers and parents to think of and
remedy this evil.
BREAKFAST.
Let the world fly off its axle any hour in the twenty-four, save the
breakfast hour. Ruffle me not then, and I promise to out-Socrates
Socrates, though it should rain tribulations all the rest of the day. If
I am to have but one glimpse of sunshine until nightfall, let it be
then. A plague on him or her who sits down to coffee (all hail coffee!)
with a doleful phiz. The witches fly away with that female who presents
herself in curl-papers, or introduces herself with a yawn. Unassoiled be
that grocer, who offends my proboscis with a doubtful egg; garroted be
that dairyman who waters my milk; kneaded be that fat podge of a baker
who is tardy with his hot rolls.
Tell me no disagreeables--be not argumentative over our Mocha;
discourse not of horrid murders, nor yet dabble in the black sea of
politics. Tell me not the price of any article I am eating, neither
inquire of me prematurely what I will have for my dinner. Let thy
“Good-morning” have _heart_ in it, and touch thy lips to my eyelids as
thou passest to thy seat. If thou hast a clover-blossom, or a babe, set
it before me; and dream not, because my heart’s incense rises silently
as its perfumed breath, that I praise not God for the sweet morning.
GREENWOOD AND MOUNT AUBURN.
I have seen Greenwood. With Mount Auburn for my ideal of what a
cemetery _should_ be, I was prepared for disappointment. But the two are
not comparable. Greenwood is the larger, and more indebted to the hand
of art; the gigantic trees of Mount Auburn are the growth of half a
century; but then Greenwood has its ocean view, which, paradoxical as it
may seem, is not to be overlooked. The entrance to Mount Auburn I think
the finer. Its tall army of stately pines stand guard over its silent
sleepers, and strew their fragrant leaves on the pathway, as if to
deaden the sound of the carriage wheels, which, at each revolution,
crush out their aromatic incense, sweet as the box of spikenard which
kneeling Mary broke at Jesus’ feet.
Greenwood has the greater monumental variety, attributable, perhaps
(more than to design), to the motley population of New York; the
proprietors of each tomb, or grave, carrying out their national ideas of
sepulture. This is an advantage. Mount Auburn sometimes wearies the eye
with its monumental monotony. Mount Auburn, too, _had_ (for he long
since laid down in its lovely shade), a gray-haired old gate-keeper,
courteous and dignified: “a man of sorrows,” whose bald, uncovered head,
many will remember, who have stood waiting at the portal to bear in
their dead. Many a bouquet, simple but sweet, of my favorite flowers
have I taken from his palsied hand; and many a sympathizing look,
treasured up in my heart from him whom Death had also bereft of all.
Greenwood has, at least if my afternoon visit was a fair exponent, its
jocund grave-diggers, who, with careless poise, and indecent foot, of
haste stumble on with the unvarnished coffin of the poor, and exchange
over the fresh and narrow mound, the comrade’s time-worn jest. Money has
its value, for it purchases gentler handling and better manners.
Let those who will, linger before the marble statue, or chiseled urn
of the rich; dearer to me is the grave of the poor man’s child, where
the tiny, half-worn shoe, is sad and fitting monument. Dearer to me, the
moldy toys, the whip, the cap, the doll, the faded locks of hair, on
which countless suns have risen and set, and countless showers have shed
their kindly tears. And yet for the infant army who slumber there, I can
not weep; for I bethink me of the weary toil and strife; the wrecks that
strew the life-coast; the plaint of the weary-hearted, unheard in life’s
fierce clamor; the remorseless, iron heel of strength, on the quivering
heart of weakness; the swift-winged, poisoned arrow of cruel slander;
the hearts that are near of kin as void of love; and I thank God that
the little shoes were laid aside, and the dreary path untrod.
And yet, not all drear, for, as I pass along, I read, in graven lines,
of those who periled life to save life; who parted raging billows and
forked flames, at woman’s wild, despairing shriek, and childhood’s
helpless wail. Honor to such dauntless spirits, while there are eyes to
moisten and hearts to feel!
Beautiful Greenwood! with thy feathery swaying willows, thy
silver-voiced fountains and glassy lakes: with thy grassy knolls and
shady dells; with thy “Battle Hill,” whose sod of yore was nourished by
brave men’s blood. The sailor here rests him well, in sound of old
Ocean’s roar; the fireman heeds nor booming bell, nor earthly trump, nor
hurried tramp of anxious feet; the pilot’s bark is moored and voyage
o’er; the school-boy’s lesson conned; beauty’s lid uncloses not, though
rarest flowers bloom above her; no husband’s hand is outstretched to her
who stoops with jealous care to pluck the obtrusive weed which hides the
name she, lonely, bears; no piping, bird-like voice, answers the
anguished cry, “My child, my child!” but, still the mourners come, and
sods fall dull and heavy on loved and loving hearts, and the busy spade
heeds never the dropping tears; and for her who writes, and for them who
read--ere long--tears in their turn shall fall. God help us all.
GETTING UP THE WRONG WAY.
It was an unlucky day; every body has known such. I got up just one
hour too late, and spent the whole day vainly trying to make it up. It
was useless. Things were predestined to go wrong. I felt it. Hooks and
eyes, strings and buttons were in the maddening conspiracy. Shoes and
stockings were mis-mated; there was a pin in the towel on which I wiped
my face; my hair-brush and comb had absconded, and my tooth-brush and
nail-brush had gone to keep them company. I ate a hurried breakfast,
salting my coffee and sugaring my beefsteak: for I recollected that I
had pressing business down town which required a cool head and punctual
feet. As I looked at my watch, I saw that it was already time that I was
on my way. I wound it up with a jerk, snapping the crystal, and
dislocating a spring. Now my boot laces knotted and twisted, and defied
every attempt to coerce them into duty; and what was worse, upon looking
for the MS. (the product of hours and days of labor), I found that I had
burned it, in my absent state of mind, along with some waste paper! and
I recollected with agony how indifferently I had watched the last
sparkling fragment, as the hated wind merrily whistled it up the
chimney.
I held my head for one distracted minute! Was it possible to recall it
as it was originally written? Even suppose I could? think of all that
lost labor (on heavenly days, too, when the pleasant sunlight wooed me
out-of-doors), and think of all that jog-trot punctuating to be gone over
again. For me, who _hate_ stops--who believe only in an exclamation
point and a dash! I, who turn my back disdainfully upon an interrogation
point, who despise coal-on (save in January), who religiously believe
that a writer should no more be expected to fritter away his brains on
stupid stops, than that an artist should be required to manufacture with
his own hands the wooden frames used for his pictures.
Well, the MS. was gone--stops and all--past praying for. I had not
even time to whine about it; I must go directly down town. I had the
misfortune to be boarding, so every drawer, closet, and cupboard must be
locked before starting; for locking one’s room door is a mere farce
while there are duplicate keys in the house. Yes, I locked them, and
unlocked them, too, twenty times or more, as I recollected some
handkerchief, collar or purse, which I had forgotten to take out.
All right now, said I, dolorously, as I put the rattling keys in my
pocket, descended the interminable hotel stairs, and gained the street.
I had passed two blocks when I discovered that the pair of gloves I had
brought were both for one hand; the thermometer was at nipping point and
I had left my muff behind! I thrust one bare hand into my shawl, shut
my teeth together, and exclaimed, as I looked Fate full in the
face--now, do your worst.
And so it did!
Down came the snow; had I taken my umbrella, not a flake would have
fallen; every body knows that. I looked at the omnibusses; they were all
full--full of great, lazy, black-coated men. I hate a black coat; I
don’t know why a man, unless he has received “the right hand of
fellowship,” should button himself up in one. Yes, there they sat, as
solemn as so many parsons, with their hats slouched over their faces,
thinking to save time (while they ruined their eye-sight) by reading the
morning papers as they joggled along to their offices. Meanwhile down
came the pitiless snow, as I plodded along. _Plodded_, for every
wheel-barrow, box, bale, cask, cart, and wagon, got purposely across my
track; and not for the life of me could I remember a sentence of that
ascension MS.