eyes, with a prophet's vision, sawest thou life's great battle-field,
swarming with fierce combatants? Fell upon thy timid ear the far-off
din of its angry strife? Drooped thy head wearily on the bosom of the
Sinless, _fearful of earthly taint_? Fluttered thy wings impatiently
'gainst the bars of thy prison-house, sweet bird of Paradise?
"God speed thy flight! No unerring sportsman shall have power to
ruffle thy spread pinions, or maim thy soaring wing. No sheltering
nest had earth for thee, where the chill wind of sorrow might not
blow! No garden of Eden, where the serpent lay not coiled beneath the
flowers! No 'Tree of Life,' whose branches might have sheltered thee
for aye!
"Warm fall the sunlight on thy grassy pillow, sweet human blossom!
Softly fall the night dews on the blue-eyed violet above thee! Side by
side with thee are hearts that have long since ceased hoping or
aching. There lies the betrothed maiden, in her unappropriated
loveliness; the bride, with her head pillowed on golden tresses, whose
rare beauty, even the Great Spoiler seemed loth to touch; childhood,
but yesterday warm and rosy on its mother's breast; the loving wife
and mother, in life's sweet prime; the gray-haired pastor, gone to his
reward; the youth of crisped locks and brow unfurrowed by care; the
heartbroken widow, and tearful orphan, all await with folded hands,
closed eyes, and silent lips, alike with thee, the resurrection morn."
LXVIII.
A LITTLE GOOD ADVICE.--FROM FANNY FERN.
"'No person should be delicate about asking for what is
properly his due. If he neglects doing so, he is deficient
in that spirit of independence which he should observe in
all his actions. Rights are rights, and, if not granted,
should be demanded.'
"A _little_ 'Bunker Hill' atmosphere about that! It suits my
republicanism; but I hope no female sister will be such a novice as to
suppose it refers to any but _masculine_ rights. In the first place,
my dear woman, 'female rights' is debateable ground; what you may call
a 'vexed question.' In the next place, (just put your ear down, a
_little_ nearer) granted we _had_ 'rights,' the more we 'demand' 'em,
the _more we shan't get 'em_. I've been converted to that faith this
some time. No sort of use to waste lungs and leather trotting to
SIGH-racuse about it. The instant the subject is mentioned, the lords
of creation are up and dressed. Guns and bayonets the order of the
day; _no surrender_ on every flag that floats! The only way left is to
pursue the 'Uriah Heep' policy; look _umble_, and be almighty cunning.
Bait 'em with submission, and then throw the noose over the will.
Appear not to have any choice, and as true as gospel you'll get it.
Ask _their_ advice, and they'll be sure to follow _yours_. Look _one_
way, and _pull another_! Make your reins of silk, _keep 'em out of
sight, and drive where you like_!"
LXIX.
THE OTHER ONE.
Somebody rather ambiguously remarks:--"Let cynics prattle as they may,
our existence here, without the presence of the other sex, would be
only a dark and cheerless void."
Fanny inquires, in reply:--"_Which_ 'other sex?' Don't be so obscure.
Dr. Beecher says, 'that a writer's ideas should stand out like
rabbit's ears, so that the reader can get hold of them.' If you
alluded to the female sex, I don't subscribe to it. I wish they were
all 'translated.' If there is anything gives me the sensations of a
landsman on his first sea voyage, it is the sight of a bonnet. Think
of female friendship! Two women joining the Mutual Admiration Society;
emptying their budget of love affairs; comparing bait to entrap
victims, sighing over the same rose leaf; sonnetizing the same
moonbeam; patronizing the same milliner, and _exchanging female
kisses_! (Betty, hand me my fan!)
"Well, let either have one bonnet or one lover more than the
other--or, if they are blue stockings, let either be one round the
higher on Fame's ladder--bodkins and darning-needles! what a tempest!
Caps and characters in such a case are of no account at all. Oh, there
never should be but one woman alive at a time. Then the fighting would
be all where it belongs--in the masculine camp. What a time there'd
be, though! Wouldn't she be a belle? Bless her little soul; how she
would queen it. It makes me clap my hands to think of it. _The only
woman in the world!_ If it was me, shouldn't they all leave off
smoking, and wearing those odious plaid continuations? Should they
ever wear an outside coat, with the flaps cut off, or a Kossuth hat,
or a yellow Marseilles vest? or a mammoth bow on their neck-ties; or a
turnover dickey; or a watch-chain; or a ring on the little finger; or
any other abomination or off-shoot of dandyism whatsoever? Shouldn't I
politely request them all to touch their hats, instead of jerking
their heads, when they bowed? Wouldn't I coax them to read me poetry
till they had the bronchitis? Wouldn't they play on the flute, and
sing the soul out of me? And then if they were sick, wouldn't I pet
them, and tell them all sorts of comicalities, and make time fly like
the mischief? Shouldn't wonder!"
LXX.
A PEN AND INK SKETCH.--BY FANNY FERN.
"Do you suppose Diogenes Dinkey would know his own portrait, if I drew
it? It won't hurt me if he does, so long as it is a disputed point
'whether _I be I_.' Well, his proportions were decidedly alderman-ic,
and his gait strongly resembled that of the wooden horses one sees
jerked across the stage at the theat--I mean the museum! Such a stiff
dickey as he wore! What prevented his ears from being sawed off by it,
was beyond me.
"Diogenes was a saint and an epicure; divided his affections equally
between veal pies and vestry meetings; in fact the former depended on
his proper observance of the latter, as he was supported by sixpenny
contributions from humbugged brethren who considered him a celestial
luminary. Of course he made his appearance simultaneously with the
sexton, and kept popping up and down, in service time, like one of
those corn-stalk witches, that country children play with. There was
no 'napkin' big enough to hide his 'talent;' he endorsed everything
the minister said; not mentioning what the deacons got off, and after
that he put the audience to sleep by chasing round some idea of his
own, till he lost it; and then he sat down. You didn't catch him
raising any vexed questions about 'dipping,' or 'sprinkling,' or 'high
church,' or 'low church,' not he! he had a real millennial
disposition; never raised any theological fences he couldn't crawl
under, or climb over, to pick up windfall sixpences to swell his
salary for the benefit of his fellow-creatures in general and _himself
in particular_. He didn't care a torn hymn-book, whether it was a
Baptist, or Episcopalian, or Unitarian hand he shook, as long as it
left a bonus in his saintly palm.
"Poor Diogenes! he was affected with spasmodic near-sightedness, that
always attacked him when he saw a Paul Pry in the distance who might
hold him by the button long enough to desire statistics of the amount
of good he had performed. He liked to be inquisitorial himself; but,
like most persons of that description, he was not particular to have
the compliment returned. He had a voluminous robe of dignity he threw
on, at times, when escape was impossible, that was very excrutiating
to anybody who knew what was underneath it.
"Long life to you, Diogenes! I wouldn't lose you for a bright
sixpence.
"I've attended many a conventicle where you were the chief attraction;
you are a perfect study to
FANNY FERN."
LXXI.
FANNY'S "RULES FOR LADIES."
"Never walk on the Common; it is 'vulgar;' dusty streets and a chorus
of rattling omnibusses are more refined. Never go out in damp, cloudy
or rainy weather. India rubbers and umbrellas are only fit for common
people. Should it storm six weeks on a stretch, better ruin your
health, than appear in anything but paper soles and silk dresses. When
the chill autumn winds blow, go out in drapery sleeves, that the wind
may have a free pass round your elbows. Don't disarrange your curls by
bowing to an elderly person; nor by any manner of means recognize a
male or female who is not a walking advertisement for a tailor or a
milliner.
"Always whisper and laugh at concerts, by way of compliment to the
performers, and to show your neighbors a sovereign contempt for their
comfort. When Betty is brushing your hair, or lacing your boots,
listen with avidity to all the gossip she can muster; it will
encourage her laudable desire to take notes of _your_ establishment
for the benefit of her next mistress. Always keep _callers_ waiting,
till they have had time to notice the outlay of money in your parlors.
It isn't a bad plan to send a _child_ into the room to act as 'special
reporter!' Always take physic on _Sunday_, and have a novel handy; or,
you can write or read love-letters. Never on any account go into your
kitchen, or know the difference between the manufacture of an omelet
or an apple-pie. Call into your nursery once a week to see if Tommy's
hair has begun to curl. Keep Betty till one o'clock at night, sitting
up for your return; and order her to get up at four o'clock in the
morning. Keep as many flirtations on hand as you conveniently can,
without getting into a snarl.
"Be just as gracious in your manner to a practised _roué_, (provided
he has the entrance into good society,) as you would to a man
deserving a woman's respect. Dispute with your sempstress about a
ninepence, and buy a thousand dollar shawl. Present the bouquet your
_last_ admirer sent you, to the next one who looks into your 'starry
eyes!' Dance all night, sleep all day, and waltz with anybody who is
the '_ton_.'"
LXXII.
THE LITTLE PAUPER.
This is one of Fanny's most life-like word-paintings.
"It is only a little pauper! Never mind her. You see she knows her
place, and keeps close to the wall, as if she expected an oath or a
blow. The cold winds are making merry with those thin rags. You see
nothing of childhood's rounded symmetry in those shrunken limbs and
pinched features. Push her one side, _she's used to it_; she won't
complain; she can't remember that she ever heard a kind word in her
life. She'd think you were mocking if you tried it.
"She passes into the warm kitchen, savory with odorous dainties, and
is ordered out with a threat by the portly cook. In the shop windows
she sees nice fresh loaves of bread and tempting little cakes. Rosy
little children pass her, on their way to school, well-fed, well-clad
and joyous, with a mother's parting kiss yet warm on their sweet lips.
"There seems to be happiness enough in the world, but it never comes
to _her_. Her little basket is quite empty; and now, faint with
hunger, she leans wearily against that shop window. There is a lovely
lady, who has just passed in. She is buying cakes and _bon-bons_ for
her little girl as if she had the purse of Fortunatus. How nice it
must be to be warm, and have enough to eat! Poor Meta! She has tasted
nothing since she was sent forth with a curse in the morning, to beg
or--steal, and the tears _will_ come; there is happiness and plenty in
the world--but _none for Meta_!
"Not so fast, little one! Warm hearts beat sometimes under silk and
velvet. That lady has caught sight of your little woe-begone face and
shivering form. Oh! what if it were _her_ child?--and, obeying a sweet
maternal impulse, she passes out the door, takes those little benumbed
fingers in her daintily gloved hands, and leads the child, wondering,
shy and bewildered, into fairy land.
"A delightful and novel sensation of warmth creeps over those frozen
limbs--a faint color tinges the pale cheeks, and the eyes grow liquid
and lovely, as Meta raises them thankfully to her benefactress. The
lady's little girl looks on with an innocent joy, and learns, for the
first time, how 'blessed are the merciful.'
"And then Meta passes out, with a _heavy basket_ and a _light heart_.
Surely the street has grown wider and the sky brighter! This can
scarcely be the same world! Meta's form is erect _now_! her step light
as a child's should be. The sunshine of _human love_ has brightened
her pathway! Ah, Meta! earth is not all darkness--bright angels yet
walk the earth. Sweet-voiced Pity and heaven-eyed Charity _sometimes_
stoop to bless. God's image is only marred, not destroyed. He who
feeds the ravens, bends to listen. Look _upward_, little Meta!"
LXXIII.
WHAT FANNY THINKS ABOUT FRIENDSHIP.
"And so you have 'the blues' hey? Well, I pity you! No I don't either;
there's no _need_ of it. If _one_ friend proves a Judas, never mind!
plenty of _warm_, _generous_, _nice_ hearts left for the winning! If
you are poor and have to sell your _free-agency_ for a sixpence a week
to some penurious relative, or be everlastingly thankful for the gift
of an old garment that won't hang together till you get it home! just
go to work like ten thousand evil spirits, and make yourself
_independent_! and see with what a different pair of spectacles you'll
get looked at! Nothing like it, my dear; you can have everything on
earth you want, when you don't _need_ anything. Don't the Bible say,
'to him that _hath_ shall be given?' no mistake, you see! When the
wheel turns round with you on the top, saints and angels! you can do
anything you like, play any sort of a prank, pout or smile, be grave
or gay, saucy or courteous, it will pass muster! you never need
trouble yourself--can't do anything _wrong_ if you try! At the most it
will only be an '_eccentricity_!' But you never need be such a fool as
to expect that anybody will find out you're a _diamond_ till you get a
_showy setting_! you'll get knocked and cuffed round, and roughly
handled, with paste and tinsel, and rubbish, till that auspicious
moment arrives. _Then!_ won't all the _sheaves bow down to your
sheaf_?--not _one_ rebellious straggler left in the field! But stay a
little. In your adversity found you one faithful heart that stood
firmly by your side and shared your tears; when skies were dark, and
your pathway thorny and steep, 'and summer friends fell off like
autumn leaves?' By all that's noble in a woman's heart, give that one
the first place in it now. Let the world see _one_ heart proof against
the sunshine of prosperity. You can't _repay_ such a friend--all the
mines of Golconda couldn't do it! But in a thousand delicate ways,
prompted by a woman's unerring tact, let your heart come forth,
gratefully, generously, lovingly. Pray heaven he be on the shady side
of fortune--that your heart and hand may have a wider field for
gratitude to show itself. Extract every thorn from his pathway, chase
away every cloud of sorrow, brighten his lonely hours, smooth the
pillow of sickness, and press lovingly his hand in death."
LXXIV.
TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION.--RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO JEALOUS
HUSBANDS.--BY FANNY FERN.
"'Percy, _dear_ Percy, take back those bitter words; as heaven is my
witness, they are undeserved by me. See, my eye quails not beneath
yours; my cheek blanches not; I stand before you, at this moment, with
every vow I made you at the altar unbroken, in letter and spirit;' and
she drew closer to him and laid her delicate hand upon his broad
breast. 'Wrong me not, Percy, even in thought.'
"The stern man hesitated. Had he not _wilfully_ blinded himself, he
had read truth and honor in the depths of the clear blue eyes that
looked so unflinchingly into his own. For a moment, their expression
overcame him; then, dashing aside the slender fingers that rested upon
him, he left her with a muttered oath.
"Mary Lee had the misfortune to be very pretty, and the still greater
misfortune to marry a jealous husband. Possessing a quick and ready
wit, and great conversational powers, a less moderate share of
personal charms would have made her society eagerly sought for.
"As soon as her eyes were opened to the defect alluded to in her
husband's character, she set herself studiously to avoid the shoals
and quicksands that lay in the matrimonial sea. One by one, she
quietly dropped the acquaintance of gentlemen, who, from their
attractiveness or preference for her society, seemed obnoxious to
Percy.
"Mary was no coquette. Nature had given her a _heart_; and superior as
she was to her husband, she really _loved_ him. To most women, his
exacting unreasonableness would only have stimulated to a finished
display of coquetry; but Mary, gentle and yielding, made no show of
opposition to the most absurd requirements. But all these sacrifices
had been unavailing to propitiate the fiend of jealousy--and there she
sat, an hour after her husband had left her, with her hands pressed
tightly together, pale and tearless, striving, in vain, to recall any
cause of offence.
"Hour after hour passed by, and still he came not. The heavy tramp of
feet had long since ceased beneath the window; the _pulse_ of the
great city was _still_; silence and darkness brooded over its
slumbering thousands. Mary could endure it no longer. Rising and
putting aside the curtain, she pressed her face close against the
window-pane, as if her straining eye could pierce the gloom of
midnight. She hears a step! it is _his_!
"Trembling, she sank upon the sofa to await his coming and nerve
herself to bear his bitter harshness.
"Percy came gaily up to her and kissed her forehead! Mary passed her
hand over her eyes and looked at him again. No! he was not exhilarated
with wine. What could have caused this sudden revulsion of feeling!
Single-hearted and sincere herself, she never dreamed of treachery.
"'Percy regrets his injustice,' she said to herself. 'Men are rarely
magnanimous enough to own they have been in the wrong;' and, with the
generosity of a noble heart, she resolved never to remind him, by
speech or look, that his words had been like poisoned arrows to her
spirit.
"The following day, Percy proposed their taking 'a short trip into a
neighboring town,' and Mary, glad to convince him how truly she
forgave him, readily complied. It was a lovely day in spring; and the
fresh air, and sweet-scented blossoms, might have sent a thrill of
pleasure to sadder hearts than theirs.
"'What a pretty place,' said Mary. 'What a spacious house! and how
tastefully the grounds are laid out. Do you stop here?' she continued,
as her husband reined the horse into the avenue.
"'A few moments. I have _business_ here,' replied Percy, slightly
averting his face, 'and you had better alight too, for the horse is
restive, and may trouble you.'
"Mary sprang lightly from the vehicle and ascended the capacious stone
steps. They were met at the door by a respectable grey-haired porter,
who ushered them into a receiving room. Very soon, a little
sallow-faced man, bearing a strong resemblance to a withered orange,
made his appearance, and casting a glance upon Mary, from his little
twinkling black eyes, that made the blood mount to her cheeks, made an
apology for withdrawing her husband for a few minutes, 'on business,'
to an adjoining room.
"As they left, a respectable middle-aged woman entered, and invited
Mary to take off her hat. She declined, saying 'she was to leave with
her husband in a few minutes.'
"The old woman then jingled a small bell, and another matron entered.
"'Better not use force,' said she, in a whisper. 'Poor thing! So
pretty, too. She don't look as though she'd wear a 'strait jacket.'
"The truth flashed upon Mary at once! She was in a _Lunatic Hospital_!
Faint with terror, she demanded to see her husband,--assured them she
was perfectly sane; to all of which they smiled quietly, with an air
that said 'we are used to such things here.'
"By-and-bye, the little wizen-faced doctor came in, and listening to
her eloquent appeal with an abstracted air, as one would tolerate the
prattle of a petted child, he examined her pulse and motioned the
attendants to 'wait upon her to her room.' Exhausted with the tumult
of feeling she had passed through, she followed without a show of
resistance; but who shall describe the death-chill that struck to her
heart as she entered it? There was a bed of snowy whiteness, a table,
a chair, all scrupulously neat and clean, but the breath of the
sweet-scented blossoms came in through a _grated window_!
"Some refreshment was brought her, of which she refused to partake.
She could not even weep; her eyes seemed turned to stone. She could
hear the maniac laughter of her fellow-prisoners--she could see some
of the most harmless marching in gloomy file through the grounds,
with their watchful body-guard.
"Poor Mary! She felt a stifled, choking sensation in her throat, as if
the air she breathed were poison; and, with her nervous, excitable
temperament, God knows the chance she stood to become what they really
thought her! To all her eager inquiries she received only evasive
answers; or else the subject was skilfully and summarily dismissed to
make place for one in which she had no interest.
"Little Dr. Van Brunt daily examined her pulse and 'hoped she was
improving--,' or, if she wasn't, it was his _interest_ to issue a
bulletin to that effect, and all 'company' was vetoed as 'exciting and
injurious to the patient.' And so day after day, night after night,
dragged its slow length along, and Percy, with the meanness of a
revengeful spirit, was 'biding his time,' till the punishment should
be sufficiently salutary to warrant his recalling her home. But while
he was quietly waiting the accomplishment of his purpose, the friend
of the weary came to her relief.
"'Leave me, please, will you?' said Mary to the nurse, as she turned
her cheek to the pillow like a tired child. 'I want to be alone.'
"The old woman took her sewing and seated herself just outside the
door, thinking she might wish to sleep. In a few moments she peeped
cautiously through the open door. Mrs. Percy still lay there, in the
same position, with her cheek nestling in the palm of her little hand.
"'She sleeps sweetly,' she muttered to herself as she resumed her
work.
"Yes, dame Ursula, but it is the 'sleep' from which only the trump of
the archangel shall wake her!
"Mary's secret died with her, and the _remorse_ that is busy at the
heart of Percy, is known only to his Maker."
LXXV.
"DON'T DISTURB HIM!"
"'If your husband looks grave, let him alone; don't disturb
or annoy him.'
"Oh, pshaw! when I'm married, the soberer my husband looked, the more
fun I'd rattle about his ears. '_Don't disturb him!_' I guess so! I'd
salt his coffee--and pepper his tea--and sugar his beef-steak--and
tread on his toes--and hide his newspaper--and sew up his pockets--and
put pins in his slippers--and dip his cigars in water--and I wouldn't
stop for the Great Mogul, till I had shortened his long face to my
liking. Certainly he'd 'get vexed,' there wouldn't be any fun in
teasing him if he didn't, and that would give his melancholy blood a
good healthful start, and his eyes would snap and sparkle, and he'd
say, 'Fanny, WILL you be quiet or not?' and I should laugh, and pull
his whiskers, and say, decidedly, '_Not!_' and then I should tell him
he hadn't the slightest idea how handsome he looked when he was vexed,
and then he would pretend not to hear the compliment--but would pull
up his dickey, and take a sly peep in the glass (for all that!) and
then he'd begin to grow amiable, and get off his stilts, and be just
as agreeable all the rest of the evening _as if he wasn't my husband_,
and all because I didn't follow that stupid bit of advice 'to let him
alone.' Just imagine ME, Fanny, sitting down on a cricket in the
corner, with my forefinger in my mouth, looking out the sides of my
eyes, and waiting till that man got ready to speak to me! You can see
at once it would be--be----Well, the amount of it is, I _shouldn't do
it_!"
LXXVI.
A MODEL HUSBAND.
"'A MODEL HUSBAND.--Mrs. Perry, a young Bloomer, has eloped
from Monson, Mass., with Levins Clough. When her husband
found she was determined to go, he gave her $100 to start
with.'