does not know the blessing of comfortable everyday apparel, every fold
of which has made intimate acquaintance with the motions and postures of
the owner; and which can be worn without fear of being spoiled, or
rendering the wearer conspicuous. The bonnet which sets lightly on the
head and defies rain; the boots which do not constantly remind the foot
that a chair would be the greatest of all earthly blessings; in short,
that freedom which will let you forget _you_ yourself, is like laying
down a huge bundle which has fettered you weary miles on a dusty, sunny
road, and sitting down, unencumbered, in a shady spot to dream and rest
in a delicious, care-free coolness. It is just so with the mind. The
best things written or spoken have _not_ been written or spoken "to
order." They "_whistled themselves_," as the terror-stricken urchin
remarked to his irate school-ma'am. They came unbidden, in easy, flowing
raiment; not starched and stately, rustling, prim, and conscious. They
came without thought of "what people would say." They stepped out
because the time had come when they _couldn't stay in_. In a word, they
were _natural_ as little children are, and consequently delicious and
fresh.
I solemnly aver that, the moment anybody _tries_ to do or say a good
thing, that moment he shall never be delivered of it, but shall only
experience throes of mortal pain trying. If you build yourself a
beautiful house, and make it a marvel of taste and convenience, in one
of its lovely chambers shall your dead be laid; and you shall wander
heart-sick away from it, to rid yourself of a phantom that will always
follow you, till you turn boldly and face it, and with a strong heart
accept its company.
This incessant _striving_ to be happy! Never, never shall mortals be so
till they have learned to give it over. Happiness _comes_. It will not
be challenged. It glides in only when you have closed the door and
turned your back upon it, and forgot it. It lays a soft hand on your
face when you thought to be alone, and brings a joyful flush of surprise
to your cheek, and a soft light to your weary eye, and ineffable peace
to your soul.
It is a great thing when all that can possibly happen to a person, save
one's death, _has_ happened. It is a great thing to have been poor, and
friendless, and nameless, and to have been rich, and famous, and
flattered. It is a great thing to have been young and to have been old.
It is a great thing to have perforated the bubble, Fame, and seen it
collapse before a hungry heart. It is a great thing to have had dear
ones, who moulded every thought and action, from the rising to the
setting sun, and then to have seen them suddenly vanish like stars from
the sky, and to have folded one's paralyzed hands in the darkness
because there was no earthly future left. It is a great thing to have
suffered and agonized in your own Gethsemane on account of it, till that
very suffering brings you to be glad and contented that _they_ are in a
world where all tears are wiped from all eyes. It is a great thing to
rise slowly and take up the burden of life again and plod mechanically
on. It is a great thing to be calm and unmoved when brutal pens, to
point a coarse paragraph, unearth one's sacred dead. It is a great thing
to lock up chambers in one's soul, and sit down by the closed doors,
lest some apathetic or unkind ear should hear the pained cries you only
want time to smother. It is a great thing to have encountered all of
malice, and envy, and uncharitableness, that the world has to offer, so
that its repetition can only be to the ear a dull, unmeaning sound. It
is a great thing so to have weighed human judgment that its Aye or No is
a matter of indifference in the light of--_to come_.
True; before the sensitive and tender-hearted can reach that point,
rivers of tears must have been shed and millions of sighs heaved. Scores
of suns must have set on days of torturing length, and scores of
mornings _too many_ must have dawned. Uncounted hours must have been
spent reaching out in the darkness for that which the soul has never
found, or, finding, has lost; and thousands of times must the weary
hands have fallen to the side in utter helplessness.
But this churchyard of the soul passed through, where every step is upon
some buried hope, what is the petty noise and dust of the highway about
which others fume and complain? What is it to the unconscious if rudely
jostled in passing? What is it if a malicious whipster spatter mud? What
is it if a rude voice accost, or the right of the road be clamorously
contended? when all voices, all roads are alike; when delay or speed
matters not; when a choice about _anything_ seems utterly ridiculous,
and all one's faculties are lost in astonishment at the worry and fret
and perturbation of those who have not undergone the same ossifying
process as yourself.
After all, some great sorrow is surely essential to the humanizing of
every soul. Never till then can it offer anything but lip sympathy to
those who have gasped through the sea of trouble. How can he who has
known only days of comparative prosperity interpret the despairing sigh
of the friendless? How can he who has never dropped tears into the open
grave of _his own dead_ measure the agony of that last, lingering look,
as they are hidden forever from human sight? Till a vacant chair stands
by his own hearth, how can he ever understand why one should still keep
on grieving for that which can never be recalled? Till his heart turns
sickening away from some festive anniversary in which a missing voice
once made music, how can he see why one need be doleful on such a day as
that? Till he has closed his ears to some familiar strain which evoked
associations too painful to bear, how can he tell "Why you cannot forget
all that, since it makes you so miserable"? To answer such, is to talk
to the blind of colors, to the deaf of sounds, to the dead of life and
motion. Never, till his own house is darkened, till the badge of
desolation flutters from his own door, till sunshiny days return
merciless in their brightness, and stormy ones send his thoughts
shuddering to a shelterless grave; never till he has tried changing the
place, but still _always_ only to keep the old pain, can he understand
the desperation with which at last one sits helplessly down, to face
that which it can neither look upon nor flee from.
_DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE._
The philosopher is fond of talking to me about what he calls "the
dignity of human nature." The pains he takes to bolster himself up in
this shaky belief of his, would do credit to a better cause. Obstinacy
of course is at the bottom of it, for he no more believes in it than I
do. How can he, and he living and breathing in this sublunary sphere
_himself_? That's just what I said to him this morning; for, thank
Providence, I can generally speak my mind on most points. What did he
say? That's my affair; suffice it to say, he sticks to it. I made him
sit down; then I sat down on his knee, to make sure of a listener. Then
I took in my hand the morning papers. In the first place, there was a
man of sixty who had been coaxed in where he shouldn't go, and robbed
while there. Secondly, there was a justice of the peace sentenced to the
Penitentiary for robbery. Thirdly, there was a clergyman convicted of
bigamy. Fourthly, there was a husband, who had been trying, with an iron
shovel, to find out whether his wife had any brains. Fifthly, there was
another who had decided an argument by biting off a portion of his
antagonist's nose. Sixthly, there were two lads, of the respective ages
of eight and thirteen, who had been murderously perforating each other's
intestines with sharp penknives. Seventhly, there was a man in
Massachusetts who had lately numbered his twenty-fifth child. Eighthly,
there was a "gentleman" found, in the small hours, sitting on the cold
sidewalk in ---- street, hiccupping for a waiter "to bring him another
bottle of champagne."
"Well," says the philosopher, when I stopped to take breath, "these are
only the exceptions that prove the rule." Exceptions, quotha! when I
hadn't yet dug into the nauseous kennel of the advertising list!
_Exceptions_? but what's the use of talking? Does not every morning's
new issue furnish similar "exceptions"? Certainly. Besides, didn't I put
_this_ catechism to him? How came ---- to give the wife of an official
high in power that splendid grand piano? There's a _dignified_ way to
secure, through a wheedling female tongue, a fat office. Not to mention
a carriage and horses unexpectedly placed at the disposal of Senator
----'s wife. Last, but not least, look at "Jeff.," first and last, from
his attempted flight to his boyish refusal to eat his prison fare,
bestowing it gratuitously in the faces of his guards; and then kicking
and swearing, while his naughty little hands and feet were being
fastened together therefor. Dignity? when I look at human beings, and
think of what they daily and hourly do, I am seized with convulsions of
laughter at the idea. Sometimes the devil possesses me, in the presence
of some solemn "hark from the tombs" kind of an individual, to picture
it, till I am tied up with cramps trying to keep from laughing. Nobody
will ever know what I've suffered in this way. Dignity? You should see
it with its boots up on the window-sill of some hotel lounging-room
facing Broadway, with its mouth wide open, thus--O; its hat rakishly set
on one temple, and its eyes somnolently closed to the charms of the lady
pedestrians, who wouldn't miss the picture for sixpence. Dignity?
Yesterday I saw a man nearly cut in two with corsets. Another trying to
hop round hilariously in a pair of corn-murdering boots. Another roaring
out in an omnibus like a mad bull because the cold-fingered driver gave
him a "soiled stamp."
Dignity of human nature? Where is it when a man is in the dentist's
chair? Where, when a waiter spills coffee on his shirt-bosom or hot soup
on his trousers? One might as well not stiffen himself up against facts
like these, said I to the philosopher. We don't stop being children,
this side the grave, that ever I could find out. The toys we mostly
scramble for, like those that dangle from the Christmas-tree, suit but
the present hour, and, with all their gilding and glittering lights,
will one day be but broken rubbish on our hands. When a man is dead he
looks dignified; but while he is alive, with a pipe stereotyped to his
lips, or alternately dipping his _soup_-erfluous mustache in a plate of
soup and sopping it with a napkin; or, as the country-woman said of her
pet minister, "sitting down, spitting round socionable," I really can't
entertain the idea of "Dignity." The more I try the more I laugh.
Frivolous, I grant; but what were woman without frivolity? Not a man
would speak to us.
* * * * *
WHAT MINISTERS NEED.--We have often thought that ministers need their
congregations as much, if not more, than congregations need their
ministers. Parishioners are not apt to look at it in this way. The
matter of salary nowadays, thank God, is, as a general thing, properly
considered; but the matter of "holding up his hands" spiritually, is
not. Remember, he is a man like yourselves, subject to discouragement,
and needs--oh, more often than you know who only look on his face once a
week--that affectionate relationship which you delight in between your
own children and yourself. You wish their respect, but would you be
satisfied with only that? Do you not delight in the beaming eye and
constant, kindly, heartfelt recognition of your presence? Just so your
minister feels toward you, else he were no minister. Then do not treat
him as you would a Fourth-of-July orator, or a stray lecturer, to be
paid and dismissed, and forgotten when his message is delivered,
careless after that whether he be crushed or shipwrecked on his way
home. Remember the phrase, "holding up his hands." It has a world of
significance, looked at in this light.
_ALL ABOUT DOCTORS._
There be many kinds of Doctors; allopathic--homoepathic--and mongrel.
Luckily every family swears by its own, and believes in no salvation
beyond _his_ dictum. There is your fashionable Doctor who lives in a
fine house; rides to his "cases" with a servant in livery; utterly
eschews all gutter localities, and never troubles himself to go out when
his head aches, or in bad weather. His manner of drawing off his gloves
is pompous and impressive. Nurse in the corner sinks down into her
slippers, utterly quenched by it. While he warms his hands silently at
the fire, he is impressing all present with an idea of his immense
profundity. This done, he fixes his eyes on the ceiling, and counts his
patient's pulse; then comes the tongue examination; after which he
relapses into another profound contemplation of the ceiling; during
which time every tick of the clock seems solemn as fate. Then follows
the cabalistic writing; a dead letter to everybody but this Grand Mogul
and the apothecary. The gloves are then drawn on, and bowing to the thin
air, our elegant Doctor delivers himself again into the care of his
liveried servant.
Then there is your old-fashioned Doctor; whose patients "will have him,"
though he has wanted gradually to leave off practice for several years,
in favor of new aspirants. The cut of his coat is a matter that don't
affect his practice. He smiles blandly as the other Doctor, with the
liveried servant, drives past, while he trudges independently on foot,
and mentally shakes his head at "new fashions." _He_ is civil without
regard to externals. A baby is a baby to him, whether it comes into the
world with a nice wardrobe ready for its back, or the contrary. He is
perfectly willing to tell a man who places his stomach in his hands what
he is going to put into it, and what he expects it to do to him. He is
interested philanthropically, as well as scientifically, in the most
minute symptom of the most ordinary patient, who is encouraged by the
sympathetic magnetism of his voice and eye to "tell him just how he
feels." He scribbles no unnecessary recipes for his own benefit, or the
apothecaries'; and speaks so cheerfully when he leaves, that the sick
man half doubts, after all, if anything is the matter with him.
Then there is your young, new-fledged Doctor, who gives physic as a
little boy touches off a firecracker, rather uncertain whether it will
blow him, or his neighbor, or both, sky-high.
Then there is your Ladies' Doctor, "the handsome creature," who lifts
his eyes with well-acted astonishment that these dear beings can endure
a pain, or an ache, and still live; who says just what they want him
to, in the way of prescribing "little journeys" and savory messes; and
coaxes all their little troubles over their lips till they are more
astonished at themselves than the Doctor is at them.
Then there is your blunt pop-gun Doctor, who has no time nor inclination
for nonsense, and jerks out his opinion as he would a mouthful of
tobacco; and they who don't like it, are welcome to move out of the way.
Who feels your pulse, and pronounces you a prospective dead man, or
woman, as coolly as if the intelligence concerned you no more than
himself.
Then there is the eccentric Doctor, who advertises himself by some
peculiarity of costume, like knee-breeches, or cocked hat, or long,
flowing hair, and is never better pleased than when everybody is saying:
"Who _can_ that be?"
Then there is your celebrated Surgeon, who has long since bade good-by
to his own nerves, and who looks at every man, woman, and child with a
view to their "cutting up." When about to commence an operation before a
class of gaping students, mark the gleaming, circling flourish of his
pet-knife in the air, before descending upon his chloroform-bound
victim! The operation properly and deftly performed, _his_ part is done.
The Almighty is responsible for the rest.
Finally, and lastly, it is all very nice to laugh at Doctors when one is
sound and well; but let a good smart pain come, and none so ready, as
those who do so, to send a telegraphic summons for their speedy
appearance. With this substantial proof of their power, let them snap
their fingers at criticism and be jolly.
* * * * *
HOW TO PUT THE CHILDREN TO BED.--_Not_ with a reproof for any of that
day's sins of omission or commission. Take any other time _but_ bedtime
for that. If you ever heard a little creature sighing or sobbing in its
sleep, you could never do this. Seal their closing eyelids with a kiss
and a blessing. The time will come, all too soon, when they will lay
their heads upon their pillows lacking both. Let them then at least have
this sweet memory of a happy childhood, of which no future sorrow or
trouble can rob them. Give them their rosy _youth_. Nor need this
involve wild license. The judicious parent will not so mistake my
meaning. If you have ever met the man or the woman whose eyes have
suddenly filled when a little child has crept trustingly to its mother's
breast, you may have seen one in whose childhood's home "Dignity" and
"Severity" stood where Love and Pity should have been. Too much
indulgence has ruined thousands of children; too much _Love_ not one.
_LETTER TO HENRY WARD BEECHER._
"There has been a very jolly set of children in my house
since the box [of mixed candies] came. I have made a
scientific analysis with such means as I had at hand--my
tongue and palate--and am of opinion that it is pure, and am
sure that it is _good_ (I know that Fanny Fern is sorry that
she ever wrote a word against candy, and stands pouting, to
think that I have all the sweets on my side)."--_Mr. Beecher
in N. Y. Ledger._
Pouting? Not a bit of it. After I make up my mind a thing is past being
helped, I always turn my giant mind to something else.
Now, "your riverence," your love for "sweets" is not a thing of
yesterday. I mind me of a young man, of your name, who once came to a
boarding-school, where I, at sixteen, was placed for algebra and
safe-keeping, both of which I hated, and who invited me to take several
surreptitious rides with him, which I did; and which will probably first
come to the knowledge of his sister, my teacher, through this number of
the New York _Ledger_. What Plymouth church has escaped, in the way of
an infliction, by that young man's going to college about that time, and
my return to the "bosom of my family," to learn the "Lost Arts,"
bread-making and button-hole stitching, Plymouth church may now for the
first time learn.
And now, having paid you off for your little public dig at me, I proceed
magnanimously to admit, that I believe a bit of _pure_ candy, given to a
child as dessert after a wholesome meal, is perfectly harmless. But not
even the gifted pastor of Plymouth church, whose sermons, to me, are
like a spring of water in the desert, can ever make me believe that an
indiscriminate nibble of even _pure_ candy between meals is good for any
child.
Now, Mr. Beecher, we are both grandfathers--I mean, _you_ are a
grandfather, and I am a grandmother. I now propose to pit my grandchild
against yours on the candy question, and see which, in the future,
brings us the heaviest dentist and doctor's bills. We won't scratch each
other's eyes out now, both on account of "auld lang syne," and on
account of the dignity of our position--I mean the dignity of _yours_.
I have one thing against you besides candy, and that is, that I can
never get a seat at your church. As everybody is giving you advice, of
which, by the way, I too have plenty, I advise you to remove to New
York, that I may be able, without getting up in the middle of the night
in order to cross the ferry, to get a seat in one of your pews. You have
been in Brooklyn now for a long time, and if the people over there
haven't yet become angels, it is high time you tried your hand on the
other kind in New York.
I propose the site of the present Bible House, as being a nice walk from
my residence, which is the main thing to be considered. I will agree to
find your pulpit in flowers--(not of oratory; that is for you!)
Hoping that you will be able to turn from your beloved box of candy to
an early consideration of this question, I am--leaving out candy--
Your faithful adherent, FANNY FERN.
* * * * *
ONE KIND OF FOOL.--It is very instructive sometimes, at a place of
country resort, to watch the woman who has come only to exhibit her
changes of wardrobe. For a day or two, possibly longer, she goes through
her solitary dress-rehearsals. Finding at last that the rest of the
boarders wear rubbers and water-proofs, and live out of doors in all
weathers, the woman who came to dress, gets weary of waiting for
admirers, and reluctantly joins the sensible majority, rather than be
left alone; but generally with an apologetic, "How odd it seems, not to
dress for dinner as one does in the city," by way of letting herself
gently down from her snobbish pedestal. We are happy to add, however,
that the number of women who go into the country to dress is becoming
fewer every year; folly in this regard having reached its ultimatum of
loathsomeness.
_THE AMENITIES OF THE TABLE._
Fastidiousness, in any regard, is a misfortune, as two-thirds of mankind
have no such word in their dictionary. But in matters of the table we
claim for every human being a large margin of license as to
peculiarities of taste. Now _helping at table_ is a science. To tact and
skill your helper must needs add benevolence. He or she must be capable
of comprehending that too large a slice, or too brimming a spoonful, may
save the trouble of helping twice, in more ways than one, as it may
effectually destroy the appetite. Your helper must not suppose that
safely to land a piece of meat on the plate, instead of the table-cloth,
his or her duty is done; on the contrary, the boundary line between
squash and spinach, cranberry sauce and cauliflower, may be distinctly
defined with advantage to many stomachs and palates. Nor must your
helper close his or her eyes to the fact that some specified joint, or
bone, or slice, may be disagreeable, through some unexplainable though
very decided antipathy. Nor must he or she disdain to be informed, if
ignorant of the fact, that a bit of butter has a better relish if it be
not flattened down on your plate, after the manner of an apothecary
spreading a plaster. Then gravy is undoubtedly a meritorious liquid when
one has a confidential physician, and money enough to fee him; but as
this is not always the case, one may be pardoned for not wishing to have
it taken for granted that it is to be soused over his food, without
permission. _Once_ I saw a philanthropic carver. His patience and
assiduity were beyond all praise; but in an evil day, in a philosophical
mood, inspecting him too closely with admiring eyes, I discovered the
fatal spring of his amiability. It was only a blind for the secretion of
his favorite titbits till, his labors over, the delicious process of
mastication should commence for _him_! That's what comes of looking too
closely into things. It has happened to me before.
The Smiths believe that edibles were made to eat; and that digestion is
a humbug invented by the doctors; and that milk and cider, and pastry
and vinegar, and candy and raisins, and flapjacks and pickles, and
jellies, can be eaten in successive strata at any hour in the
twenty-four, and in any condition of body or mind, and repose quietly
together like "the Happy Family." The Smiths believe in getting up in
the middle of the night to eat and then going to bed upon it; they
believe in taking a bath alike on a full or an empty stomach, and they
utterly despise exercise. If they are sick, it is never on account of
any of _these_ barbaric heresies.