_proofs_ of the same are sent to snarl me up late in the evening, just
before I go to sleep. That beside this, I am writing--well, you'll see
what, by and by. That I have had sickness in the house for six weeks.
That I am house-keeper. That I have scores of letters to read and
answer; and that I have a little duck of a grandchild, who every hour
or two wants me "to tell her a story that is _new_ and _true_." Am I
excused?
Shall I relate my first theft? Well, I had bought a new muff; that is
nothing surprising in a city where women trim their dresses with
diamonds. But there is a story to that muff. With a wholesome horror
of _female_ shoplifters, I had attached to it a silk cord, which I
could pass over my neck; thus placing beyond their reach the
temptation to appropriate it, should I lay it down temporarily on some
counter, while shopping. Thus armed, I went forth.
Well, as I say, thus armed, I went out to buy some little matters
needed in my household. After paying for them, I took a muff from the
counter before me, placed my hands in it, and pursued my journey. I
had not proceeded more than a block, before a bare-headed clerk came
rushing after me, jostling the crowd on either side, and placing his
hands as I thought very familiarly on my muff, took it from me,
remarking as he did so, "By your leave, madam," and disappeared with
it, instanter. I looked about me for a policeman, when just then my
hand became entangled in the string around my neck. Good heavens! I
had then taken some other lady's muff from the counter! I had walked
out with _two_ muffs. One about my neck, one in my hands. I did not
pursue my search for that policeman. I was also seized with such a
violent fit of laughter at the ludicrousness and novelty of my
position, that I was quite incapable of locomotion.
Just then I met a lady friend, to whom I told the story, as well as my
frequent bursts of merriment permitted. She looked as solemn as a
hearse; she said sepulchrally, "How _can_ you laugh? I should have
died with mortification." And the more solemn she looked the more I
laughed, and I haven't done laughing yet, although it was three days
ago. I am at present looking for the finale--viz., my picture in the
Rogue's Gallery as an accomplished female shoplifter. I may have
stolen other things, but, upon my word, this is the first time I ever
stole a muff. It was so comical, that if a station-house had been my
portion I know I should have laughed all the same; besides, I always
wanted to see a station-house. I might possibly have preferred riding
there _in a carriage_, if the policeman in attendance had no
objection, or if the walking was bad, or it stormed!
Finally, my brethren, a correspondent inquires how I look? Am I tall?
have I dark, or light complexion? and what color are my eyes?
I should be very happy to answer these questions, did I know myself. I
proceed to explain why I cannot tell whether "I be I."
First--one evening I was seated at the opera, waiting patiently for
the performances to begin. In two orchestra chairs, directly in front
of me, sat a lady and gentleman, both utter strangers to me. Said the
_gentleman_ to his companion, "Do you see the lady who has just
entered yonder box?" pointing, as he did so, to the gallery;
"well, that is FANNY FERN."--"You know her, then?" asked the
lady.--"Intimately," replied this strange gentleman--"_intimately_.
Observe how expensively she is dressed. See those diamonds, and that
lace! Well, I assure you, that every cent she has ever earned by her
writings goes straightway upon her back." Naturally desiring to know
how I did look, I used my opera-glass. The lady was tall, handsome,
graceful, and beautifully dressed. The gentleman who accompanied me
began to grow red in the face, at the statement of my "intimate"
acquaintance, and insisted on a word with him; but the fun was too
good to be spoiled, and the game too insignificant to hunt; so, in
hope of farther revelations, I laughingly observed my "double" during
the evening, who looked as I have just described, for your benefit.
Again--in a list of pictures announced to be sold lately, was one
labelled "Fanny Fern." Having lost curiosity concerning that lady
myself, I did not go on a tour of inspection; but a gentleman friend
of mine who did, came back in high glee at the manner in which the
purchaser thereof, if any should be found, would be swindled--as "I
was _not_ I" in that case either.
Some time ago "Fanny Fern" was peddled round California, or at least,
so I was informed by letter. In this instance they had given her, by
way of variety, black eyes and hair, and a brunette complexion. I
think she was also taken smiling. A friend, moreover, informed me that
he had seen me, with an angelic expression, seated upon a rosy cloud,
with wings at my back. This last fact touched me. Wings are what I
sigh for. It was too cruel a mockery.
You will see from the above, how impossible it is, for such a
chameleon female, to describe herself, even to one "who likes my
writings." If it will throw any light on the subject, however, I will
inform you that a man who got into my parlor under cover of
"New-Year's calls," after breathlessly inspecting me, remarked, "Well,
now, I _am_ agreeably disappointed! I thought from the way you
_writ_, that you were a great six-footer of a woman, with snapping
black eyes and a big waist, and I _am_ pleased to find you looking so
soft and so femi_nine_!"
I would have preferred, had I been consulted, that he should have
omitted the word "soft;" but after the experiences narrated above,
this was a trifle.
* * * * *
A gentleman requested me not long since "to rebuke those men who did
not rise, when ladies entered a car, and give them a seat." Now this
would come with a bad grace from me, for the reason that I never enter
a full car without having this politeness extended to me. But mind
this, ladies, I never yet forgot to thank the man, as prettily as my
knowledge of such things serves me, for such a gracious act, and
perhaps that is the explanation. At any rate, I have been so disgusted
with the reverse, that I more often wondered that men _do_ get up,
than that they _don't_. I think ladies, too, should not _exact_ such
courtesy by look, or word, or manner, as I have often seen them do. I
find American men most courteous, most obliging to our sex. Now and
then one meets a bear. To such, a woman must of course give a wide
berth, unless she has a muzzle in the shape of a "protector" handy.
_HOSPITALITY._
If each person were asked to define this word, the answers would be
amusing. Emerson says "that we should not turn away wholly from the
routine of our daily life to make our guests welcome." He says "that
every one worthy to sit at our table knows that life has its necessary
duties; and that we should not burden our friends with the thought
that our business is suffering derangement and loss by their coming."
This is common-sense; but if we measure the majority of people by it,
then few "_are_ worthy to sit at one's table." It may be because
insincerity is so much the order of the day, that each so distrusts
the other that a person cannot say frankly to a friend, without giving
offence, I would be glad to stay longer with you, or have you stay
longer, but I really cannot now. A lady said to me, not long since, "I
never dare say truthfully that I am 'engaged' when a caller comes, no
matter how impossible circumstances make it for me to go down. If I
do, it always offends. Therefore I am obliged to send word that I am
out; then the caller leaves without any wound to his self-love." Now
this ought not to be. A straightforward honesty is much better. But
there are so many inconsiderate people, who, provided they gain their
point to see you, care little at what sacrifice on your part of time,
or at what postponement of imperative duties. _They_ have time enough.
So much that they are even puzzled what to do with it; how can it be
that _you_ have none, or so little, at the service of friends? They
cannot comprehend that one's duty, or one's labor, may tread so
closely on the heels of the other, that your remaining vitality needs
the most careful nursing and division to keep your steps from _final_
faltering. What is to be done with such rhinoceros-hided people as
these? You feel no unkindness toward them; but, like the beggar that
accosts you on the last of many curb-stones, you have simply parted
with all your pennies. Your pocket is empty.
I recollect once a lady in the same house with me, to whom I
apologized as civilly as I knew how for being obliged to leave her to
write a promised article. She bowed coolly, and, on my leaving the
room, said to a friend of mine, "I suppose she did that to get rid of
me, don't you?"
It is much easier to get along with men, because _they_ can understand
that life has its unpostponable duties, without any lifting of
eyebrows or incredulous shrugging of shoulders, or a cool salute the
next time you two meet. The intercourse of one man with another in
this regard has always elicited my admiration. They take up a
newspaper or a book, and read in each other's presence, with a tacit
understanding of its perfect propriety. If one has to leave, he often
says no more than "I'm off," or "Good-by, old fellow." Sometimes it is
only a touch of the hat, or a hand laid on the other's shoulder in
passing; and no black eyes follow, no locks of hair fly, nor do any
hard words or looks result in the future.
If ladies smoked,--which the gods forbid!--do you suppose one lady
would allow another to stop her in the street and light a cigar from
her lips, when she _never was introduced_? When she didn't even know
who her dress-maker was, or where she bought her bonnets? Good
heavens!
Did you ever notice, if anything unexpected occurs in the mutual path
of men through the same street, how naturally and frankly they accost
each other, though perfect strangers, and converse about it, and go
their several ways, to their tombstones, after it. Not so sweet woman!
Catch _her_ speaking to "that nasty thing"! How does _she_ know who or
what she is?
Children are so delicious about these matters. I saw two little girls
the other day trying to crack a nut upon the sidewalk, by pressing in
turn their tiny little shoes upon it. Despairing of success, they said
to a gentleman passing, "Man, man, crack this nut for us, will you?"
His handsome face was luminous with fun, as he pressed his polished
boot down upon it, to the delight of the youngsters and myself. Now
these little girls wouldn't have thought of asking a lady to do that,
or if they had, do you think she would have stopped to do it?
_WOMAN AND HER WATCH._
This unnatural partnership is well understood, both by watchmakers and
husbands. Who among the latter has not had occasion to mourn, seventy
times seven, that he was ever such an idiot as to present his wife
with a watch? Of what use was it, when fastening it to her belt, in
its pristine glitter and correctness, that he remarked, with uplifted
finger, "Here, my dear, be sure and remember to wind this up regularly
every night when you take it off." Of what use was it that she
bristled up, and retorted, "As if I shouldn't remember that, John, you
goose!"
Didn't John himself, after she crept into bed, that very night, ask
her had she done it; and didn't she guiltily reply, dodging the
question, "Don't bother me, John, just as I am getting sleepy!" And
didn't it run down? And didn't he face her up, the next day, with the
face of that watch behind time, at the same moment showing her
reproachfully the immaculate time-piece in his vest-pocket, which
never erred, or varied from the path of strict duty, no more than one
of his relatives! And wasn't she glad, when a pickpocket in a
street-car, shortly after, relieved her husband of this finger-post to
her transgressions! Besides, suppose her watch were a little before
or behind time, or suppose it stopped altogether, for the matter of
that; wasn't it _her_ watch, I'd like to know; and didn't his
jurisdiction over it stop when it became such? And didn't she, at
last, get so mad at his asking her every night, when they got into
bed, if it was wound up, that she let it alone from sheer perversity,
and never pretended to prevaricate on the subject, but "riz" right up
in bed, when he asked her the question, and answered boldly, "No, it
isn't!"
And how impertinent it was of the watchmaker, when, after frequent
aberrations from duty, she carried secretly this little trinket to get
it repaired, to ask what she had been doing to it; or to laugh, with
_his_ necessary knowledge of watches and women, when she replied, "I
only dropped it on the hearth." But watchmakers are often
husbands--and when you've seen one husband, you've seen the whole
tribe--always asking you what you've done, and then scolding you for
doing it; thus offering you a premium for lying the next time they
propose such a meddling question.
Do they tell "what they have been doing"? I rather think there'd be
pulling of hair if they did. Then what right have they to catechize
us?
Now I ask any candid person if a lady's watch don't _look_ just as
prettily in her belt, whether it "goes" or not? And can't she always
ask her husband what time it is? And isn't he a brute and a bear, if
he growls at telling her, even supposing he has given her a watch to
obviate that necessity? I'm sure nothing could be plainer; and I hope
nobody will say, after this, that a woman can't reason. Besides, what
right has a lazy animal like man to expect anything perpetually to
"go"? Don't _he_ lay off, on every convenient chance? Isn't he always
prefacing and winding up everything with "Be quiet"? Of course he is.
Every wife from Maine to Florida knows that. I tell you they expect
too much from women and their watches, and it's high "time" they knew
it, and got used to having both run like fury one minute, and stand
still the next.
* * * * *
Will people who attend lectures and concerts cease drumming with their
fingers on the back of seats, or with canes or feet on the floor, till
the services begin? One cannot help remarking, in such vicinity, how
few persons are really well-bred. Dress certainly is no indication of
it, judged by this rule. If a tattoo must be performed, why not go out
in the lobby or vestibule, and have the war-dance out? This thing has
come to be such an intolerable nuisance, that the paradoxical
regulation, "No _gentlemen_ are allowed to smoke in the ladies'
cabin," may as well be imitated by--"No _gentleman_, in a concert or
lecture-room, is allowed to drum on the back of a lady's chair before,
or after, or during the entertainment."
"_MY DOCTOR._"
You have one, of course; and of course he never opens his mouth
without dropping pearls. (I hope the printer will not print this last
word _pills_.) _Your_ doctor believes in flannel next the skin, all
the year round. Mrs. Jones' doctor, who "knows much more than your
doctor," thinks that a person of discretion may occasionally, in the
dog-days, lay flannel on the shelf and no coffin be imminent. _Your_
doctor says that young children's necks and shoulders should always be
covered, even in warm weather. Mrs. Smith's doctor, who, she says,
"stands at the head of his profession" says that is all nonsense, and
that children should go through a toughening process, which will
render changes of temperature harmless. _Your_ doctor advises you
never to cross the street, or go down-stairs, unless accompanied by
quinine. Mrs. Smith's doctor tells her if she wants poison she had
better get ratsbane, and then she will know what she is swallowing.
Now each of you believe that "_my_ doctor" is infallible; that is a
great comfort to you, and very satisfactory to them, especially
pocket-wise. "My doctor" hasn't dealt with women so long, and failed
to see their blind side. He knows what "brutes" husbands are, and how
like flints they will oppose the sea-shore, merely because their wives
want to go there. What is the use of "my doctor," unless he comforts
you under this affliction, and declares that to be the only place
where you can regain your lost appetite? No wonder you like him; no
wonder life is a blank to you when his carriage is not before your
door. There is healing in the very sight of his beard and moustache;
and how much handsomer they are than the "brute's." Ah! had you met
"my doctor" years ago, you say; not stopping to reflect, that in that
case he would have been attending women who paid fees, and left you,
his wife, to some medical friend for pills and consolation. It is
better as it is, you see. Well, it _is_ comforting "that he
understands you better than anybody else, and seems to know just what
you want." And then he shows such an absorbing interest in your
symptoms, that you almost feel cured by his sympathy alone, before you
swallow a single powder; and, since my ears are out of your reach, I
will remark, that well you may, when, half the time, nothing in the
world ails you but the want of some absorbing occupation or interest.
Colored water and bread pills are safe prescriptions for that
complaint; meantime it wont hurt the "brute" to pay for the wear and
tear of the doctor's carriage in coming and going. If "my doctor"
laughs in his sleeve, occasionally, when he thinks what funny
creatures women are, you are none the wiser or the angrier for it. He
don't dislike, after all, their little cuddlesome, trusting, confiding
ways; possibly not so much as his wife does, whose acquaintance you
had better not make. As I before remarked, his medical friends can
take care of her; it is no business of yours, her disgusting ails and
aches.
But what a thing it is when "my doctor" was also "_ma's doctor_"! If
he don't know all the ins and outs, then "may the divel fly away
wid--him!"
The moral of all this is, that "my doctor's" life is not without its
consolations, and the most astonishing part of it is, that husbands
are so blear-eyed to this subject. It wont harm them to hint that in
sympathy and courteousness they had better not present too sharp a
contrast to "my doctor."
_A WOMAN AT A LECTURE._
If you want to see a woman act more like a goose than she need, watch
her when she enters a place of public performance, where the seats are
at the mercy of first-comers. Notice her profound survey of the
situation, as she stands, preceding her John, who is supposed to know
nothing about such things, poised on one foot, while she measures
distances, drafts, and acoustics with the eye of a connoisseur. Now
she decides! At last she swoops down on _the_ seat in all the house
which she prefers. John follows, with the shawl and family umbrella.
He faintly suggests the possible obstruction of a pillar between the
seat she has chosen and the speaker, but he follows. Directly she is
seated, and the shawl and umbrella located without inconvenience to
themselves, or infringement of the comfort of their neighbors, when
she coolly remarks, "John, 'tis true, that pillar _is_ right between
me and the speaker." John's ears redden; but he is in public, so he
don't say, "Didn't I tell you so?" but rises with shawl and umbrella,
the former catching by the fringe on every seat as he passes, and the
latter slipping to the floor while he tries to disentangle the shawl.
Meantime my lady is on her triumphal march for that "best seat."
Now she alights! It wont do. There's a tall man in front of her; she
is always fated to sit behind a tall man. She tries another; there's
the phantom pillar again. Yet another; that's the end seat, and every
horrid man that comes along will be treading on her dress and knocking
her bonnet over her eyes all the evening. Meantime John gets redder in
the face; he can't even ease himself with a customary growl. Ah! now
she has got the seat at last, and stands beckoning to John to follow.
Her friend Miss Frizzle is beside her, and she is happy. There is only
one seat, to be sure, but "John can find one somewhere else, or
perhaps he would like to take a walk outside and call for her when
lecture is over--only he must be sure to be back in time." So down she
sits, while John wanders off for a possible stray seat. Now she draws
off the glove that hides her one diamond ring, and settles the
bracelet on the wrist of that hand. Then she tumbles up her front
hair, lest it might have got smooth coming. Then she picks out the
bows of the natty little ribbon under her dimpled chin. It was that
chin that victimized John! Then she draws from her pocket her scented
pocket-handkerchief and gives it a little incense-waft into the air,
magnetizing a young man in front, who turns round to find the owner of
that delicious gale from Araby the blest. Then she takes out her
opera-glass and peeps about, not so much that her sight is defective,
but that her diamond-ring and gold bracelets gleam prettily in the
operation. John, meantime, has found a seat in a draft, and is
sitting with bent brows and a turned-up coat-collar--which last is
sufficient to make a ruffian of a man without any woman's help--in the
back part of the house. Confidences, millinery, mantua-makery, and
matinée-y are meanwhile exchanged between his wife and dear Miss
Frizzle, who is an acknowledged man-killer, and keeps a private
grave-yard of her own for deceased lovers.
Now the lecturer rises. "Pooh! he's an ugly man. Well, they need't
look at him; and perhaps he'll be funny--who knows?" He isn't funny.
He is talking about Plato and Epictetus; who the goodness are they?
But there's an end to all things, and so there is to the lecture. Now,
John is wanted, and, to tell the truth, for the first time thought of!
Ah, there he is! but how sulky, and how ugly he looks with his
coat-collar turned up! He might have some regard to appearances when
he goes with _her_. People will think she has such a horrid taste in
husbands.
"Why don't you talk?" says the little woman, when they get outside.
"It was too bad you couldn't sit by me, John; I missed you so! but,
you see, there was but one seat."--"Not just in that locality, I
suppose," muttered John. But the street-lamp just then shone on that
cunning little dimpled chin, and its owner said, coaxingly, "O-o-h,
now, John! don't be cross with its little wife!" and it's my private
opinion he wasn't. Would you have been, sir?
_CAN'T BE SUITED._
Look at those long-faced Christians coming home from church, says
Find-Fault; "it is enough to make one sick--gloomy, morose-looking
beings. I wonder do they think there is any religion in that? The fact
is, religion is played out." Now, Find-Fault _wants_ religion to be
played out, so he looks at it always through that pair of spectacles.
If he sees a mistake in that direction, he never thinks, as in other
cases, of making reasonable allowance for it. He can understand how
really good men may have narrow views of business, or of politics, or
of any such secular matters; but if they blunder through narrowness of
view on the _religious_ question, he immediately sets them down as
hypocrites and pretenders. Now I believe that there is many a "Worthy
the Lamb" being sung heartily in heaven to-day, by those mistaken
Christians who thought it right to groan and sigh all the time they
were on earth. It is a pity, to be sure, especially in view of such
people as Find-Fault, that they had not occasionally given us a
cheerful chirp before they went, but "religion" still lives all the
same.
Then Find-Fault is not very consistent, even on his own showing.
"_There's_ a pretty minister for you," he says, as he comes out of the
Rev. Mr. Spring-morning's church; "there's a pretty minister for
you--making his congregation smile during the services! A clergyman
shouldn't let himself down that way. It is undignified." You tell him
that the clergyman in question believes in a cheerful religion, and
wishes to do away with the long-faced Christianity which brings
religion into disrepute with just such people as himself. Finding
himself in a corner, he only gives you his stereotyped answer, that
"religion is played out, anyhow."
Find-Fault isn't a bad man: it only pleases him to be thought so. The
other day, in speaking of a man who made great efforts to overcome
intemperate habits, and failed, he said, "Poor fellow! somebody ought
to take hold and help him to help himself." But, mind you, he never
thinks of applying the same rule to a church-member for whom Satan, in
a moment of weakness, is too strong; no matter how sincere his
repentance, he only says, "_there's your religion again!_"