if any country _could_ grow decent babies, wouldn't it be _America_?
Yes, SIR! but I tell you, it's my solemn conviction that they are
nothing more nor less than a '_well-spring_' of _botheration_,
wherever they are raised. Don't _I_ know? Didn't that shapeless,
flimsy, flappy little nuisance I allude to, rule the house from garret
to cellar before it was a month old? Wasn't it entirely at _its_
option, whether the mother dined at 2 o'clock at noon, or 2 at night?
In fact, whether she dined at all? Didn't the little wretch keep its
lack-lustre eyes fixed on her, and the minute she turned her back upon
it and moved towards the door, contrive to poke one eye half out with
its fist, or get its toes twisted into a knot, or some such infantile
stratagem to attract attention? Didn't it know, by _instinct_,
whenever she had an invitation to ride, or walk, or visit? and get up
a fit of sham distress to knock it all in the head? Didn't she throw
away dozens of pairs of good shoes because they creaked? Did she
_ever_ know what she was to be allowed to do the next minute?
"'_Well-spring of pleasure!_' Ha! ha! Ask her husband, Tom! Didn't he
have to emigrate up two flights of stairs because it screeched so
incessantly nights, that it unfitted him for business next day? He's
_very_ fond of babies; HE is!
"Well, Mr. Tupper, we won't mention creeping time--when skeins of
yarn, and pins, and darning needles are swallowed, with a horrifying
ravenousness suggestive of a 'stomach pump;' or its first essays at
walking, when it navigates the carpet like a sailor fresh from 'board
ship;' raising bumps never marked down on any phrenological chart! or
clutching at the corner of the tablecloth, dragging off inkstands,
vases, annuals, and '_Proverbial Philosophys_,' with an edifying
promiscuousness! Then, making for the open door, and taking a 'flying
leap' down two pairs of stairs, to the astonishment of John, Betty and
Sally!
"Now, Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper, 'philosophize' as beautifully as
_only you know how_, but _take an American woman's advice_, and don't
mention babies! unless you'll sketch from _life_ as _I_ do! You
needn't stand up for _English babies_; they're _all alike_, from Queen
Victoria's DOWN to Mike O'Flaherty's, or UP to American babies!
"I'm astonished at you, Mr. Tupper! a _poet_ and a HANDSOME poet,
too!! I'm surprised. _I_ am!"
XV.
PRAISE FROM A WOMAN.
Fanny always _was_ grateful. This well-known fact is humorously
exemplified in the following article, referring to Mrs. H. Marion
Stephens. This lady, in her "Town-Talk," for the Boston Times, made a
few graceful allusions to Fanny's wit and genius, and this friendly
tribute gave birth to
"MISS FANNY FIDDLESTICK'S SOLILOQUY,
"ON READING A COMPLIMENTARY NOTICE OF HERSELF, BY A LADY.
"Praise from a woman! What did I ever do to _injure her_, I'd like to
know? _There's something behind that!_ If she had abused me now, I
should have been as placid as an oyster. Here, pussy, come taste this
cup of tea for me; I'll give you ten minutes to repent of all your
feline flirtations, on that back shed, with _promiskus_ Grimalkins;
for ten to one you'll keel over in a fit as soon as you've swallowed
it. I don't touch it till I know whether it's poisoned or not. There's
more cats than Ferns in the world, and complimentary notices from a
female woman look suspicious. I shall be up and dressed, now I tell
you. There's a bundle just come in. When I open it _alone_, I guess
you'll know it; I've heard of infernal machines before to-day. I don't
touch it off without a minister and Marshal Tukey, I promise you.
Praise from a woman! Oh, this Fanny isn't verdant, if she is a Fern!
There's something behind it! When a woman pats you with one hand you
may be morally certain she's going to scratch you with the other.
Here;--hands off! clear the track of all petticoats! I'm going to the
pistol gallery to take lessons in shooting. That complimentary notice
is the _fore end of a runner_ of something."
XVI.
THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF JEMMY JESSAMY.
"Jemmy Jessamy," writes Fanny Fern, "was a double-distilled old
bachelor. He had occupied the same quarters at ---- Hotel for
five-and-twenty years. The chamber-maid that 'cleared up' No. 25,
dared not, at the price of her scalp, misplace a boot or a
tooth-brush. If his breakfast was brought up five minutes before the
time, it was ordered down again--and woe to the luckless waiter who
brought him hot water when he spoke for cold, or failed to transmit,
with telegraphic speed, any card or parcel left at the bar. The first
thing _he_ knew he didn't know _nothing_. In other words, Jemmy saved
him the trouble of going down stairs, by landing him, 'on his own
hook,' (nolens volens) in the lower entry.
"Jemmy took two or three hours to _make himself up_ in the morning,
emerging from his shell at 10 o'clock in the forenoon, a perfect Beau
Brummell. The most fastidious taste could detect no flaw; the most
critical or censorious eye no foppery. His figure was matchless, or
his tailor, or both together; and his coats always of a shade of color
unattainable by any one but Jemmy. Last, not least, he rejoiced in a
set of dickies that left him at perfect liberty to look east, west,
north or south, without cutting his ears off! He never appeared in
public, 'en dishabille,' either of body or mind. Both were, at such
times, in their holiday suit.
"Now it was very selfish in Jemmy to 'waste his sweetness on the
desert air,' for so many years; but he had two good reasons for it.
The first was that he considered himself too bright a jewel to be in
the possession of any one woman exclusively. The next was, he was
terribly afraid of being taken in. He never made a call on a _single_
woman without taking some male acquaintance (not too attractive) to
neutralize the force of the compliment. A bright eye or a pretty ankle
gave him spasms. He couldn't live away from their owners, and he was
afraid to go too near them.
"He was most at his ease in a large family of sisters, where he could
sprinkle about his attentions and gallantries in homoeopathic
doses; or in the society of married ladies, where a man stands in no
fear of being asked "_his intentions_."
"Susy ---- was the bright, particular star in _this_ firmament. She
was always in choice spirits, sparkling as a bottle of champagne,
well-dressed, good-tempered, always ready for a drive, a walk, a sail
or a pic-nic, and always the belle of the party.
"She was visiting at the house of a friend; and Jemmy felt himself so
_safe_ there. The newest piece of music, the most fragrant of Gibbens'
bouquets, the last of Dickens's perpetrations, found their way to
"Barley Place, No. 5." Susy hemmed three splendid neck-ties, with her
own fair fingers; mended the little rips in his gloves, (that he had
amused himself _making_ for her when he sat alone in his room,) and
told him, confidentially, how to trim his moustache and where to lay
the pruning-knife to his whiskers. Jemmy was a lucky man!
"Jem," said Tom Lane, one night, as they sat smoking their cigars with
their feet ten degrees higher than their heads, "how much longer are
you going to trifle with that little widow? Why don't you ask her and
done with it?"
"Widow! ask her! done with it!" said Jem, with a stupid stare, as his
cigar fell into the ashes. "They said 'her husband was absent.'"
"Absent! Ha! ha! his tombstone will tell you about that!"
"I'm ruined," said Jem, "_ruined_! I have driven her out; walked with
her, sailed with her, praised her eyes and hair, sent her bouquets,
and music, and poetry; I've--I've done everything, Tom. What's to be
done? I won't be married. I'd as lief be hung;" and pronouncing the
latter part of the word _condemnation_, rather audibly, he rushed into
the open air to take breath!
"The next day the following item appeared in the newspapers:
"MYSTERIOUS.--The admirers of James Jessamy, Esq., will be pained to
learn of his sudden and unaccountable disappearance from the ----
Hotel. No clue has as yet been discovered of his whereabouts. His
papers, books and wearing-apparel, are in safe keeping for his
relatives, and may be had on application to Sam Springle, ---- Hotel."
XVII.
JEMMY JESSAMY'S DEFENCE.
To Fanny Fern.--_Miss Fern_: Your wanton and unprovoked attack upon
me, in the last edition of the "True Flag," headed "Look before you
Leap," is a _leetle_ more than I can stand. I should like to know what
on earth has induced you to expend your electricity upon "Jemmy
Jessamy, the double-distilled bachelor?" Calling me by name, and thus
setting me up as a public mark, and proclaiming just the number of
years I have boarded in "---- Hotel, No. 25," and then heralding my
peculiarities in regard to the chamber-maid, has put me in no enviable
predicament. I begin to think it is high time I knew "something."
My hour for rising, I acknowledge, is ten A. M. I am not, then, the
perfect "Beau Brummell" you have described; for I have never obtruded
my calls upon anybody until ten o'clock, by my double repeater. Well,
if I was skittish about approaching women, formerly, what must I be
now, since your virago-tongue has used me up by piecemeal! Talking
about my "dickeys" sitting comfortably! What if I _do_ allow myself a
commendable latitude for turning every way? When _such_ weather-cocks
are in the market, it behooves us to "look before we leap." Besides, I
have never taxed a female eye to stitch a dickey, sew on a button,
make a shirt, or repair an overcoat since I have been in the above
hotel. My tailor has always been my seamstress: and his bills, like
some of the married fraternity, do not remain _unpaid_. But what right
had you to assign my reasons for remaining single, and bestowing my
attentions in "homoeopathic doses upon a whole family of sisters?"
Then I am served up at "No. 5 Barley Place," and a game is made about
myself and the widow "Susy." I am represented as playing the part of a
lover, supposing her a married lady. She never sewed a rip in my
glove, nor cut or curled a single hair of my moustaches in her life.
To be sure, Tom Lane is a joking fellow, and he _did_ talk about her
husband's tombstone; but it was all gas, and, as I thought, ended in
smoke.
But, last of all, I am described as absconding from my hotel.
Heavens! what a tongue you have got. Hadn't I a right to go South to
cure a consumption, without a strange woman's meddling about it? While
I was there, however, Miss Fan, I heard of a place just suited to your
capacities. An editor advertised for a partner "that could write out
thunder and lightning at a stroke." I thought of you, and added, I
knew one that could do that, and throw a powerful deluge along with
it. This is evidently your latitude. People at the South indulge in
personalities, and then challenge each other for a duel. In this way,
you would be spared many of your random shots.
The time was, when I seriously thought of the subject of marriage. I
have bothered over the subject, whether women are really what they
appear, until I am satisfied. If _you_ are an untamed, undisguised,
plain representative of the sex, may heaven protect all future Caudles
from such emblems of affection! If I am an old bachelor, I am
determined to wear the breeches myself. You need not dream about a
codicil being attached to my will,--for your last attack has
completely and forever estranged you from all claims, human or divine
on
JEMMY JESSAMY.
XVIII.
THE GOVERNESS.
The following tale is Fanny Fern's earliest attempt at a long story,
now for the first time given to the world within the covers of a book.
"'If you please, ma'am, a young woman in the hall, dressed in
mourning, wishes to speak with you.' The lady addressed might have
been, (we are aware we are treading on debatable ground,) about
thirty-eight years of age. Time, that had spared her the attraction of
a graceful, pliant form, had robbed her blue eyes of their lustre, and
thinned her flaxen tresses. She still rejoiced, however, in a pair of
diminutive feet and ankles, which she considered it a great sin to
'hide under a bushel,' and had a way of her own of exhibiting on all
occasions, known only to the ingenuity of a practised coquette, or an
ex-belle. She raised her eyes languidly from the last new novel she
was perusing, and with the air of a victim closed the book, as John
ushered in the intruder.
"Slightly raising her eyebrows, she said, 'So you are the young person
who answered my advertisement for a governess?' levelling at the same
time a scrutinizing glance upon her that brought the color into her
fair cheek. 'In mourning, I see; very becoming, but it always gives me
the dismals to see a black dress about; don't cry, child, people will
die when their time comes, it's a thing that can't be helped. I
suppose you understand French, German, Italian, Spanish, and all that
sort of thing, if you are a governess. I desire Meta to be
_fashionably_ educated, and if you stay, I hope you will understand
your business and be thorough, for it is a great bore to me to look
after such things. I shall want you to clear starch my collars and
ruffles, and trim my breakfast caps; I see you look as though you
would object to this, but you won't find such a place as this every
day, and people who are driven to the wall by necessity, and have to
get their own living, can't afford to be fastidious. Pity you are so
pretty, child; never mind, you must keep close; you'll see no company
at my house, and I trust you are no gadder. What is your name? Grace
Clifford? very romantic! Well, if you'd like to stay, John will show
you to your room--but pray put away that mass of curls and wear it
plain, as it looks too childish for a governess. You needn't trouble
yourself to dress for dinner, as you will eat with Meta in the
nursery. John! Show Miss Clifford to her room.'
"And thither, fair reader, we will follow her. Poor Grace! Left to
herself, a sense of her utter loneliness overpowered her, and she wept
like a child. Early left an orphan, dependent through her childhood
and youth, up to the present time, upon relatives who made her feel
each day, each hour, how bitter was that dependence; who grudged the
bread she ate; who, envious of her beauty and superior abilities,
constantly made them the subject of coarse jests and coarser taunts,
Grace gladly answered Mrs. Fay's advertisement, hoping for relief from
the fetters of so galling a chain. Sensitive to a fault, she had
endeavored to nerve herself with strength to endure much that was
annoying and repulsive in the situation she sought; but the total want
of delicacy and courtesy displayed by Mrs. Fay, her coarse allusion to
her late bereavement, (the death of a sister,) her ill-concealed envy
of her personal charms, all combined to depress and dishearten her.
"But Grace Clifford was a Christian. She had been early called to
suffer; she knew _who_ had mixed for her the cup of life, and she
pushed it not away from her lips because the ingredients were bitter.
She knew an ear that was never deaf to the orphan's cry, and that the
promise 'When thy father and mother forsake thee,' was all her own to
claim; and she rose from her knees with a brow calm as an angel's, a
spirit girded for the conflict, and a peace that the world knoweth not
of.
"Grace's patroness, Mrs. Fay, was the only daughter of a petty
shop-keeper in the village of ----. Worshipped by doating parents for
her beauty, of which little now remained, she received from them a
showy, superficial education, which she was taught from childhood to
consider valuable only as a stepping-stone to an establishment in
life. She contemptuously turned the cold shoulder to her rustic
admirers, one after the other. How this human butterfly succeeded in
entrapping a matter-of-fact man, like Mr. Fay, is quite unaccountable.
Be that as it may, the honeymoon saw in its decline the death of his
love, and wearied with her doll face and vacant mind, he sought,
after the birth of his little daughter, his chief pleasure in the
nursery, for which she entertained an unconquerable aversion.
"Reader, have you never in a Summer's day ramble stopped to admire in
some secluded spot a sweet flower that had sprung up as if by
magic--rich in color, beautiful in form, throwing unconsciously its
sweet fragrance to the winds, unappreciated, unnoticed, uncared for,
save by His eye who painted its delicate leaves? Such a flower was
Meta Fay. Delicate, fragile as Spring's first violet, with a brow and
eyes that are seldom seen, save where death's shadow soonest falls;
and with a mind that face belied not, earnest, thoughtful and serious.
"Repulsed by her mother, who saw nothing in that little shrinking form
but a bar to the enjoyment of her empty pleasures, doted on by a
father who was the slave of Mammon, and who, unable to fathom the soul
that looked out from the depths of those clear eyes, lavished as a
recompense for the many unanswered questions prompted by her restless
mind, the costliest toys of childhood. From all these would Meta turn
away dissatisfied, to clasp to her bosom the simplest daisy that
decked the meadow, or to hail with rapture the first sweet star that
came stealing forth at evening.
"Such was Grace Clifford's pupil. All thought of herself was soon lost
in the delight of watching her young mind develop; and if a thought of
her responsibility as its guardian sometimes startled her, yet it also
made her more watchful, more true to her trust. A love almost like
that of parent and child grew up between them. Often, when engaged in
their studies, when Meta's love-speaking eyes were fixed upon her
young teacher, and the flush upon her delicate cheek was coming and
vanishing like the shadows of a Summer cloud, would Grace tremble for
the frail casket that contained so priceless a gem.
"Meantime, Mrs. Fay continued her treadmill round of visiting,
shopping and dressing, occasionally looking into the nursery, quite
satisfied that her child was wonderfully improved in beauty, and
willing to take it for granted everything else was as it should be. On
one of these occasions Meta said,
"'Mamma! Papa and I think Miss Clifford is a beauty.'
"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Fay.
"'Yes, and when I pull out her comb and let all her beautiful hair
down over her shoulders, papa says it looks like waves of gold.'
"Mrs. Fay walked up to her husband and said, in a hissing whisper--
"'So this accounts for the interest you take in the child's studies!
In my opinion that Grace Clifford, with her sly demure face, is a
great flirt--I thought she was too pretty when I engaged her. '_Golden
waves!_' and with a toss of the head, be-tokening a domestic
thunder-storm, her ladyship left the nursery.
"The next day, as Grace sat busy with her work, with Meta beside her,
the child suddenly looked up and said,
"'What is a _flirt_, Miss Clifford?'
"Grace was about to burst into a hearty laugh, but there was a look
almost amounting to distress on Meta's face that checked her.
"'Why do you ask me that question, my pet?'
"'Oh! because mamma told papa yesterday that _you_ was a flirt, and I
thought--and (the child hesitated) it meant something _naughty_,
because mamma was so angry.'
"Poor Grace! The blood rushed in a torrent over cheek, neck and brow.
Meta, frightened at the effect of her question, began to sob as if her
heart would break, when the door opened, and Mr. Fay came in. Grace
rushed precipitately past him, and gaining her own room, burst into a
passionate flood of tears. In vain she taxed her memory to recall an
indiscreet word or action, or anything that a jealous wife could
construe into an invasion of her matrimonial rights. The sin, if there
was any, was not forthcoming. In vain had been all her efforts to
propitiate this weak-minded woman, by pulling away the obnoxious
ringlets, by clear starching her muslins, or trimming with tasteful
fingers her dainty little breakfast caps. The serpent had entered
Eden; and although no 'forbidden fruit' had been tasted, she none the
less clearly saw the flaming sword that was to drive her thence.
Sheltering herself under the plea of a violent headache, she excused
herself from appearing again below, and sat until a late hour at
night, devising the best mode of leaving, as farther stay was
impossible in such a humiliating position. She must go; _that_ was
plain;--but _where_?
"Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of hurrying
feet in the hall. A quick rap at the door, and a summons to Meta's
room followed. She had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Grace
forgot everything in anxiety for her darling, and hastily snatching a
dressing gown, she flew to her room. The poor child was tossing
restlessly from side to side; her little hands were hot and burning,
and her cheeks crimsoned with fever. Mr. Fay hastily resigned her to
Grace's care, while he went for a physician.
"With the tenderness of a mother she changed the heated pillows,
parted the thick curls from her little forehead, bathed the throbbing
temples, and rendered the thousand little nameless services, known
only to the soft step, quick eye, and delicate hand of woman.
"Meanwhile the mother slept quietly in an adjoining room, solacing
herself that the doctor knew better than she what was best for the
child, and fearing the effect of night vigils upon her complexion.
"When Mr. Fay returned with the physician, Meta had sunk into an
uneasy slumber. Resigning her post to him, Grace watched his
countenance with an anxious eye while he felt the pulse and noted the
breathing of her little pupil. Writing his prescriptions, he handed
them to Grace, who had signified her intention of spending the night,
adding as he did so,
"'It is needless to enjoin quiet upon one who seems so well to
understand the duties of a nurse.'
"With a glance at his child, in which all the father was expressed,
and a grateful 'God bless you' to Grace, Mr. Fay left the room.
Shading the small lamp, lest it might waken the child, Grace unhanded
her rich tresses, and loosening the girdle of her dressing gown,
seated herself beside her.
"Silently, slowly, pass the night watches, in the chamber of the sick
and dying! The dull ticking of the clock, falling upon the sensitive
ear of the watcher, strikes to the throbbing heart a nameless terror.
With straining eye, its hours are counted; with nervous hand, at the
appointed time, the healing draught is prepared for the sufferer. The
measured tread of the watchman, as he passes his rounds beneath the
windows, the distant rumble of the stage-coach, perchance the
disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone break the
solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts like unbidden
guests rush in. Life appears like the _dream_ it is; _Eternity_ the
_waking_; and involuntarily the most thoughtless look up for help to
_Him_, by whom 'the hairs of our head are all numbered.'
"The stars, one by one, faded away in the golden light of morning. The
sun rose fair to many an eye that should never see its setting. Meta
was delirious. In fancy she roved with her dear teacher in green
fields, and listened to the sweet song of birds, and was happy.
"'Do not tell me my darling will die,' said the stricken father to the
physician; then turning to Grace, he said, almost in the form of a
command, 'you know how to pray; you taught her the way to heaven, when
I could not; _ask for her life_; God hears the angels.'
"'While there is life there is hope,' said the sympathizing physician,
wiping away a tear; 'all that we can do we will, and leave the event
with a higher power.'
"Day after day, night after night, regardless of food or rest, Grace
kept tireless watch by the little sufferer; the selfish mother
occasionally looking in, declaring her inability to stay in a
sick-room, and expressing her satisfaction that others had more nerve
than herself for such scenes.
"That day a new harp was strung, a white robe was worn, a new song was
heard in heaven. _On earth, 'the child was not!'_
"'Alone _again_ in the world, alone with the _dead_,' faltered Grace,
as she sank insensibly by the little corpse.