Albion, an able organ of English sentiment.
"There are some books of which it is difficult to speak as one could
wish, for a variety of reasons. _Ruth Hall_ is such a one. We have
watched the career of Fanny Fern from the first, and have seen but
little in it to commend. Suddenly elevated to a pinnacle of
popularity, she has demeaned herself as no right-minded woman should
have done, and no sensitive-minded woman could have done--throwing out
insinuations, that she was a very ill-used woman; that her family
neglected her; and finally, that she 'had _no_ family.' Her 'Fern
Leaves,' of which two series are before the public, are more or less
an expansion of these or of congenial ideas--neglected wives and
sisters, hard-hearted fathers and uncles, fatherless and suffering
children, and young but talented authoresses seeking a livelihood by
the pen, forming the bulk of the work. 'Ruth Hall' harps on the same
strings; showing how Ruth Hall got married; how Mr. Hall died; how Mr.
Hall's 'aged parents,' and the blood relatives of Ruth Hall, _née_
Ellet, chaffered about helping her in her time of need, and how they
didn't; how she took to authorship, and wrote in the newspapers under
the signature 'Floy;' how she became famous, and humbled her brother
Hyacinth, who had the good sense to discourage her from the first; and
how she has a friend in the person of a Mr. Walter. This, and more of
the same sort, is the plot of 'Ruth Hall.' The book is ostensibly
published as a novel; but is intended--if general report may be
believed--as an autobiography of Fanny Fern herself. If designed for a
novel, it is clumsy in construction, and full of false sentiment and
questionable morality. If meant for an autobiography, it is a piece of
malice and impertinence. Admitting--what we do not for a moment
believe--the truth of the narrative, we see no reason why it should be
published, but many excellent ones why it should not. An old proverb
says, 'there is a skeleton in every family.' It does not become this
egotistical and querulous dame, if she have one in hers, to parade it
before the world. It would be wiser to shut the door on it. Such a
book as this will win its writer some praise--for there is talent in
it--and give her even more notoriety than she appears to possess. We
cannot, however, say that on the whole it is creditable to the female
head or the female heart."
LII.
ORTHODOX TESTIMONY.
The Congregational Journal, Concord, N. H., concludes a somewhat
severe review, in the following emphatic manner:--
"The chapter wanting in the life of 'Ruth Hall,' perhaps could be
furnished by Mr. Samuel P. Farrington, of Chicago, Ill., if he was her
second husband till he obtained a divorce from her; and that such is
the fact, who will deny? Who that knows will take the responsibility
of denying that 'Ruth Hall' alias 'Fanny Fern,' is the daughter of
Deacon Nathaniel Willis, of Boston, and that N. P. Willis is her
brother? And who will deny that her first husband was a Mr. Eldredge,
whose father was a physician, and is now dead? Is not the 'old Doctor'
the father of 'Harry?' Is not 'Mr. Ellet' the father of 'Ruth,' and
is not 'Hyacinth' her brother? are questions which she will not answer
in the negative. We shall not ourselves attempt any description of
this book, but having knowledge of some facts in the history of its
author, and believing that the outlines above quoted are just, we have
encumbered our columns with the matter. If by so doing, we shall be
the means of increasing the readers of 'Ruth Hall,' the responsibility
of reading such an abominable production will rest on themselves and
not us."
LIII.
ANOTHER FERN.
I've been reading the Bible, to-day, and it strikes me that our
foremothers were not very correct old ladies. Who flirted with the old
serpent? How came Sampson's hair cut off and his peepers extinguished?
Who perforated Jael's head with tenpenny nails? How came Jonah sent on
a whale-ing voyage? Who helped Ananias tell fibs? Who put Job up to
swearing? Who raised a perfect hurricane in good old Abram's house!
Who danced John the Baptist's head off his shoulders, hey? I'd like to
have you notice (that's all,) what a stock we all sprung from.
"If _they_ weren't tee-totally depraved, may I never find out which of
'em I descended from! They didn't seem to have the least consideration
for future generations 'long since unborn.' Now I don't calculate,
myself, to feel responsible for _their_ capers. I've read somewhere,
in Byron, I believe, that every washtub must stand on its own
pedestal! (or something like that.) I don't believe in saddling my
shoulders with their old-fashioned transgressions.
"Curious, though, isn't it? the mischief women make in the world?
Great pity Noah hadn't set Mrs. Noah _adrift_ when he 'took one of
each kind in the ark." I should rather have stood my chance for a
ducking, than to have been shut up with such a 'promiskus' men-agerie.
Noah was a worthy old gentleman. No mention made of his getting tipsy
but once, I believe."
_Nota Bene._--We cannot help being a little amused at
Fanny's comical want of Scriptural information. Our Bible
represents Jael as a _woman_, not by any means "perforated
with tenpenny nails," though she did try the "perforating"
experiment with excellent success, on the head of Sisera
"the captain of Jabin's army." Oh, wondrous Fanny, those
early Sabbath-school lessons must have been long ago
forgotten!
LIV.
"THE BEST OF MEN HAVE THEIR FAILINGS."
Fanny doesn't think so. She expresses her opinion as follows:--
"I wish I could ever take up a paper that endorsed my liberal
sentiments. I've always warped to the opinion that good men were as
safe as homoeopathic pills. You don't suppose they ever patronize
false words or false weights, false measures or false yardsticks? You
don't suppose they ever slander their neighbors after making a
long-winded exhortation in a vestry meeting? You don't suppose they
ever lift their beavers to a long purse, and turn their backs on a
thread-bare coat? You don't suppose they ever bestow a charity to
have it trumpeted in the newspapers? You don't suppose when they trot
devoutly to meeting twice a day on Sunday, that they overhaul their
ledgers in the intermission? You don't suppose they ever put
doubtful-looking bank bills in the contribution box? You don't suppose
they ever pay their minister's salary in consumptive hens and damaged
turkies? I wish people were not so uncharitable and suspicious. It
disgusts me with human nature.
"Now if I once hear a man make a prayer, that's enough said. After
_that_, Gabriel couldn't make me believe he was a sinner. If his face
is of an orthodox length, and his creed is dyed in the wool, I
consider him a prepared subject for the undertaker. If his toes are on
an evangelical platform, I am morally certain his eyes never will go
on a 'Tom Fool's errand.' If he has a proper reverence for a
church-steeple, I stake my life on it, his conduct will be
perpendicular. I should be perfectly willing to pin my faith on his
sleeve till the final consummation of all things. Yes, I've the most
unswerving, indestructible, undying confidence in any man who owns a
copy of Watts' Psalms and Hymns. Such a man _never_ trips, or if he
does, you never _catch him_ at it!"
LV.
THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME.
In a very different spirit the following sketch was written:--
"A lover's quarrel! A few hasty words, a formal parting between two
hearts, that neither time nor distance could ever disunite; then--a
lifetime of misery!
"Edith May stood before me in her bridal dress. The world was to be
made to believe she was happy and heart-whole. I knew better. I knew
that no woman who had once loved Gilbert Ainslie could ever forget
him; least of all such a heart as Edith's. She was pale as a
snow-wreath; and bent her head as gracefully as a water lily, in
recognition of her numerous friends and admirers.
"'_What a sacrifice_,' the latter muttered, between their set teeth!
'What a sacrifice,' my heart echoed back!
"Mr. Jefferson Jones was an ossified old bachelor. He had but one idea
in his head, and that was, how to make money. There was only one thing
he understood equally well, and that was, how to keep it. He was
angular, prim, cold and precise; mean, grovelling, contemptible and
cunning.
"And Edith! Our peerless Edith, whose lovers were 'legion;' Edith,
with her passionate heart, her beauty, grace, taste and refinement;
Edith to vow 'love and honor' to such a soulless block! It made me
shudder to think of it! I felt as though his very gaze was
profanation.
"Well, the wedding was over; and she was duly installed mistress of
Jefferson House. She had fine dresses, fine furniture, a fine
equipage, and the stupidest possible encumbrance, in the shape of a
husband.
"Mr. Jefferson Jones was very proud of his bride; firstly, because she
added to his importance, secondly, because he plumed himself not a
little in bearing off so a dainty a prize. It gave him a malicious
pleasure to meet her old admirers, with the graceful Edith upon his
arm. Of course she preferred _him_ to them all; else, why did she
marry him?
"Then how deferential she was in her manner since their marriage; how
very polite, and how careful to perform her duty to the letter. Mr.
Jones decided, with his usual acumen, that there was no room for a
doubt, on _that_ point! He noticed, indeed, that her girlish gaiety
was gone; but that was a decided improvement, according to his views.
She was _Mrs. Jones_, now, and meant to keep all the whiskered
popinjays at a respectful distance. _He liked it!_
"And so, through those interminable evenings, Edith sat, playing long,
stupid games of chess with him, or listening (?) to his gains or
losses in the way of trade; or reading political articles of which the
words conveyed no ideas to her absent mind.
"She walked through the busy streets, leaning on his arm, with an
_unseen form_ ever at her side; and slept--(God forgive her!) next his
heart, when _hers_ was _far away_! But when she was _alone!_ no human
eye to read her sad secret! her small hands clasped in agony, and her
fair head bent to the very dust,--_was he not avenged?_
* * * * *
"It was a driving storm; Mr. Jones concluded to dine at a restaurant
instead of returning home. He had just seated himself, and given his
orders to the obsequious waiter, when his attention was attracted by
the conversation of two gentleman near him.
"'Have you seen la belle Edith, since her marriage, Harry?'
"'No; I feel too much vexed with her. Such a splendid specimen of
flesh and blood to marry such an idiot! all for a foolish quarrel with
Ainslie. You never saw such a wreck as it has made of him. However,
she is well punished; for, with all her consummate tact and effort to
keep up appearances, it is very plain that she is the most miserable
woman in existence, as Mr. Jefferson Jones, whom I have never seen,
might perceive, if he wasn't, as all the world says, the very prince
of donkeys.'
"Jones seized his hat, and rushed into the open air, tugging at his
neck-tie as if he was choking. Six times he went, like a comet, round
the square; then, setting his beaver down over his eyes, in a very
prophetic manner, he turned his footsteps deliberately homeward. It
was but the deceitful calm before the whirlwind!
"He found Edith, calm, pale, and self-possessed, as usual. He was
quite as much so, himself; even went so far as to compliment her on a
coquettish little jacket that fitted her rounded figure very
charmingly.
"'I'm thinking of taking a short journey, Edith,' said he, seating
himself by her side, and playing with the silken cord and tassels
about her waist. 'As it is wholly a business trip, it would hamper me
to take you with me--but _you'll hear from me_. Meanwhile, you know
how to amuse yourself; hey, Edith?'
"He looked searchingly in her face. There was no conscious blush, no
change of expression, no tremor of the frame. He might as well have
addressed a marble statue.
"Mr. Jefferson Jones was _posed_! Well, he bade her one of his
characteristic adieus; and when the door closed, Edith felt as if a
mountain weight had been lifted off her heart. There was but one
course for her to pursue. She knew it; she had already marked it out.
She would deny herself to all visitors; she would not go abroad till
her husband's return. She was strong in her purpose; there should be
no door left open for busy scandal to enter. Of Ainslie, she knew
nothing, save that a letter reached her from him after her marriage,
which she had returned unopened.
"And so she wandered restlessly through those splendid rooms, and
tried, by this self-inflicted penance, to atone for the defection of
her heart. Did she take her guitar, old songs they had sang together
came unbidden to her lip; that book, too, they had read. Oh, it was
_all misery_! _turn where she would_!
"Day after day passed by--no letter from Mr. Jones! The time had
already passed that was fixed upon for his return, and Edith, nervous
from close confinement and the weary inward struggle, started like a
frightened bird, at every footfall.
"It came at last, the letter, sealed with black! 'He had been
accidentally drowned--his hat was found--all search for the body had
been unavailing.'
"Edith was no hypocrite. She could not mourn for him, save in the
outward garb of woe; but now that he was _dead_, conscience did its
office. She had not, in the eye of the world, been untrue; but _there
is an eye that searches deeper_! that scans _thoughts_ as well as
actions.
"Ainslie was just starting for the continent by order of a physician,
when the news reached him. A brief time he gave to decorum, and then
they met! It is needless to say what that meeting was. Days and months
of wretchedness were forgotten like some dreadful dream. She was again
his own Edith, sorrowing, repentant, and happy!
"They were sitting together, one evening; Edith's hand was upon his
shoulder, and her face radiant as a seraph's. They were speaking of
their future home.
"'Any spot on the wide earth but this, dear Ainslie. Take me away from
these painful associations.'
"'Say you so, pretty Edith?' said a well-known voice. 'I but tried
that faithful heart of yours to _prove it_! Pity to turn such a pretty
comedy into a tragedy, but I happen to be _manager_ here, young man,'
said Mr. Jones, turning fiercely towards the horror-struck Ainslie!
"The revulsion was too dreadful. Edith survived but a week; Ainslie
became hopelessly insane."
LVI.
A WIFE'S DEVOTION.
Fanny has very nice ideas on this subject She says:--
"'Every wife needs a good stock of love to start with.'
"_Don't_ she! You are upon a sick bed! a little feeble thing lies upon
your arm, that you might crush with one hand. You take those little
velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly
to the pillow. Little brothers and sisters, Carry, and Harry, and
Fanny, and Frank, and Willy, and Mary, and Kitty, (half a score) come
tiptoeing into the room, 'to see the new baby.' It is quite an old
story to 'nurse,' who sits there like an automaton, while they give
vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers,
and make _profound inquiries_, which nobody thinks best to hear! You
look on with a languid smile, and they pass out, asking 'why they
can't stay with dear mamma, and why they mustn't play puss in the
corner,' as usual?
"You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he went
to school, and whether Betty will see that your husband's flannel is
aired, and if Peggy has cleaned the silver and washed off the front
door-steps, and what your blessed husband is about, that he don't come
home to dinner. There sits old nurse, keeping up that dreadful
treadmill trotting, 'to quiet the baby,' till you could fly through
the key-hole in desperation.
"The odor of dinner begins to creep up stairs--you wonder if your
husband's pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to
put wine in the sauce, as he likes it; and then the perspiration
starts out on your forehead, as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and
a child's suppressed scream; and nurse swathes the baby up in flannel
to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you
to 'leave the family to her, and go to sleep.' Bye-and-bye she comes
in, after staying down long enough to get a refreshing cup of
coffee--and walks up to the bed with a bowl of gruel, tasting it, and
then _putting the spoon back into the bowl_. In the first place you
hate gruel--in the next, you couldn't eat it if she held a pistol to
your head, after THAT SPOON has been in her mouth; so you meekly
suggest that it be set on the table to cool, (hoping by some
providential interposition, it _may get tipped over_.) Well, she
creeps round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran new
gingham gown, that rattles like a paper window-curtain, at every step;
and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a
drawer _by mistake_ (?) 'thinking it was the baby's drawer.' Then you
hear little nails scratching on the door; and Charley whispers through
the key-hole--'Mamma, Charley's tired; _please_ let Charley come in?'
Nurse scowls, and says no; but you intercede (poor Charley, he's only
a baby himself.) Well, he leans his little head wearily against the
pillow, and looks suspiciously at that little bundle of flannel in
nurse's lap. It's clear he's had a hard time of it, _what with tears
and molasses_! The little shining curls that you have so often rolled
over your fingers, are a tangled mass; and you long to take him, and
make him comfortable, and _cosset_ him a little; and then the baby
cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered
sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charley is taken struggling from the room.
"You take your watch from under the pillow, to see if husband won't be
home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuff _over
your bowl of gruel_, and sits down nodding drowsily, with the baby in
alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a _dear_ step on the
stairs. It's _your Charley_! How bright he looks! and what nice fresh
air he brings with him from out doors! He parts the bed-curtains,
looks in, and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay your head on
his shoulder, and have such a _splendid cry_! but there sits that old
Gorgon of a nurse--she don't believe in husbands, _she_ don't! You
make Charley a free mason sign to send her down stairs for something.
He says, (_right out loud_--men are so stupid!) '_What did you say,
dear?_' Of course you protest you didn't say a word--_never thought of
such a thing_! and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and
cry because you don't know what else to do, and because you are weak
and weary, and full of care for your family, and don't want to see
anybody but 'Charley.'
"Nurse says 'she shall have you sick,' and tells your husband 'he'd
better go down, and let you go to sleep.' Off he goes, wondering what
on earth ails you, _to cry_!--wishing _he_ had _nothing to do_ but lie
still, and be waited upon! After dinner he comes in to bid you
good-bye before he goes to his office--whistles 'Nelly Bly' loud
enough to wake up the baby, (whom he calls '_a comical little
concern_)!' and puts his dear thoughtless head down to your pillow,
(at a signal from you,) to hear what you have to say. Well, there's no
help for it, you cry again, and only say '_dear_ Charley,' and he
laughs, and settles his dickey, and says you are 'a nervous little
puss,' gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles
the new baby with the first whiff, and _takes your heart off with him
down street_!
"And you lie there and eat _that_ gruel! and pick the _fuzz_ all off
the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish
Eve had never ate that apple (Genesis 3: 16;) or that you were '_Abel_'
to '_Cain_' her for doing it!"--
LVII.
MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH'S PHILOSOPHY.
Dear me! how _expensive it is to be poor_. Every time I go out, my
best bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee was worth a cool million,
I might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity.
There was that old nabob's wife at lecture, the other night, in a
dress that might have been made for Noah's great-grandmother. _She can
afford it!_ Now if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten
dollar hat, a forty dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go
to a concert, I must take the highest priced seat, and ride there and
back, just to let 'Tom, Dick and Harry' see that I can afford it. Then
we must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top
church, and give orders to the sexton not to admit any strangers into
it who look snobbish. Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and
Dona Maria Smith, can't go to a public school, because, you know, _we
shouldn't have to pay anything_.
"Then if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a
little chap to bring them home, because it wouldn't answer for me to
be seen carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three
servants where one might do; and Zebedee's coats have to be sent to
the tailor when they need a button sewed on, _for the look of the
thing_.
"Then if I go to the sea-shore, in summer, I can't take my comfort, as
rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes, and cambric
sun-bonnets. My senses! no! I have to be screwed up by ten o'clock in
a Swiss muslin dress, a French cap, and the contents of an entire
jeweller's shop showered over my person; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and
Dona Maria can't go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little
pebbles cut their toes so badly through their patent kid slippers.
"Then if Zebedee goes a-fishing, he wouldn't dare to put on a linen
coat for the price of his reputation. No indeed! Why, he never goes
to the barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders
the most ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till
his purse is as empty as an egg-shell. I declare it is _abominably_
expensive. I don't believe _rich people_ have the least idea how much
it costs _poor people_ to live!"
LVIII.
INTERESTING TO BASHFUL MEN.
"'Faint heart ne'er won fair lady.'
"Didn't _it though_! I FAN-cy it _does_! If there's anything in the
world that is _quite entirely_ interesting, it's a man who daresn't
_say_ 'I love you,' though _his_ eyes told the story long ago! Of
course you don't _know_ anything about it. Oh, no! Can't, for the soul
of you, tell why he never comes near you without a tremor, or what
possesses him to say 'yes,' instead of 'no,' or to kiss your little
brother so often, and give him so much sugar-candy! Have no idea _why_
he looks so '_distrait_'and embarrassed, when you take another
gentleman's arm or smile at him. Never see that bright magnetic
sparkle in his eye when you call him _Harry_, instead of _Mr._ Fay.
Don't see him pick up a rosebud that you dropped from your girdle,
and hide it in his vest! (_don't like it, either!!_) You don't notice
what a _long job_ he makes of it, putting your shawl on. You haven't
the slightest suspicion _where_ the _mate_ of your little kid glove
went, the last time you went to walk; you are _not at all magnetically
affected yourself_! Oh, no, _not a bit of it_! Just as cool as a
fur--_refrigerator_!
"Don't feel a bit _nervous_ when your mother gets up and leaves the
room! Always have a topic at your tongue's end to dash off on. Never
pick your ribbons all to pieces because you daresn't look him in the
face. Never _refuse_ to go to ride with him, when you are just _dying_
to go. Never blush as red as a pulpit cushion, when your brother
teases you about him, or say 'you don't care a fig for him.' When HIS
ring at the door sends your heart to your mouth, you never snatch up a
book and get so _entirely_ absorbed in it, that he is obliged to touch
your arm, before you can find out that he's in your presence! _You
never read his notes, when you could say them all off with your eyes
shut!_ You never _hide them_ where anybody can find them--without you
should be taken with a fainting fit! You take precious good care to
keep _all that_ from _Mr._ Fay!
"All right, dear; don't hold out a _single straw to help him ashore_!
Make him come _every step_ of the way _without a guide-board_! but
when be GETS THERE--hem!--if you _own_ a soul--_tell him so_!