was always at home, and there he found her; as straight and
perpendicular as if she had swallowed the meeting-house steeple. His
errand was soon made known--the form slightly varying from the first
order of performances. Kezia straightened down the folds of her
stiffly-starched neckerchief, and said meekly, that 'she felt inclined
to think it was the path of duty for her;' which Eph. ventured to
subscribe to, with the first holy kiss; when he started back in
consternation, on observing that her red hair was _curled_ around her
face. He shook his head ominously, and said, 'he was afraid 'the
Board' would think it had a carnal look,'--but upon Kezia's informing
him that it was a defect she was _born with_, they made up their minds
that a little patience and pomatum might, in time, remove this
obstacle to their usefulness, and forthwith embarked on the sea of
matrimony, 'fetching up' at the Ourang Outang Islands, just in the
wane of the honeymoon, strong in the belief that the fate of heathen
millions, _long since unborn_ (as Mrs. Partington might say,) lay in
their matrimonial hands."
XXXIX.
WHAT FOWLER SAYS.
Fowler, the phrenologist, who, probably, never saw Fanny Fern,
sanctions and publishes the following from one of her friends--honest
John Walter, we suspect. The reader who has perused the preceding
pages can judge of its truthfulness:
"Fanny Fern is the most retiring and unobtrusive of human beings. More
than any other celebrity we have ever known, she shrinks from personal
display and public observation. During her residence in this city she
has lived in the most perfect privacy, never going to parties or
soirees, never giving such herself, refusing to enlarge her circle of
friends, and finding full employment as well as satisfaction in her
domestic and literary duties. She has probably received more
invitations to private and public assemblies, and her acquaintance
has been more frequently sought by distinguished persons, during the
period of her residence here, than any other individual. To all
solicitations of this kind she returns a mild but decided negative. In
the hotels at which she has resided, no one, neither landlord nor
guest, has ever known her as Fanny Fern. Indeed, she has an abhorrence
of personal publicity, and cannot be persuaded to sacrifice any part
of the comfort of an absolute _incog._ We cannot but approve her
resolution.
"Fanny Fern is a sincerely religious woman, the member of an
evangelical denomination, and a regular attendant at church. We never
knew any one who believed in a belief more strongly than she in hers,
or who was more deeply grieved when that belief was treated with
disrespect. No one stands less in awe of conventionalities, no one is
more strict on a point of honor and principle than she. She is a
person who is able to do all that she is convinced she ought, and to
refrain from doing all that she is sure she ought not. In strength of
purpose, we know not her equal among women.
"The word which best describes Fanny Fern is the word Lady. All her
ways and tastes are feminine and refined. Everything she wears, every
article of furniture in her rooms, all the details of her table, must
be clean, elegant, tasteful. Her attire, which is generally simple and
inexpensive, is always exquisitely nice and becoming. In the stormiest
days, when no visitor could be expected, she is as carefully dressed
and adorned as though she was going to court. We say as carefully,
though, in fact, she has a quick instinct for the becoming, and makes
herself attractive without bestowing much time or thought upon the
matter. Her voice is singularly musical; her manner varies with her
humor; but it is always that of a lady. One who knows Fanny Fern has
an idea what kind of women they must have been for whom knights-errant
did battle in the Middle Ages.
"With all her strength, Fanny Fern is extremely sensitive. She can
enjoy more, suffer more, love more, hate more, admire more and detest
more, than any one whom we have known. With all her gentleness of
manner, there is not a drop of milk and water in her veins. She
believes in having justice done. Seventy times and seven she could
forgive a repentant brother; but not once, unless he repented.
"Fanny Fern writes rapidly, in a large, bold hand; but she sends no
article away without very careful revision; and her manuscript is
puzzling to printers from its numberless erasures and insertions. She
writes from her heart and her eye; she has little aptitude or taste
for abstract thought. She never talks of her writings, and cares
little for criticism, however severe. She is no more capable of
writing an intentional _double entendre_, than the gross-minded men
who have accused her of doing so are capable of appreciating the worth
of pure womanhood.
"Such are some of our impressions of Fanny Fern, to which we may add,
that she has the finest form of any woman in New York, and that no one
of the names recently assigned her in the papers is her true name. In
ordinary circumstances, we should not have thought it right thus to
describe the characteristics of a lady; our sole, and we think,
sufficient justification is, the publication of statements respecting
her, only less vulgar than calumnious."
XL.
THE OTHER SIDE.
The following review of Ruth Hall is from the pen of a talented woman,
far above any feelings of pique or jealousy.
"Our first recollections of 'Fanny Fern' are connected with her
appearance in the Olive Branch a few years since. We were then
entirely ignorant of her real name and position, nor did we, in common
with the indifferent public, feel any particular interest or curiosity
respecting them. The impression of the careless reader would have been
that the spicy scraps bearing this signature were the production of
some hoydenish school-girl, ambitious to see her writings in print.
With the supposition that they were the work of a young lady, was
associated an indefinite, but slightly painful feeling that the
writer was not sufficiently endowed with female delicacy. While a
perfect sketch, artistically wrought out, and disfigured by no defects
of style or coarse inuendoes, partially filled a column, the same
column often contained another article, full of these blemishes.
Vulgar expressions and exclamations were often used, though when these
writings were afterwards collected and published in a book, these were
carefully pruned away. Some judicious friend had evidently guided the
pen to strike out phraseology which would have been injurious if not
fatal to Fanny's rising fame. Whether this judicious friend was the
'Mr. Tibbetts' through whose agency her first work was introduced to
the publishers, who received and forwarded to her all the proofs,
reading the whole aloud to her as fast as it appeared in type, we are
not able to say. Upon 'Fern Leaves,' and successive volumes, thus
carefully pruned of what too plainly revealed a certain coarseness in
the habits of thought of the writer, the public has doubtless passed a
just verdict. With the fame thus won, and the independence thus
secured, would that 'Fanny Fern' had been satisfied.
"We do not intend to attempt an elaborate review of 'Ruth Hall.' As a
novel it will not bear it. We have read it through twice without
catching any clew to its merits or intentions as a work of art.
Disjointed fragments of what should be a beautiful and complete
edifice, are all that meet the eye. As in the newly discovered remains
of ancient cities, monstrous faces, caricatures of humanity, glare
upon us when we look for 'the human face divine.' One cannot but feel
that the mind of the artist must have been itself deformed to have
designed such monstrosities. On looking over the preface, we perceive
that the author disclaims the intention of writing a novel. We will
therefore examine 'Ruth Hall' as an auto-biography.
"A work which appears before the world, heralded as such, with the
evident intention of being so understood, should above all else, be
distinguished for truth. Exaggerated, instead of correct descriptions,
imaginary instead of real conversations and letters, which if genuine,
have no point, and if fictitious, no interest, should not have been
admitted to its pages. The work abounds in these. If 'Ruth Hall' is
'Fanny Fern,' then the incognito of the latter is forever laid aside.
Half the charm attached to her writings has already vanished. She is
no longer a 'Maid of the Mist,' whose silvery veil conceals
deformities and enhances beauties, but plain 'Fanny Fern;' and 'Ruth
Hall' is 'Fanny Fern' described by herself. Let us look at this
description.
"'Ruth Hall' is not without vanity. In the very first chapter, 'her
lithe form had rounded into _symmetry_ and _grace_, her slow step had
become _light_ and _elastic_, her _smile winning_, and her _voice
soft_ and _melodious_.'
"Again on page 48th.
'It was blessed to see the love light in Ruth's _gentle_
eyes; to see the _rose_ chase the lily from her cheek; to
see the old spring come back to her step; to follow her from
room to room while she draped the pretty white curtains, and
_beautified unconsciously everything she touched_.'
"We have not space for farther quotations, but must refer our readers
to the 59th, 61st, 70th, and other pages of the work, not forgetting
the lengthy and flattering phrenological description commencing at
page 278.
"Another very striking characteristic of 'Ruth Hall' is her want of
filial piety. If we omit the evidences of this, half the book
disappears. Whether the parents of her deceased husband, respect for
whose memory at least should have restrained her pen, or her own
relatives, become the subjects of her notice, vulgar ridicule and
pointless wit are unsparingly lavished upon them. Whatever may have
been the faults of those connected with 'Fanny Fern's' past history, a
decent self-respect should have withheld her from thus parading them
before the world. It is well known to the public that 'Fanny Fern' has
been twice married, but all allusion to this circumstance is omitted
in 'Ruth Hall.' How are we then to know that this suppressed history
may not contain a partial justification of the course pursued by her
friends? One intimate with her first husband, long ago informed us
that she was a 'poor housekeeper,' and 'did not make him a comfortable
home.' We have therefore been half inclined to sympathize with 'Mrs.
Hall's' lamentations over the missing accomplishment of bread-making.
"But for infringing on the sacredness of communications intended to be
private, we could give a different aspect to other allusions in 'Ruth
Hall.' Whatever may have been the defects of 'Hyacinth Ellet,' he has
never publicly failed to 'know his father and his mother.' The gray
hairs which 'are a crown of glory when found in the way of
righteousness,' should have shielded an aged parent from the
irreverent attacks of the daughter, and the hollow cough of an invalid
struggling with a yet more pitiless foe, should have found its way to
the heart of the sister. When the clods of the valley shall rest upon
the heads of both father and brother, we shall not envy the emotions
of 'Fanny Fern.'
"'Ruth Hall' proves herself capable of ingratitude. Her earliest
benefactor, the kind-hearted and benevolent man who first encouraged
and rewarded her timid efforts, has not been safe from her attacks,
even in the grave. Later friends have been as unhesitatingly deserted
and abused. Well may they feel 'how sharper than a serpent's tooth it
is, to have a thankless' friend. By the aid of these, she stepped from
obscurity into public notice, and now 'has no farther occasion for her
stepping-stones.'
"But self-esteem, ingratitude, and want of filial piety, are venial
sins compared with the irreverence for things sacred, which sullies
the pages of 'Ruth Hall.' The conversation of the dressmaker, that of
Mr. Ellet with his ministerial friend, the allusion to Hyacinth's
description of the Saviour, with many other briefer passages, had they
been written by Dickens, would have been pronounced impious. Written
by a professed Christian, what then shall we call them? Filial
disrespect and religious irreverence are blended in almost every page.
"But 'Ruth Hall' is represented as a model woman, and an exemplary
Christian. All that 'Fanny Fern's' descriptive talent could do to
throw a charm about her character has been done. Whether the defects
of the heroine thus unintentionally betrayed, may not lessen our
desire to copy this model, we will leave the unprejudiced reader to
judge. One deeply read in human nature has said,
"'Sweet are the uses of adversity
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head.'
"Knowing how 'sweet are the uses of adversity' rightly received and
improved, we cannot but regret that 'Fanny Fern's' adversity should
have left to her so much of the 'venomous.'
"Out of four hundred pages in 'Ruth Hall' seventy-five are entirely
blank. Had the remaining pages been left equally so, we believe it
would have been better for 'Fanny Fern' and for the world."
XLI.
THE GOOD-NATURED BACHELOR.
This individual, Fanny Fern says:--"Is jolly, sleek, and rolly-pooly.
Lifts all the little school-girls over the mud-puddles, and kisses
them when he lands them on the other side. Admires little babies,
without regard to the shape of their noses, or the strength of their
lungs. Squeezes himself into an infinitessimal fragment, in the corner
of an omnibus, to make room for that troublesome individual
_one_--_More_! Vacates his seat any number of times at a crowded
lecture, for distressed looking single ladies. Orders stupid
cab-drivers off the only dry crossing, to save a pretty pair of feet
from immersion, and don't forget to look the other way when their
owner gathers up the skirts of her dress to trip across. Is just as
civil to a shop-girl as if she were a Duchess; pays regularly for his
newspaper, lends his umbrella and goes home with a wet beaver; has a
clear conscience, a good digestion, and believes the women to be all
angels with their wings folded up. Here's hoping matrimony may never
undeceive him!"
XLII.
CATCHING THE DEAR.--BY FANNY FERN.
"A Roman lady who takes a liking to a foreigner does not
cast her eyes down when he looks at her, but fixes them upon
him long and with evident pleasure. If the man of her choice
feels the like sentiment, and asks--'Are you fond of me?'
she replies with the utmost frankness, 'Yes, my dear.'"
You double-distilled little simpleton! don't you know better than
that? Don't you know that courtship is like a vast hunting
party?--_all the pleasure lies in the pursuit?_ That the sport is all
over when the _deer_ is caught? Certainly; you don't catch an American
girl 'doing as the Romans do.' _She_ understands the philosophy of the
thing, and don't drop down like a shot pigeon at the first arrow from
Cupid's quiver. If she is wounded ever so bad, she spreads her wings
and flies off, alighting here, there, and everywhere; leading her
pursuer through bog, ditch and furrow; sometimes flapping her bright
wings close to his face, and then, out of sight--the mischief knows
where--to return again the next minute. In this way she finds out how
much trouble he is willing to take for her; and the way he knows how
to prize her when she is caught would astonish your Roman
comprehension, my dear.
"Now, I never saw a masculine Roman, but I will just tell you, in
passing, that American gentlemen go by the rule of contraries. If
there are any of them whom you desire _most particularly not to be
bored with_, all you have to do is to make a pretence of the most
_intense_ desire for their acquaintance; and vice-versa.
"Bless my soul! you haven't got so far as A, B, C; you are in an
_awful_ benighted state for a female. I labored under the impression
that the Foreign Mission Society had attended to the evangelization of
Rome. I'll have some 'col-porteurs' sent over, without loss of
time--you little verdant Abigail! saying 'yes, my dear,' the minute
you are 'looked at!' If I hadn't so many irons in the fire I'd attend
to your education myself, you poor, ignorant little heathen!"
XLIII.
HELEN, THE VILLAGE ROSE-BUD.
The following tearful sketch was contributed by Fanny Fern to the True
Flag, under the name of 'Olivia.' It is one of Fanny's sweetest
efforts.
"You couldn't help loving our 'Village Rose-bud.' Not because she was
beautiful, though those pouting lips and deep blue eyes were fair to
see; nor because her form had caught the grace of the waving willow;
nor for the gleaming brightness of her golden hair. But because her
sable dress bespoke your tender pity for the orphan; and for the
thousand little nameless acts of love and kindness, prompted by her
gentle and affectionate heart.
"The first sweet violets that opened their blue eyes to greet the
balmy spring, the earliest fruits of summer, and autumn's golden
favors, were laid as trophies at her feet. For each and all, she had a
gentle, kindly word, and a beaming smile; none felt that their
offerings would be overlooked or slighted, because they were
unpretending.
"Helen Gray's means and home were humble, but the apartment she
occupied in the house of the kind Widow More might have vied for taste
and comfort with many more expensively furnished. The tasteful
arrangement of a few choice books and pictures; the flower-stand, with
its wealth of sweet blossoms; the tiny porcelain vase, that daily
chronicled the hopes of her rustic admirers as expressed in the shape
of rose-buds, heart's-ease, mignonette, and the like; the snowy
curtain, looped gracefully away from the window, over which the
wild-rose and honey-suckle formed a fairy frame for the sweet face
that so often bewildered the passing traveller--many an hour did she
sit there, watching the fleecy cloud; the fragrant meadow, through
which the tiny stream wound like a thread of silver; the waving trees,
with their leafy music; the church, with its finger of faith pointing
to Heaven; and the village graveyard, where were peacefully pillowed
the gray-haired sire and loving mother, whom she still mourned; and
each and all wound their own spell around the heart and fancy of the
orphan Helen.
"But there is yet another spell that holds her in its silken fetters.
Ah, little Helen! by those morning walks and star-lit rambles, by that
rose fresh with dew, glittering amid your ringlets, by those dainty
little notes, that bring such a bright flush to your cheek and add
such lustre to your eyes; you are a _plighted_ maiden.
"Harry Lee knew well how to woo, and win 'the village rose-bud.'
Master of a handsome fortune, he had early exhausted all the sources
of enjoyment to be found in his native city. For the last three years
he had been a voluntary exile in foreign lands; he had daguerreotyped
upon his memory all that was grand, majestic and lovely, in natural
beauty; all that was perfect in painting and sculpture. He had
returned home, weary in the search of pleasure, sick of artificial
manners and etiquette, longing for something that would interest him.
"In such a mood he met Helen. Her naive manners, her innocent and
childish beauty, captivated his fancy. He was rich enough to be able
to please himself in the choice of a wife, and the orphan's sweet
gentleness gave promise of a ready compliance with every selfish
desire. As to Helen, she had only her own heart to ask. All the
villagers thought 'Mr. Lee was such a _handsome_ man.' _Mr. Lee
thought so himself._
"Fair and bright shone the sun on Helen's bridal morning! No father,
nor mother, nor brother, nor sister, were there to give the young
bride away. She had yielded her innocent and guileless heart without a
fear for the future. Her simple toilette required little care. The
golden tresses, the graceful, symmetrical figure, the sweet face, over
which the faint blush flitted with every passing emotion, could gain
nothing by artificial adornment.
"Helen could have been happy with her husband in a far less costly,
less luxurious home; but well did she grace its fair halls. Her
perfect and intuitive tact served her in place of experience of the
gay world. Her husband was amused as well as gratified at her ease and
self-possession, and marked with pride the world's admiration of his
choice.
"It is needless to say how the orphan's heart went out to him who was
_all_ to her. With what fond pride she looked up to him whom she
believed to be all that was noble, good and true--how delicately she
anticipated every wish, and dissipated by her sunny brightness every
cloud of care.
"How perfect and far-sighted that Wisdom that shrouds the future from
our sight! Who among us, with rude hand, would willingly draw back the
dark curtain, and palsy the hearts now beating high with hope and
promise?
"Time passed on, and Helen had another claimant for her love. Never
was infant so caressed by a doating mother; never one whose little
lamp of life needed such careful watching lest it should be
extinguished.
"Helen looked in vain to read in her husband's eyes the love she felt
for her child. Its cries were intolerable to him, and the quiet and
tedium of a sick-room annoying to the last degree. He missed the light
step that bounded to meet him on his return, the bright face that
smiled upon him at their quiet meal, the touch of fairy fingers on his
heated brow. He thought not of a mother's pain; he felt no gratitude
for the life that had been spared him; he had no admiration for the
patient devotion of the young mother. He took not into account the
monotony of a sick-room to a nervous, excitable temperament like
Helen's; he looked not beyond his own selfish feelings.
"Helen was grieved, yet she would not admit to herself that Harry had
changed. She made an effort to appear stronger and brighter than she
really was, and in the unselfishness of her love she said, 'It must be
_I_ who have changed; I will yet win him back to me.' But her babe was
feeble, and required much of her time, and Harry's brow would cloud
with displeasure when the eyes of his gentle wife would fill with
tears; then with an impatient 'pshaw!' he would leave the room,
'wondering what nurses were made for, if they couldn't keep babies
from being a bore.'
"Poor Helen! All this told upon her feeble health and spirits; she
became nervous and hysterical, and trembled when she heard Harry's
footsteps. She consulted her glass to see if sickness had robbed her
of the charms that had won him. Still it reflected back the same
wealth of golden hair, the fair, pure brow, the sweet blue eyes. The
rose had faded from her cheek, 'tis true, but that would bloom again
with exercise and fresh air; and so she redoubled her attentions,
patiently counting the tedious hours of his unwonted absence, nor met
him with an ungentle word or look of reproach on his return.
"Helen had often met, at the house of a friend of Harry's, a young
widow lady by the name of Melville. One day her husband told her that
he wished an invitation to be sent to her to make them a visit,
adding, 'she will cheer you up and help you appear more like yourself
again.'
"The next week found Norah Melville their guest. Married at the age of
nineteen to a man the age of her father, she found herself a year
after a widow, with unimpaired beauty, and a fortune sufficiently
ample to cover every want or desire. She had a thorough knowledge of
human nature, and was a perfect woman of the world. Her figure was
tall and queenly, she had large liquid black eyes, a complexion of
marble paleness, a profusion of raven black hair, and a voice like the
wind-harp in its sweetness. She knew that eyes like hers were made for
_use_, and she _acted upon that principle_.
"Nothing could exceed her kindness to Helen, who only saw that her
husband's old glad smile had come back again, and that he was once
more gay and cheerful.
"Mrs. Melville sang them all her choicest songs, always appeared in an
unexceptionable toilette, displayed a foot equal to Cinderella's, and
was, by turns, pensive or gay, thoughtful or witty, brilliant or sad;
but in all _bewitching_!
"Helen could see nothing exceptionable in her manners or conversation,
and agreed with the rest of her admirers that she was a 'splendid
woman.'