Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
On page 136, "othewise" should possibly be "otherwise".
On page 165, unclosed parenthesis should possibly be closed after
"clamorous for supper".
THE
LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN.
"Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice."
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON, NO. 306 CHESTNUT STREET,
GIRARD BUILDINGS, ABOVE THIRD.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year One
Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-five, by H. LONG & BROTHER,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States, for the Southern District of New York
PREFACE.
In preparing for the press "THE LIFE AND BEAUTIES OF FANNY FERN," we
have given to the reader a statement of the most prominent incidents
in her eventful career, which is authenticated, not only by the
testimony of her nearest relatives, but by communications from her own
lips. The lives of distinguished men or women have always been
accounted public property, and, in narrating that of Fanny Fern, we
have confined ourselves to simple facts, leaving the fancy-pictures to
be filled up by others.
In giving selections from her "Beauties," we present the reader with a
bouquet of "Ferns," all freshly gathered. In so doing, we have
infringed on no one's copy-right; the sketches having been copied, in
every instance, from the papers to which they were originally
contributed. A large proportion of them have never before appeared
within the covers of a book. These latter are the very articles upon
which Fanny made her reputation. We have given quotations which do
justice to every variety of her versatile style. One page flashes with
the keen edge of satire, another brims over with mirth, and a third is
tearful with pathos.
We have shown Fanny at home, on the street, and in church, and have
thus furnished a key which will unlock many of the mysteries of "Ruth
Hall," and "Fern Leaves."
CONTENTS.
I.
GENIUS IN PANTALETTES. 11
II.
FANNY AT SCHOOL. 13
III.
THE NEW NAME. 18
IV.
THE HUSBAND'S DEATH. 20
V.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE. 27
VI.
FANNY FERN AT HOME. 31
VII.
EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS. 37
VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG. 39
IX.
FANNY FERN IN CHURCH. 48
X.
FANNY FERN IN BROADWAY. 52
XI.
FANNY AT THE TREMONT HOUSE. 55
XII.
A KEY TO "RUTH HALL." 60
XIII.
A WORD ABOUT N. P. WILLIS. 69
XIV.
IDEAS ABOUT BABIES. 72
XV.
PRAISE FROM A WOMAN. 79
XVI.
THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF JEMMY JESSAMY. 81
XVII.
JEMMY JESSAMY'S DEFENCE. 85
XVIII.
THE GOVERNESS. 88
XIX.
ALL ABOUT SATAN. 103
XX.
WELL KNOWN CHARACTERS. 106
XXI.
HORACE MANN'S "OPINION." 111
XXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS OF HOT WEATHER. 113
XXIII.
FAMILY JARS. 114
XXIV.
TWO IN HEAVEN. 119
XXV.
THE PRIVATE HISTORY OF DIDYMUS DAISY, ESQ. 121
XXVI.
THE WEDDING DRESS. 125
XXVII.
IS IT BEST TO USE ENVELOPES? 132
XXVIII.
FEMININE WISDOM. 137
XXIX.
ALWAYS SPEAK THE TRUTH. 139
XXX.
MOSES MILTIADES MILTON. 142
XXXI.
TOM VERSUS FAN; OR, A LITTLE TALK ABOUT LITTLE
THINGS. 145
XXXII.
A LETTER TO THE TRUE FLAG. 152
XXXIII.
THE ORPHAN. 154
XXXIV.
AN ANSWER TO MRS. CROWE. 160
XXXV.
MRS. FARRINGTON ON MATRIMONY. 162
XXXVI.
A WHISPER TO ROMANTIC YOUNG LADIES. 164
XXXVII.
A WOMAN WITH A SOUL. 168
XXXVIII.
CLERICAL COURTING. 170
XXXIX.
WHAT FOWLER SAYS. 175
XL.
THE OTHER SIDE. 179
XLI.
THE GOOD-NATURED BACHELOR. 186
XLII.
CATCHING THE DEAR. 188
XLIII.
HELEN, THE VILLAGE ROSE-BUD. 190
XLIV.
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS. 200
XLV.
THAT MRS. JONES. 201
XLVI.
MRS. JUPITER'S SOLILOQUY. 204
XLVII.
THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER. 206
XLVIII.
PETTICOAT PARLIAMENT. 213
XLIX.
FANNY FERN ON WIDOWERS. 215
L.
AN HOUR WITH FANNY'S FATHER. 217
LI.
JOHN BULL'S OPINION OF "RUTH HALL." 222
LII.
ORTHODOX TESTIMONY. 225
LIII.
ANOTHER FERN. 227
LIV.
THE BEST OF MEN HAVE THEIR FAILINGS. 229
LV.
THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 231
LVI.
A WIFE'S DEVOTION. 238
LVII.
MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH'S PHILOSOPHY. 243
LVIII.
INTERESTING TO BASHFUL MEN. 246
LIX.
THE ANGEL CHILD. 249
LX.
UNCLE BEN'S ATTACK OF SPRING-FEVER. 253
LXI.
CONNUBIAL ADVERTISEMENT. 258
LXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT SEWING-MACHINES. 260
LXIII.
THE TIME TO CHOOSE. 263
LXIV.
OUR NELLY. 265
LXV.
I CAN'T. 269
LXVI.
MRS. SMITH'S REVERIE. 271
LXVII.
A NIGHT-WATCH WITH A DEAD INFANT. 273
LXVIII.
A LITTLE GOOD ADVICE. 275
LXIX.
THE OTHER ONE. 277
LXX.
A PEN AND INK SKETCH. 280
LXXI.
FANNY'S "RULES FOR LADIES." 283
LXXII.
THE LITTLE PAUPER. 286
LXXIII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT FRIENDSHIP. 289
LXXIV.
TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION. 292
LXXV.
DON'T DISTURB HIM. 299
LXXVI.
A MODEL HUSBAND. 301
LXXVII.
WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU ARE ANGRY. 303
LXXVIII.
THE EARLY BLIGHT. 305
LXXIX.
THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL. 309
LXXX.
THE CROSS AND THE CROWN. 312
LXXXI.
TOM FAY'S SOLILOQUY. 314
LXXXII.
A CHAPTER ON CLERGYMEN. 318
LXXXIII.
FANNY FERN ON HUSBANDS. 321
LXXXIV.
FANNY'S IDEAS OF MONEY MATTERS. 324
LXXXV
A LETTER TO A SELF-EXILED FRIEND IN THE
COUNTRY. 327
LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN
I.
GENIUS IN PANTALETTES.
Saral Payson Willis, the subject of this sketch, was born in Portland,
Maine, July 9th, 1811. Through the negligence, doubtless, of the clerk
of the town, it is not recorded that the sun stood still on the
eventful morning, but old housewives tell a legend of the cocks'
crowing with extraordinary shrillness in honor of this wonderful
advent. She is the daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Willis, one of the most
industrious and respectable citizens of Boston, now a man well
advanced in years. It is scarcely necessary to add that she is sister
to Mr. N. P. Willis, the brilliant essayist and poet.
Mr. Willis, senior, "commenced life" as a mechanic, and at the time
of his marriage worked at the case as a journeyman printer. He
afterwards published the Eastern Argus, in Portland. Meeting with
reverses in that city, he removed to Boston, where he established, and
for many years edited, the "Recorder," the oldest religious paper in
New-England.
Mr. Willis has met with a similar experience to that of most men in
his calling. He never made a fortune at publishing. At the present
time, although aged and infirm, he finds it necessary to devote his
failing energies to the publication of the "Youth's Companion." Yet,
notwithstanding his narrow means, Mr. Willis contrived--at how great a
sacrifice only parents can guess, to give his sons and daughters that
education which is a poor man's noblest legacy.
II.
FANNY AT SCHOOL.
In accordance with the course he had wisely planned for his children,
Sarah Willis--the veritable "Fanny"--was favored with an early
introduction into the seminary of Miss Catherine E. Beecher, in
Hartford, Conn. At this well-conducted establishment--the most popular
in the country, at that time--Miss Fanny received her first strong
impressions of life and the world. We have never heard her spoken of
as a very apt or studious pupil. Staid works of philosophy and
learning were not much to her taste. But from the prohibited pages of
romances and poems, eagerly devoured in secret, her craving genius
derived an active stimulus. Already she had become a keen dissector of
the human heart, and she found plenty of pleasant practice for the
scalpel of her wit among the young ladies of the school. Here, too,
the novel and startling experiences of boarding-school flirtation gave
their warm coloring to her future life. Fanny possessed a large
capacity for this description of knowledge, and her writings show a
better memory for those more pleasant branches of female education,
than for the dry rules of syntax and prosody. In fact, the best of her
sketches are transcripts of her school-girl life--for Fanny writes
well only when giving the concentrated vinegar and spice of her own
vivid experiences.
A sketch of Fanny's, entitled "A LEAF FROM MY EXPERIENCE," referring
to her school-life, may, perhaps, form the best embodiment of the
earlier portion of her school-history.
"Miss Jemima Keturah Rix was at the head of a flourishing school for
very young ladies and gentlemen. She originated in the blue state of
Connecticut, where the hens, from principle, refrain from laying eggs
on Sunday, and the yeast stops _working_ for the same reason. She had
very little opinion of her own sex, and none at all of the other. Her
means were uncommonly limited, yet 'she was too much of a gentlewoman
to keep school, had it not been for her strong desire to reform the
rising generation.'
"In person, she was tall and spare, with small, snapping black eyes,
and thin, compressed lips, telling strongly of her vixenish
propensities. She could repeat the Ten Commandments and Assembly's
Catechism _backwards_, without missing a word; and was a firm believer
in total depravity and the eternal destruction of little dead babies.
"She had the usual variety of temper and disposition, generally found
in a school, and a way of her own of getting along with them. She
would catch a refractory pupil with one hand by the shoulder, and
press the thumb with such force into the hollow of the arm, that the
poor victim was ready to subscribe to any articles of faith or
practice she might see fit to draw up; and who of us will soon forget
that old brass thimble, mounted on her skinny forefinger, as it came
snapping against our foreheads?
"Being considered an untamable witch at home, I had the ill luck to be
sent to this little initiatory purgatory. This was unfortunate, as
Miss Rix and I looked at life through very different pairs of
spectacles. The first great grief I can remember, was when I was about
as tall as a rosebush,--nearly breaking my heart, because a little boy
_threw away_ one of my ringlets, that I cut off for his especial
keeping. In fact, I may as well own it, I was _born_ a _coquette_;
and the lynx eyes of Miss Rix had already discovered it.
"She always made a chalk line on the floor between the girls and boys,
that neither were allowed to cross without a special permit. Being
aware of this, I had been in the habit of making certain telegraphic
communications with a little lover of mine, in jacket and trowsers, on
the other side of chalk-dom.
"Little dreaming of the storm that was brewing, I sat watching her one
morning, as she slowly drew from her pocket a long piece of cord, and
tested its strength. Raising her sharp cracked voice to its most
crucifying pitch, she called,
"'Miss Minnie May and Mr. Harry Hall step out upon the floor.' Of
course, we didn't do anything else, when, turning us back to back, she
silently proceeded to tie our elbows together with the cord,
remarking, with a satanic grin, as she sat down, that 'we seemed to be
so fond of each other, it was a pity to keep us apart.'
"Now this was a very _cutting_ thing to me, in more ways than one, as
Harry's jacket sleeves protected _his_ arms, while my little fat
elbows were getting redder every minute from the twitches he made to
extricate himself; for, like some bigger boys, he was very willing to
be a _fair-weather_ lover, but couldn't face a _storm_. I've never
forgiven him for it, (true to my woman nature,) and though I often
meet him now, (he is a thriving physician with an extensive practice;)
and he looks so roguishly from out those saucy black eyes, as much as
to say, 'I wouldn't mind being _tied_ to you now, Minnie,' I give him
a perfect freezer of a look and 'pass by on the other side.'
"I understand that Miss Rix has rested from her labors and gone to her
reward. I wish no better satisfaction than that she _may get it_!"
III.
THE NEW NAME.
Fanny's career as a young lady seems to have been very lively. She
recalls many amusing reminiscences of early flirtations. Among others,
she led away captive the heart of a certain Unitarian clergyman, the
son of a wealthy family. As _she_ affirms, however, "papa" concluded
that he had learned the Westminster Catechism to so little purpose as
to be no safe partner for his orthodox daughter. But, like a large
spare chamber, swept and garnished, her affections had plenty of room
for a new occupant.
There were breezy walks on the common, mysterious whisperings over
skeins of thread with handsome clerks, until at length the conquering
hero came. Like a sun-flower in the beams of morning, her heart
expanded at the warm suit of her favored lover.
May 4th, 1837, at a period of well-matured womanhood, Sarah Willis
became Sarah Eldredge. The fortunate husband of the yet undeveloped
genius, was an only child--the son of the late Dr. Eldredge, a highly
esteemed physician, in the neighborhood of Boston. Her first child
died at the age of three years, but two remaining daughters, the fruit
of this union, now reside with their mother in New York. One is about
ten, and the other we should judge from her appearance to be some
fifteen years of age.
Mr. Eldredge enjoyed a handsome income from his services as cashier of
the Merchant's Bank, the largest institution of the kind in Boston.
Now we esteem the domestic virtues of economy and prudence; but a
penurious mode of life is not so readily pardoned as the opposite
extreme of lavish expenditure; and the devoted husband of so spirited
a young wife may certainly be excused for "living" to the extent of
his means. But, as Othello very properly observes, "Who can control
his fate?" Had the young banker been as wise as he was generous and
indulgent, he would have looked forward through the long, bright vista
of the present, to that proverbial "rainy day," liable at any time to
befall. In the prime of manhood, October 6th, 1846, he was cut off by
a sharp, quick stroke from Death's remorseless hand; and the wife and
mother, awaking suddenly from her gay dreams, saw affliction and
widowhood descend upon her like a pall.
IV.
THE HUSBAND'S DEATH.
Throughout the whole course of Fanny's writings we are presented with
frequent and most pleasing pictures of her own self. Not only does she
figure as the graceful heroine of "Ruth Hall," but all her sketches
have a connection more or less remote with the events of her own life.
The following sketch, as we are assured, is a description of the death
of her husband, though it contains one of the customary portraitures
of Fanny herself.
"THE YOUNG WIFE'S AFFLICTION.--A delightful summer we passed, to be
sure, at the ---- Hotel, in the quiet village of S----. A collection of
prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown
together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the
dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and
comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the
cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants,
and loose neck-ties; their wives, equally independent till their
return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and
tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wildwood.
"There were no separate 'cliques' or 'sets;' nobody knew, or inquired,
or cared, whether your great grandfather had his horse shod, or shoed
horses for other people. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their
fingers, or their reputation, if they washed their own children's
faces; and didn't consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close
the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband's
waistband, or mended a ragged frock.
"Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and
plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a
little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girding a
fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated in the cool of
the evening on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the
car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty,
heated city. It was delightful to see their _business faces_ brighten
up, as each fair wife came forward and relieved them from the little
parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a
welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated
foreheads. A cold bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at
the supper table, where merry jokes flew round, and city news was
discussed between the fragrant cups of tea, and each man fell in love
with his pretty wife _over again_, (or his _neighbor's_, if he liked!)
"It was one harmonious, happy family! Mrs. ---- and her husband were
the prime ministers of fun and frolic in the establishment. It was
_she_ who concocted all the games, and charades, and riddles, that
sent our merry shouts ringing far and wide, as we sat in the evening
on the long moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the picnics and
sails, and drives in the old hay-cart; the berry parties, and romps on
the green; and the little cosy suppers in the back parlor just before
bed time (that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the fussy
old landlord.) It was she who _salted_ our coffee and _sugared_ our
toast; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses; it was she
who sewed up pockets in overcoats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends
in water; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house; it
was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps, for unskilful
mothers; it was she who was here and there, and every where, the
embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness; and as she flew past
her handsome husband, (with her finger on her lip,) bent upon some new
prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, _more
eloquent than words_.
"He was the handsomest man I ever saw--tall, commanding and elegant,
with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering
white teeth, and a form like Apollo's. Mary was _so proud_ of him! She
would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of
roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected _as she read its
language_. He was just the man to appreciate her--to understand her
sensitive, enthusiastic nature; to know when to check, when to
encourage; and it needed but _a word, a look_; for her _whole soul_
went out to him.
"And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had
come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of
breaking up our happy circle; but ah! there came _one_, with stealthy
steps, _who had no such scruples_!
* * * * *
"The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious
faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above, lies
Mary's princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her
lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears _that never
fall_; day and night without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil;
while (unconscious of her presence,) in tones that pierce her heart,
he calls unceasingly for 'my wife!' She puts back the tangled masses
of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand
coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, 'to
procure a nurse.' She fears not to be alone with him when he is
raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the
impress of an (almost) _deadly_ blow from the hand that was never
before raised but to _bless her_. And now the physician, who has come
_once, twice, thrice_ a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in
the hall that his patient _must die_; not one dare break the news to
the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces
with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no questions, but she
knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no
persuasion can draw her from the bedside.
"The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling
form, and says, 'My child, you _cannot_ meet the _next hour_--leave
him with me.'
"A mournful shake of the head is his only answer, as she takes her
seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low, upon that
clammy hand; praying God that _she_ may die with him.
"An hour of TIME--an ETERNITY of agony has passed! A fainting,
unresisting form is borne from that chamber of _Death_.
"Beautiful as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!--no trace
of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lie upon the marble
cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, cluster profusely
round the noble forehead; those chiseled lips are gloriously beautiful
in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass
to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy
with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. Oh that
_bitter_, BITTER waking! (for she _does_ wake. God pity her!)
"Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead; she remembers! she is
a widow!! She looks about the room--there is his hat, his coat, his
cane; and _now_, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of
passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says,
betwixt a tear and a smile, 'Now God be praised--SHE WEEPS!'
"And so with the falling leaves of Autumn, 'the Great Reaper' gathered
in our noble friend. Why should I dwell on the agony of the gentle
wife? or tell of her return to her desolate home in the city; of the
disposal of the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its
walls by the refined taste of its proprietor; of the NECESSARY
disposal of every _article of luxury_; of her removal to plain
lodgings, where curious people speculated upon her history, and marked
her moistened eyes; of the long, interminable, wretched days; of the
wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet,
fatherless child of her love; of her untiring efforts to seek an
honorable, independent support? It is but an every-day history, but
(God knows) its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt
by the sufferer!"
V.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.
Fortunately for the subject of our sketch, her father, though poor, as
we have said, hastened to make what provision he could afford for the
comfort of the broken family. Nor did Dr. Eldredge turn a deaf ear, or
pass by on the other side. Some bitter thoughts were doubtless
occasioned, by the remembrance of the luxuries of which she had been
so suddenly bereft; it was hard to sink like a star behind the hills
of adversity--to pass suddenly from a gay and splendid career into the
obscurity of a more common-place and quiet life; and we can excuse the
sensitive Fanny for some unreasonable complaints; but, thanks to her
own and her husband's father, she had the consolation and treasure of
a home--a _home_, which, however modest, was in every respect
comfortable, and not altogether inelegant.
Sarah Eldredge was now in the full flush and vigor of womanhood--and a
widow! It is a wise provision of nature which ordains that the most
deeply wounded heart shall not always bleed. Hope springs from the
ashes of grief. Time buries the dead past, and lifts the curtain from
the glowing future. Night comes, that another morning, with all its
glory and freshness, may dawn upon the earth. Why then waste the
energies of youth in mourning over graves? They will not give up their
dead; already the spirit of the lost one looks down upon us from
blissful spheres, and says, "Be happy!" to our sorrowing hearts. Such
a voice came to the young widow. She called reason and faith to her
aid. She saw herself still blooming and attractive; the same inviting
world lay all around her; she longed for sympathy, for change, for
life. Her first matrimonial venture had proved a happy one; and the
memory thereof prompted her to risk another voyage on Wedlock's
perilous sea. Thus it might have been the very power of love that
bound her to her first husband which threw open the welcoming doors to
the advances of a new suitor.
Mr. Farrington, a merchant of Boston--a man of energy and upright
character--made an offer of his hand. He had himself enjoyed
matrimonial experience--was himself a parent--and was well qualified
to sympathize with the young widow. They sought mutual consolation in
marriage. But scarce was the honeymoon over, when that mutual
consolation was followed by mutual surprise. Fanny learned to her
sorrow that all husbands are not equally fond and indulgent; and the
bridegroom discovered that Mrs. F. No. 2 wasn't the exact counterpart
of Mrs. F. No. 1. The contrast was, in fact, so vast and amazing, that
it seemed to require solitude and quiet, to consider it in all its
bearings. Accordingly, Mr. Farrington resorted to travel and a change
of scene; journeyed westward; and has not since been seen on the
down-east slope of the continent. The slender tie of affection between
the happy pair, thus long drawn out, like a thread of India rubber,
finally snapped.
At the time of his departure, Fanny was boarding with her children at
the Marlboro' Hotel in Boston. Soon after, however, she removed to
quiet but pleasant lodgings in another quarter of the city.
Mr. Farrington took up his abode in Chicago, and soon after Fanny was
connubially advertised in the columns of the Boston Daily Bee. Then,
from the auction mart of a western court, Mr. F. gave out three
warnings; cried--"Going!--going!!--gone!!!" and legally knocked down
his wife with the hammer of divorce.
Once more separated from her husband, the dashing Fanny wore no
mourning weeds. Her lively circle of acquaintances found her fireside
no less attractive than formerly. Once more a widow she had learned to
wear gracefully her honors.
VI.
FANNY FERN AT HOME.
Fanny Fern's writings are expressive of her character. But, if
possible, she is twice as original, spicy, and entertaining, in her
person as in her sketches. To understand her perfectly, one should see
her and talk with her; and to see her and talk with her to advantage,
one should meet her on terms of chatty familiarity in her own private
apartments.
Fanny's home in Boston is well remembered by her favored
acquaintances. Introduced into her unique parlor, the visitor found
himself surrounded by pleasing evidences of luxury and taste,
characterizing its occupant as a woman of elegant leisure. A subdued,
monastic light, pervading the apartment, never failed to add its charm
to the visit. Convenient shutters, and heavy folds of curtains robbed
the saucy daylight of its too garish beams, and by night, in the still
and quiet hours, a rich shade surrounded the glowing globe of the
astral, tempering its lustre to a soft, mellow effulgence.
Fanny--as we have hinted--is just like her sketches, only "more so."
Bubbles and flashes might be gathered from her conversation, that
would eclipse anything she ever wrote. To have her sit by your side
one hour, and----sparkle, (_talk_ don't express the idea,) is worth
all the Fern Leaves and Ruth Halls in the world. Witty and pathetic by
turns; now running over with fun, and now with tears; always
sprightly, always plain and terse in her language, she is sure to
entertain you for one hour at least, as no other woman can. She will
entertain you another hour, some time, if you choose. But the
probability is, you don't choose. Such women don't wear well. Their
conversations are like "Fern Leaves"--brilliant enough at first, but
presently wearisome, and insipid. Consequently they have a great many
short acquaintances, but no long ones. Their friends are not fast
friends. We doubt if Fanny ever enjoyed an enthusiastic friendship
which lasted more than a couple of years.
Fanny's words are the least of her fascinations. Her manner is that of
a consummate actress. And it is not long before you discover that she
is little else than an actress. Her tears are regular stage tears. If
she desires to excite your sympathy, she knows better than anybody
else, how to do it. She'll improvise a "Ruth Hall" story for you,
inventing wrongs and sufferings to fit the occasion, and drop a few
ready tears, like hot wax, to seal her testimony,--sometimes sobbing a
little, and pressing your hand convulsively, to heighten the effect.
Oh, she can be fascinating as Cleopatra. She knows how to thrill you
with an unexpected touch. Then her voice, how artistically tender its
modulations, how musically mirthful, how musically sad by turns! Oh,
Fanny is a great woman! She should go upon the stage, or institute a
new "school of art and design" for the fair sex.
Fanny has an off-hand, dashing way of entertaining company, which we
have never seen surpassed. If you are so fortunate as to be a favored
visitor, and to find her alone, you may make sure of her, for at least
one evening. No matter who calls; the haughty Mr. A., the foppish B.,
the jealous and frowning C., are all neglected for your sake. "Sit
still," says Fanny, "and they'll have sense enough to see they are not
wanted, and withdraw." Accordingly, in a little while, out goes A.,
very stiffly. Then B. retires, bowing snobbishly, and making insipid
remarks about the weather. Finally comes poor C.'s gruff and lowering
"good evening." And Fanny, clapping her hands, and laughing merrily,
rejoins you upon the sofa, after shutting the door upon her last
visitor--and whispering a consoling word in his ear, behind your back.
Oh, matchless, diplomatic Fanny!
Of course the polite Fanny does the agreeable in introducing you to
her friends. But she entertains odd ideas about names. Sometimes you
are ready to explode in convulsions of mirth, at the delightfully
careless manner in which she bestows upon you some comic patronymic,
never before heard of in your family history. To-night you are Mr.
Pilridge. Last night you figured as Smith. To-morrow you'll be Jenkins
or Jones.
Fanny is consistent, and invents names for all her visitors. You are
no exception. Mr. White is introduced to you as Mr. Brown. (Why,
indeed, shouldn't a lady take the same liberty with her friends' names
as with her own complexion, and just change the color a trifle?) Mr.
Webb becomes Mr. Wing--a mere difference of _a pinion_. Mr. Rose is
transformed into Mr. Minks,--probably on the principle that a rose by
any other name will smell as sweet. In the same way a Walker is
dignified as a Ryder; Dix is expanded into Richards; Rich becomes
Poore, and French is translated into English.
Now mistakes will happen in the best regulated families. Some funny
ones occur in Fanny's. 'Tisn't so easy a thing to remember all her
names. Accordingly, forgetting that you are called Johnson, for this
evening, you gravely address Mr. Howard by that name. That gentleman
replies, with a knowing smile, that Johnson is _your_ name--you laugh,
Fanny laughs, and it passes as a good joke. Or, perhaps, the other
visitor has also become slightly confused, and readily subscribing to
Johnson, bestows Howard upon you, by way of exchange. Or, while
passing for Smith, you meet some one who knew you last week as
Pilridge.
Another pleasant incident is liable to occur. By a coincidence, you
meet at Fanny's some friend whom you astonish into silence. You are
similarly astonished; and observing no signs of recognition, Fanny
proceeds to introduce you. You can scarcely contain yourself on
hearing familiar Bob Peters dubbed as General Budington; and he looks
hugely tickled at your appellation of Rev. Mr. Bird.
One additional circumstance we should not fail to state. You never
meet a lady visitor at Fanny's. There appears to be but little
affinity between her and her own sex. "Cause unknown," as coroners'
verdicts say of "poor deaths" that occur through neglect of the city
authorities.
VII.
EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS.
Fanny first appeared before the public, in the columns of the _Olive
Branch_, sometimes as "FANNY FERN," and in several instances as
"OLIVIA BRANCH." We knew, personally, the good old man, "frosty, yet
kindly," who at that time filled the editorial chair of that paper. We
remember distinctly his own account of some of their frequent
interviews. Like most others who viewed Fanny through the enchanted
medium of a not too intimate acquaintance, he was, in some sense,
dazzled by her fascinations. Fanny is a regular meteor. You cannot
choose but look at her, even if you don't place much faith in a light
so erratic and fitful. The bewildered old gentleman felt the touch of
those magnetic little fingers upon his shoulder, and looked up, over
his spectacles, in absolute bewilderment, at the thing of smiles and
tears standing before him.
No wonder that he thought the sensitive, impulsive Fanny must be
faultless, and sympathized profoundly in her execrations on
hard-hearted parents and tyrannical husbands. No wonder, if defended
by such lips, the worse appeared the better reason--and the price per
column dwindled into comparative insignificance. Mr. Norris was
Fanny's faithful friend. Already tottering toward the grave, he was
not, indeed, able to render her as much actual service as the younger
and more vigorous editor of _The True Flag_, who was, next to Mr. N.,
her earliest patron, but the proprietor of the Olive Branch gave her
employment, friendship and counsel, which should have secured in
return, at least gratitude.
As we have intimated, Fanny had contributed but few articles to the
Olive Branch, before forming an engagement with the _Boston True
Flag_, and our next chapter will be devoted to a graphic description
of her connection with that paper, by its editor.
VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG.
Scene, TRUE FLAG OFFICE, MORNING.--_Industrious Editor at his
desk._--Enter dapper young gentleman, bowing.--Editor, with a pen over
each ear and one in his fingers, looks up, nodding politely.
_Young Gent._--Are you in want of contributions to your paper?
_Ed._--We are always glad to get good original articles, sir. Please
take a seat.
_Y. G._--Thank you, sir. (Sits down in a Flag-bottomed chair--we mean,
a chair with a pile of True Flags in it.) I am not a writer myself,
but I have a lady friend, who, although inexperienced, manifests a
good deal of literary talent, and would like to try her hand at an
article or two for your paper. She belongs to a distinguished
literary family; her father is an editor, and she has a brother who
is also an editor, and the author of several of the most popular books
ever published in this country.
_Ed._--Very well; we should be pleased to see a specimen of what she
can do. (Y. G. withdraws.)
Such was substantially the manner in which the yet unknown authoress,
destined soon to become so celebrated, was first introduced to our
notice. We should not, however, fail to state, in this connection,
that already Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch, had communicated to a
member of our firm the fact, that a sister of Mr. N. P. Willis had
applied to him for employment, and that he had recommended the True
Flag as an additional source of income. Therefore, without the calling
of names, we were prepared to make a shrewd guess at the identity of
the young gent's lady friend.
According to agreement, a couple of fragrant Ferns were plucked in due
season, (no pun on the word _due_,) and sent to our office. We found
the leaves a little coarse in fibre, but spicy, and acceptable. Fanny
wrote upon a big foolscap page, in a large, open, very masculine hand.
The manuscript was characteristic--decidedly Ferny--dashed all over
with astonishing capitals and crazy italics--and stuck full with
staggering exclamation points, as a pin-cushion with pins. In print,
the italics were intended to resemble jolly words leaning over and
tumbling down with laughter, and the interjections were supposed to be
tottering under the two-fold weight of double-entendres and puns. At
first sight, the writing looked as though it might have been paced off
by trained canary-birds--driven first through puddles of ink, then
marched into hieroglyphic drill on the sheet like a militia company on
parade. All Fanny's manuscripts demanded a good deal of editorial care
to prepare them for the press; her first productions, particularly,
requiring as thorough weeding as so many beds of juvenile beets and
carrots.
Fanny's price--we mean the price of her articles--was two dollars a
column. This was readily acceded to; and the young gent received the
money for her first contributions--eight dollars for four columns--the
morning after their delivery into our hands. In this place, it would
be inexcusable not to speak of another characteristic of the Fern
manuscripts. When purchased, paid for, properly pruned and prepared
for the printer's hands, they were invariably found to fall short of
the stipulated amount of reading matter--one of her spread-eagle pages
nestling very quietly and nicely into a few lines of print. So
trifling a circumstance, however, was not, of course, to be
considered, in dealing with a lady.
ANOTHER SCENE. TRUE FLAG OFFICE, TEN O'CLOCK, A. M. _Editor at his
desk, with pens as before, and an additional pencil in his
hair_.--Enter jaunty bonnet, with gay feathers, elegant veil, rich
broadcloth cloak, and silk dress--rather magnificent, if not more so.
Editor hastens to place a chair.
_Jaunty Bonnet_, (in a low, half-whisper, under the veil)--Excuse
me--I'm a little out of breath, running up stairs. I've brought Mr.
Snooks to introduce me.
Mr. Snooks turned out to be a Fern manuscript. The jaunty bonnet
carried him in an elegant reticule, in close proximity to a coquettish
hankerchief, redolent of perfume. The jaunty bonnet turned out to
be--Fanny herself! Mr. Snooks was for sale, and we bought him. Price,
two dollars a column--cheap enough for Snooks. We afterwards dotted
his _i's_, dressed him up a little, changed his name--Snooks was a bad
name--and printed him.
This was our first interview with the witty and brilliant Fanny.
Certainly, we did not judge that so gay and fashionable an attire had
that morning issued from a dismal garret, in a dark and narrow
lane--that those well-rounded proportions drew their sole subsistence
from the "homoeopathic broth" of niggardly landladies. Indeed, no
starving necessity had compelled her to resort to the pen. With a true
woman's spirit, she believed she could do something for herself, and
determined to try. We liked her articles--she liked our pay--so we
engaged her as a regular contributor. We suggested that she should
write stories, in addition to her sketches--by which arrangement she
might easily earn fifteen dollars a week. She pleaded the necessity of
finishing everything she undertook, at one sitting, and her inability
to elaborate a long story. Still she desired more employment; at the
same time, the too-frequent repetition of "Fanny Fern" in our columns
would injure both herself and us; so the matter was compromised by
giving her a second _nom de plume_--that of "Olivia,"--which was
attached to a number of her sketches.
Up to this period, Mrs. Farrington had no reputation whatever as a
writer, and we purchased her articles for their intrinsic merits only,
paying for them what they were actually worth to us. As her reputation
increased, and her value as a contributor was heightened, her
remuneration was augmented accordingly. Although we paid her five
dollars a column,--the columns generally falling short one-third, at
that,--we cheerfully gave her her own terms, until, when she demanded
twelve dollars a column, we thought we would just take three or four
days to scratch our editorial ear, and think about it. In this place,
it may be proper to state that, at one time, without giving us any
notice whatever, she broke her engagement, and entered into a contract
with a New York publisher, by which she was to write exclusively for
his paper for one year. The terms offered were liberal, and for her
sake, we rejoiced at her good future. But munificent promises do not
always lead to rich fulfilment; and it was not long before Mrs.
Farrington gladly returned to those in whose service she had always
been promptly and handsomely paid.
Fanny's style was novel and sparkling, if not very refined, and her
fame sprang up almost in a night-time. Messrs. Derby & Miller,
booksellers, of Auburn, N. Y., had the shrewdness to see that a volume
of her sketches would be apt to make a stir in the market, and wrote
to us for information touching her real name and address. We replied
that we were not then at liberty to divulge the name, but that any
communications directed to our care would reach her. A correspondence
was at once opened, and Mrs. Farrington was offered four hundred
dollars for sufficient material for a volume--or, if she preferred,
ten cents a copy on every edition printed.
Now four hundred dollars cash, was tempting. It would purchase a rich
dress, a dashing shawl, "several pairs of gaiter-boots," and numerous
boxes of those sovereign preparations, noted for the qualities that
"impart a natural beauty to the complexion." In accordance with our
advice, however, (for we foresaw a large sale for the book,) she
resolved to risk a little, in the hope that much might be gained, and
accept the commission of ten cents a copy. The volume was easily
thrown together, being compiled principally from the files of the
Olive Branch and the True Flag. It was stereotyped at the New-England
Foundry, in this city, and all the proof-sheets passed through our
hands.
At this time, Mrs. Farrington and her youngest child, "little Ella,"
boarded with a respectable family, in the spacious brick
dwelling-house, No. 642 Washington-street; her eldest daughter
residing with her grandfather Eldredge. Fanny occupied an elegant
suite of rooms on the second floor. The parlor was sumptuously
furnished; chairs of solid mahogany, covered with velvet--with
centre-table, sofa, carpet, &c., of corresponding richness. The
numerous visitors had no reason to suspect that all these luxuries
were only poverty in disguise. Nor would one readily imagine that the
plump Ella and her blooming mother were accustomed to breakfast on
shadowy dishes of hope, have the same served up, cold, for dinner, and
then go supperless to bed. The landlady had an excellent reputation
for liberality and kindness, and looked like anything but the cruel
ogress represented in Fanny's writings. The fact is--whatever may be
said to the contrary by Fanny and her especial sympathizers,--she was
at this time living in a style of luxury and elegance which would have
reflected no discredit upon any lady of fashion. There may be some
good reason for concealing this suggestive fact, but we cannot
discover any.
"Fern Leaves, from Fanny's Portfolio"--the last part of the title
originated with ourselves, and was adopted by Fanny--finally made its
appearance. She was fortunate in her publishers. Never was book
advertised so lavishly. No expense of time, money, or tact, was
spared, to create a sensation and great sales. The result is known;
Fanny had occasion to thank us for our counsel; her commission
amounted to several thousand dollars. Flushed with success, she moved
from our sober, puritanic town, to the gay metropolis of New-York. But
such reputations are short-lived. "Little Ferns" followed, and met
with but a moderate sale. A second series of Leaves was then
published--but "oh, what a falling off was there!" The demand for the
book was quite limited.
IX.
FANNY FERN IN CHURCH.
During Fanny Fern's residence in Boston she was a regular attendant at
the Park-street (Orthodox) church. Undoubtedly this circumstance arose
from a strong sentiment of natural affection. Not being on
particularly intimate terms with her family, it was without doubt a
great pleasure to catch such stray glimpses of their well-known faces
as might be obtained under the lofty dome of their favorite church.
It must have been by accident that she strayed away, one Sunday, from
the well-beaten Calvinistic path into the new Music Hall, to listen to
the eloquence of Theodore Parker. We regret, however, that she labored
under a misconception with regard to the character of this church.
Meting out justice to all, we must admit that it is the most
democratic place of the kind in Boston. Black and white, rich or poor,
alike are welcome. The seats are free, in pursuance of the old adage,
"first come, first served." Not here, as in too many of our churches,
is the Christian gospel, "Son, give me thy heart," perverted by the
man with the black velvet bag into "Son, give me thy cash!" The
contribution box, that terror to church-goers, is very rarely
encountered, the expenses being defrayed by voluntary yearly
subscriptions. But Fanny, regardless of these facts, must be held
responsible for the sketch which follows:--
"Do you call _this_ a church? Well, I heard a prima dona here a few
nights ago; and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to
moving fans; and opera-glasses and ogling, and fashion and folly
reigned for the nonce triumphant. _I_ can't forget it; I can't get up
any devotion _here_, under these latticed balconies, with their
fashionable freight. Now if it was a good old country church, with a
cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun
staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few
hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should
feel all right; but my soul is in fetters here; it won't soar--its
wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine! Nobody can come in
at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut.
The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean on his staff in the
porch, a long while, before he'd dare venture in, to pick up _his_
crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank God, the unspoken prayer of
penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, though our mocking
church-spires point only with _aristocratic fingers_ to the _rich
man's heaven_.
"That hymn was beautifully read; there's poetry in the preacher's
soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk; now he crosses the
platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered.
What right has _he_ to know there was a woman in the house? Let the
bonnets find their own hymns--'tisn't clerical!
"Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in church.
I hear a great many original, a great many _startling_ things said. I
see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox Calvinistic
sentiments which I nursed in, with my mother's milk, and which (please
God) I'll cling to till I die. I see the polished blade of satire
glittering in the air, followed by curious, eager, youthful eyes,
which gladly see the searching 'Sword of the Spirit' parried. Meaning
glances--smothered smiles, and approving nods, follow the witty
clerical sally. The author pauses to mark the effect, and his face
says--That stroke _tells_! and so it did, for 'the Athenians' are not
all dead, who 'love to see and hear some new thing.' But he has
another arrow in his quiver. How his features soften--his voice is low
and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He speaks of human
love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart vibrates; and
stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles are chased
away.
"Oh, there's intellect there--there's poetry there--there's genius
there; but I remember Gethsemane--I forget not Cavalry! I know the
'rocks were rent' and the 'heavens darkened,' and 'the stone rolled
away;' and a cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear 'Jesus of
Nazareth' lightly mentioned.
"Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish
voice they cry, '_Away with_ HIM!'
"'With Mary,' let me 'bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with
the hairs of my head.'
"And so, I 'went away sorrowful,' that this human teacher, with such
great intellectual possessions, should yet 'lack the _one thing
needful_.'"
X.
FANNY FERN IN BROADWAY.
"Ha! there she comes, Ned!" says Mr. Augustus Smallcane, lounging on
the arm of his friend.
"Mag-nif-i-cent!" drawls Mr. Tapwit, putting his glass in his eye.
"What a bust!"
"Isn't that a gait, Ned!"
"It's a-door-able!"
Mr. Tapwit chuckled, to let Mr. Smallcane see that a pun was intended.
Mr. Smallcane recognized it with an "O, don't now, Ned!"
"Won't we have a splendid sight at her?" exclaimed Mr. Tapwit. "Crowd
this way. What a figure!"
"What a foot!" adds Smallcane.
And the gentlemen continue to stare and make remarks while the lady
passes.
Does she care? She looks as if she liked it! She is none of your
feeble, timid, common-place women. She "goes in" for sensation and
effect--which few know so well how to produce.