anything that's a _regular shower-bath to love_, it's your _'veni,
vidi, vici' man_, who considers himself so _excruciatingly_
omnipotent! Softly, sir! _Forewarned, forearmed!_ You rouse all the
antagonism in our nature! The more you _are sure you'll win, the more
you won't_! You've to earn your laurels,--to _win_ your battle; (if
you _ever noticed it_!)
"Do _you_ suppose we are going to lose all those interesting,
half-broken sentences, and all those pretty little blunders you make
when we come near you? If you only _knew_ how interesting it was for
us to see the color rush to your forehead, at such times, or to see
you look _so_ 'triste' when some old maid comes in to spend the
evening, and you have to leave your little Paradise to go _creeping_
home with her! or to see you manoeuvre one whole evening with a
diplomacy (deserving a reward) for a seat next to us! Goodness
gracious! I tell you 'faint hearts' _never win anything else_ but
'fair ladies!'"
LIX.
THE ANGEL CHILD.
Little Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile,
like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it
in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark
eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom.
Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a
passing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's
scrutiny; her little footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake;
and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it
folds its head under its wing for its nightly slumber.
"The house in which Mabel lived, was large and splendid. You would
have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the
thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by
no envious cross-lights; light and shade were artistically disposed.
Beautiful statues, which the sculptor (dream-inspired) had risen from
a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light that streamed
through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as
if taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress.
"I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair
and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large dark eyes, and graceful
limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists, and
sculptors, had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had
been most prodigal of adornment--there was only one little thing she
had forgotten--the Lady Mabel had no soul.
"She did not forget to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest
fabrics of most unique fashioning; not that every shining ringlet on
that graceful little head was not arranged by Mademoiselle Jennet, in
strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up
luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little
owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe
did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the
apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little
mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in
order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, _the little
Mabel had no mother_!
"See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her
bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow, her
cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves! for the
gorgeous west is one sea of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her
with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen,
then, fade and die away; and now the last bright beam disappears
behind the hills; and the soft, grey twilight comes creeping on. Amid
its deepening shadows, _one bright star_ springs suddenly to its place
in the heavens! Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are
coursing down her sweet face, or why her limbs tremble, and her heart
beats so fast, or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of Mademoiselle
Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a
bright angel. She had a nurse once who told her 'there was a God.' She
wants to know if _He_ holds that bright star in its place. She wants
to know if Heaven is a long way off, and if _she_ shall ever be a
bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is
so full, if she only _knew how_; but poor, sweet little Mabel--_she
has no mother_."
LX.
UNCLE BEN'S ATTACK OF SPRING-FEVER.
"'Tisn't possible you have been insane enough to go to housekeeping in
the country for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my experience,' and
Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead at the very
thought.
"Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife; got rabid
with the dog-days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green
grass. There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement
in her life, and didn't know the difference between a cheese and a
grindstone.
"Well, we ripped up our carpets, and tore down our curtains, and
packed up our crockery, and nailed down our pictures, and eat dust for
a week; and then we emigrated to Daisy Ville.
"Could I throw up a window or fasten back a blind in that house,
without sacrificing my suspenders and waistband button? No, sir!
Weren't the walls full of Red Rovers? Didn't the doors fly open at
every wind gust? Didn't the roof leak like the mischief? Wasn't the
chimney leased to a pack of swallows? Wasn't the well a half a mile
from the house?
"Oh, you needn't laugh. Instead of the comfortable naps to which I had
been accustomed, I had to sleep with one eye open all night, lest I
shouldn't get into the city in time. I had to be shaving in the
morning before a rooster in the barn-yard had stirred a feather;
swallowed my coffee and toast by steam, and then, still masticating,
made for the front door. There stood Peter with my horse and gig (for
I detest your cars and omnibusses.) On the floor of the chaise was a
huge basket to bring home material for the next day's dinner; on the
seat was a dress of my wife's, to be left 'without fail' at Miss
Sewing Silk's, to have the forty-eleventh hook moved one-sixth of a
degree higher up on the back. Then there was a package of shawls from
Tom Fools & Co., to be returned; and a pair of shoes to carry to
Lapstone, who was to select another pair for me to bring out at night;
and a demijohn to be filled with Sherry, &c. Well, I whipped up
Bucephalus, left my sleeping wife and babies, and started for town,
cogitating over an intricate business snarl which bid defiance to any
straightening process. I hadn't gone half a mile before an old maid (I
hate old maids) stopped me to know if I was going into town, and if I
was, if I wouldn't take her in, as the omnibusses made her sick. She
said she was 'niece to Squire Dandelion, and had a few chores to do
a-shopping.' So I took her in, or rather she took _me_ in (but she
didn't do it but once--for I bought a sulkey next day)! Well, it came
night, and I was hungry as a Hottentot, for I never could dine as your
married widowers _pro tem._ do, at eating-houses, where one gravy
answers for flesh, fish, and fowl, and the pudding-sauce is as black
as the cook's complexion. So I went round on an empty stomach, hunting
up _my express-man parcels_, and wending my way to the stable with
arms and pockets running over. When I got home, found my wife in
despair; no tacks in the house to nail down carpets, and not one to be
had at the store in the village; the cook had deserted, because she
couldn't do without 'her _city privileges_,' (meaning Jonathan Jones,
the 'dry dirt' man;) and the chambermaid, a buxom country girl, with
fire red hair and temper to match, was spinning round the crockery (a
la Blitz) because she 'couldn't eat with the family.'
"Then Charley was taken with the croup in the night, and in my fright
I put my feet into my coat sleeves, and my arms into my pants, and put
on one of my wife's ruffles instead of a dickey, and rode three miles
in a pelting rain, for some 'goose-grease' for his throat.
"Then we never found out till cherries, and strawberries, and peaches
were ripe, how many _friends_ (?) we had. There was a horse hitched at
every rail in the fence, so long as there was anything left to eat on
a tree in the farm; but if my wife went in town shopping, and called
on any of them, they were 'out, or engaged;'--or if at home, had 'just
done dinner, and were going to ride.'
"Then there was no school in the neighborhood for the children, and
they were out in the barn-yard feeding the pigs with lump-sugar, and
chasing the hens off the nest, to see what was the prospect for eggs,
and making little boats of their shoes and sailing them in the pond,
and milking the cow in the middle of the day, &c.
"Then if I dressed in the morning in linen coat, thin pants, and straw
hat, I'd be sure to find the wind 'dead east' when I got into the
city; or if I put on broadcloth and fixins to match, it would be
hotter than Shadrach's furnace, all day--while the dense morning fog
would extract the starch from my dickey and shirt-bosom, till they
looked very like a collapsed flapjack.
"Then our meeting-house was a good two miles distant, and we had to
walk, or stay at home; because my factotum (Peter) wouldn't stay on
the farm without he could have the horse Sundays to go to Mill Village
to see his affianced Nancy. Then the old farmers leaned on my stone
wall, and laughed till the tears came into their eyes, to see 'the
city gentleman's' experiments in horticulture, as they passed by 'to
meetin'.'
"Well, sir, before summer was over, my wife and I looked as jaded as
omnibus horses--she with chance 'help' and floods of city company, and
I with my arduous duties as _express man_ for my own family in
particular, and the neighbors in general.
"And now here we are--'No 9 Kossuth square.' Can reach anything we
want, by putting our hands out the front windows. If, as the poet
says, '_man made the town_,' all I've got to say is--he understood his
business!"
LXI.
CONNUBIAL ADVERTISEMENT.
On this subject Fanny writes eloquently, as will be seen by the
following sketch. She writes as if she had learned all about it, in
the bitter school of experience.
"'CONNUBIAL.--Mr. Albert Wicks, of Coventry, under date of
December 28th, advertised his wife as having left his bed
and board; and now, under date of March 26th, he appends to
his former notice, the following:
"'Mrs. Wicks, if you ever intend to come back and live with
me any more you must come back now or not at all.
"'I love you as I do my life, and if you will come now, I
will forgive you for all you have done and threatened to do,
which I can prove by three good witnesses; and if not, I
shall attend to your case without delay, and soon, too.'
"There, now, Mrs. Wicks, what is to be done? 'Three good witnesses,'
think of _that_! What the mischief have you been about? Whatever it
is Mr. Wicks is ready to 'love you like his life.' Consistent Mr.
Wicks!
"Now take a little advice, my dear innocent, and don't allow yourself
to be badgered or frightened into anything. None but a coward ever
threatens a woman. Put that in your memorandum book. It's all bluster
and braggadocio. Thread your darning-needle, and tell him you are
ready for him--ready for anything except his 'loving you like his
life;' that you could not possibly survive that infliction, without
having your 'wick' snuffed entirely out.
"Sew away, just as if there was not a domestic earthquake brewing
under your connubial feet. If it sends you up in the air, it sends him
too--there's a pair of you! Put _that_ in his Wick--ed ear! Of course
he will sputter away, as if he had swallowed a 'Roman candle,' and you
can take a nap till he gets through, and then offer him your
smelling-bottle to quiet his nerves.
"That's the way to quench him!"
LXII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT SEWING MACHINES.
There's 'nothing new under the sun;'--so I've read, somewhere; either
in Ecclesiastes or Uncle Tom's Cabin; but at any rate, I was forcibly
reminded of the profound wisdom of the remark, upon seeing a great
flourish of trumpets in the papers about a 'Sewing Machine,' that had
been _lately invented_.
"Now if _I_ know anything of history, that discovery dates back as far
as the Garden of Eden. If _Mrs. Adam_ wasn't _the first sewing
machine, I'll give up guessing_. Didn't she go right to work making
aprons, before she had done receiving her bridal calls from the beasts
and beastesses? Certainly she did, and I honor her for it, too.
"Well--do you suppose all her pretty little descendants who ply their
'busy fingers' in the upper lofts of tailors, and hatters, and
vest-makers, and 'finding' establishments, are going to be superseded
by that dumb old thing? Do you suppose their young and enterprising
patrons prefer the creaking of a crazy machine to the music of their
young voices? Not by a great deal!
"It's something, I can tell you, for them to see their pretty faces
light up, when they pay off their wages of a Saturday night (small fee
enough! too often, God knows!) Pity that the _shilling heart_ so often
accompanies the _guinea means_.
"Oh, launch out, gentlemen! Don't _always_ look at things with a
_business_ eye. Those fragile forms are young, to toil so
unremittingly. God made no distinction of _sex_ when he said--'The
laborer is worthy of his hire.' Man's cupidity puts that
interpretation upon it.
"Those young operatives in your employ, pass, in their daily walks,
forms youthful as their own, 'clothed in purple and fine linen,' who
'_toil not, neither do they spin_.' Oh, teach them not to look after
their 'satin and sheen,' purchased at such a fearful cost, with a
discouraged sigh!
"For one, I can never pass such a 'fallen angel' with a 'stand aside'
feeling. A neglected youth, an early orphanage, poverty, beauty,
coarse fare, the weary day of toil lengthened into night,--a mere
pittance its reward. Youth, health, young blood, and the practised
wile of the ready tempter! _Oh, where's the marvel?_
"_Think of all this_, when you poise that hardly earned dollar, on
your business finger. What if it were your own delicate sister? Let a
LITTLE heart creep into that shrewd bargain. 'Twill be an investment
in the Bank of Heaven, that shall return to you four-fold."
LXIII.
THE TIME TO CHOOSE.
Mrs. Chrissholm says:--"The best time to choose a wife is early in the
morning. If a young lady is at all inclined to sulks and slatternness,
it is just before breakfast. As a general thing, a woman don't get on
her temper, till after 10 A. M."
Very spiritedly Fanny makes answer:--
"'_Men_ never look slovenly before breakfast--no indeed! Never run
round vestless in their stocking-feet, with dressing-gown inside out;
soiled hankerchief hanging by one corner out of the pocket; minus
dickey; minus neck-tie; pantaloon straps flying at their heels;
suspenders streaming from their waistband; chin shaved on one side,
lathered on the other; last night's coat and pants on the floor, just
where they hopped out of them; face snarled up in forty wrinkles,
because the chamber fire won't burn; and because it snows; and because
the office-boy hasn't been for the keys; and because the newspaper
hasn't come; and because they smoked too many cigars _by one dozen_,
the night before; and because they lost _that_ bet, and can't pay the
_Scot-t_; and because there's an omelet instead of a chicken-leg for
breakfast; and because they are out of sorts and shaving-soap; and out
of cigars and credit; and can't _any how_ 'get their temper on,' till
they get some money and a mint julap!
"Any time 'before 10 o'clock,' is the time to 'choose' a
husband--_perhaps_!"
LXIV.
OUR NELLY.
This is one of Fanny's sweet bits of pathos; so sweet, so pure, it
would furnish an apology for half a volume of coarse slang:--
"'Who is she?' 'Why, that is our Nelly, to be sure.' Nobody ever
passed Nelly without asking, 'Who is she?' One can't forget the glance
of that blue eye, in a hurry; nor the waving of those golden locks;
nor the breezy grace of that lithe figure; nor those scarlet lips, nor
the bright, glad sparkle of the whole face; and then she is not a bit
proud; although she steps so like a queen she would shake hands just
as quick with a horny palm as with a kid glove. The world can't spoil
'our Nelly,' for her heart is in the right place.
"'You should have seen her thank an old farmer, the other day, for
clearing the road, that she might pass. He shaded his eyes with his
hand, when she swept by, as if he had been dazzled by a sudden flash
of sunlight, and muttered to himself, as he looked after her--'Won't
she make somebody's heart ache?' Well, she has, but it is because from
among all her lovers she could marry but one, and, God save us! that
her choice should have fallen upon Walter Lee! If he don't quench out
the love-light in those blue eyes, my name is not John Morrison. I've
seen his eyes flash when things didn't suit him; I've seen him nurse
his wrath to keep it warm till the smouldering embers were ready for
conflagration. He's as vindictive as an Indian. I'd as soon mate a
dove with a tiger, as give him 'our Nelly.' There's a dozen noble
fellows, this hour, ready to lay down their lives for her, and yet out
of the whole crowd she must choose Walter Lee. Oh, I have no patience
to think of it. Well-a-day! mark my words, he will break her heart
before a twelve-month! He's a pocket edition of Napoleon.'
* * * * *
"A year had passed by, and amid the hurry of business and the din of
the great city, I had quite forgotten Glenburn and its fairy queen. It
was a time to recall her to mind, that lovely June morning--with its
soft fleecy clouds, its glad sunlight, its song of birds, and its
breath of roses; and so I threw the reins on Romeo's neck, that he
might choose his own pace down the sweet-briar path, to John
Morrison's cottage. And there sat John, in the doorway, smoking his
pipe, with Towser crouched at his feet, in the same old spot, just as
if the sun had never gone down behind the hills since I parted with
him.
"'And 'our Nelly,' said I, taking up the thread of his year old
narrative as though it had never been broken--'and 'our Nelly?'
"'Under the sod,' said the old man, with a dark frown; 'under the sod.
He broke her heart, just as I told you he would. Such a bridal as it
was! I'd as lief have gone to a funeral. And then Walter carried her
off to the city, where she was as much out of her element as a
humming-bird in a meeting-house; and tried to make a fine lady of her,
with stiff, city airs, and stiff city manners. It was like trying to
fetter the soft west wind, which comes and goes at its own sweet will;
and Nelly--who was only another name for _Nature_--pined and drooped
like a bird in a darkened cage.
"'One by one her old friends dropped off, wearied with repeated and
rude repulses from her moody husband, till he was left, as he desired,
master of the field. It was astonishing the ascendancy he gained over
his sweet wife, contemptible as he was. She made no objection to his
most absurd requirements; but her step lost its spring, her eye its
sparkle; and one might listen long for her merry-ringing laugh.
Slowly, sadly, to Nelly came that terrible conviction from which a
wife has no appeal. Ah! there is no law to protect woman from negative
abuse! no mention made in the statute book (which _men frame for
themselves_) of the constant dropping of daily discomforts which wear
the loving heart away. No allusion to looks or words that are like
poisoned arrows to the sinking spirit. No! if she can show no mark of
brutal fingers on her delicate flesh--he has fulfilled his legal
promise to the letter--to love, honor, and cherish her. _Out_ on such
a mockery of justice!
"'Well, sir; Nelly fluttered back to Glenburn, with the broken wing of
hope, to die! So wasted! so lovely! The lips that blessed _her_, could
not choose but to curse _him_. 'She leaned on a broken reed,' said her
old gray-haired father, as he closed her blue eyes forever. 'May God
forgive him, for I never can,' said an old lover, whose heart was
buried in her grave.
"'NELLY LEE, _aged 18_.'
"'You'll read it in the village churchyard, sir; eighteen! Brief
years, sir, to drain all of happiness Life's cup could offer!'"
LXV.
I CAN'T.
This is a phrase which is "teetotally" banished from Fanny's "Fern
dictionary." Read the following exordium, and you'll never think of
doubting her assertion, that she is "a little Bunker-Hill" herself--a
genuine Napoleon in petticoats.
"Apollo! what a face! doleful as a hearse; folded hands; hollow chest;
whining voice; the very picture of cowardly irresolution. Spring to
your feet, hold up your head, set your teeth together, draw that fine
form of yours up to the height that God made it; draw an immense long
breath, and look about you. What do you see? Why, all creation taking
care of number one--pushing ahead like the car of Juggernaut, over
live victims. There it is; and you can't help it. Are you going to lie
down and be crushed?
"By all that's holy, no! dash ahead! You've as good a right to mount
the triumphal car as your neighbor. Snap your fingers at croakers; if
you can't get _round_ a stump, leap over it, high and dry! Have nerves
of steel, a will of iron; never mind sideaches, or heartaches, or
headaches; dig away without stopping to breathe, or to notice envy or
malice. Set your target in the clouds and aim at it. If your arrow
falls short of the mark, what of that? Pick it up and go at it again.
If you should _never_ reach it, you'll shoot higher than as if you
only aimed at a bush. Don't whine, if your friends fall off. At the
first stroke of good luck, by Mammon! they'll swarm around you like a
hive of bees, till you are disgusted with human nature.
"'_I can't!_' Oh, pshaw! I throw my glove in your face, if I _am_ a
woman! You are a disgrace to corduroys. What! a _man_ lack courage! A
_man_ want independence! A _man_ to be discouraged at obstacles! A man
afraid to face anything on earth save his Maker! Why! _I'm a little
'Bunker Hill,' myself!_ I've the most unmitigated contempt for you!
you little _pus_illanimous pussy cat! There's nothing manly about you,
except your whiskers."
LXVI.
MRS. SMITH'S REVERIE, WRITTEN OUT BY FANNY FERN.
"'All dissimulation is disloyality to love.'
"'I've _thought_ so before,' said Mrs. Smith; 'but now I _know_ it,
_because I read it in the newspapers_. These editors beat the D--utch
for understanding human nature, (all except female nature;) _there_
they are decidedly benighted. However, it isn't for my interest to
throw any light on _that_ subject; it is an interesting study that I
shan't interfere with. But this is a digression. As I was saying,
'dissimulation is disloyalty to love.' Didn't Mr. Smith tell me, when
he asked me, on his knees, to make him the happiest of men, that I was
the only daughter of Eve he ever fancied; and didn't I, before the
honey-moon was over, find in his old bachelor trunk, locks of hair of
every color the sun ever shone upon? And doesn't it do me good to put
my matrimonial foot on the cricket that I stuffed with them?
Certainly--I only wish I had their entire scalps!
"Well--didn't he come home one Sunday, with a face as long as an
orthodox steeple, and give me 'the text and heads of the discourse,'
when he had been off rolling ninepins all the morning? And didn't I
always know, when he kissed me, or gave me a twenty dollar bill,
(which was much more acceptable!) that it was the premonitory symptom
of a desperate flirtation with somebody? and wasn't I sure, when that
buff vest, and blue coat with bright brass buttons, went on, that
there was immense execution to be done somewhere on forbidden ground?
"Well--'Life is short;' so is Mr. Smith. No help for either, that I
know of! I'm too busy, amusing myself, to attend to his little
derelictions. If there's anything that I ignore it is curiosity. It is
so decidedly a _masculine failing_ that I scorn to be guilty of it!"
LXVII.
A NIGHT-WATCH WITH A DEAD INFANT.