Fern Fanny
Fresh Leaves
THE BOSTON MALE
The Boston male is respectable all over; from the crown of his glossy hat to the soles of his shiny shoes; and huggeth his mantle of self-esteem inseparably about him, that he may avoid contaminating contact with the non-elect of his “set.” The Boston male is for the most part good-looking; and a stanch devotee of starch and buckram; he patronizeth jewelry but sparingly, and never discerneth a diamond in the rough. If, as Goethe sayeth, “the unconscious is the alone complete,” then is the male Bostonian yet in embryo. He taketh, and readeth all the newspapers and magazines, foreign and domestic; and yet, strange to say, sweareth by the little tea-table “Transcript.” When the Boston male traveleth he weareth his best clothes; arrived at his destination he putteth up at the most showy hotel, ordereth the most expensive rooms and edibles, and maketh an unwonted “splurge” generally. He then droppeth the proprieties —pro tem.– being seized with an anatomical desire to dissect the great sores of the city; fancying, like the ostrich, that if his head only be hidden, he is undiscernible.
The Boston male is conservative as a citizen, prosaic as a lover; hum-drum as a husband, and hath no sins —to speak of!
MY OLD INK-STAND AND I; OR, THE FIRST ARTICLE IN THE NEW HOUSE
Well, old Ink-stand, what do you think of this? Haven’t we got well through the woods, hey? A few scratches and bruises we have had, to be sure, but what of that? Didn’t you whisper where we should come out, the first morning I dipped my pen in your sable depths, in the sky-parlor of that hyena-like Mrs. Griffin? With what an eagle glance she discovered that my bonnet-ribbon was undeniably guilty of two distinct washings, and, emboldened by my shilling de laine, and the shabby shoes of little Nell, inquired “if I intended taking in slop-work into her apartments?” How distinctly I was made to understand that Nell was not to speak above a whisper, or in any way infringe upon the rights of her uncombed, unwashed, unbaptized, uncomfortable little Griffins. Poor little Nell, who clung to my gown with childhood’s instinctive appreciation of the hard face and wiry voice of our jailor. With what venom I overheard her inform Mr. Griffin that “they must look sharp for the rent of their sky-parlor, as its tenant lived on bread and milk, and wore her under-clothes rough-dry, because she could not afford to pay for ironing them!” Do you remember that, old Ink-stand? And do you remember the morning she informed me, as you and I were busily engaged in out first article, that I must “come and scrub the stairs which led up to my room;” and when I ventured humbly to mention, that this was not spoken of in our agreement, do you remember the Siddons-like air with which she thundered in our astonished ears – “Do it, or tramp!” And do you remember how you vowed “if I did tramp,” you would stand by me, and help me out of the scrape? and haven’t you done it, old Ink-stand? And don’t you wish old Griffin, and all the little Griffins, and their likes, both big and little, here and elsewhere, could see this bran-new house that you have helped me into, and the dainty little table upon which I have installed you, untempted by any new papier-mache modern marvel?
Turn my back on you, old Ink-stand! Not I. Throw you aside, for your shabby exterior, as we were thrown aside, when it was like drawing teeth to get a solitary shilling to buy you at a second-hand shop? Perish the thought!
Yes, old Ink-stand, Griffin and all that crew, should see us now. Couldn’t we take the wind out of their sails? Couldn’t we come into their front door, instead of their “back gate?” Didn’t they “always know that there was something in us?” We can forgive them, though, can’t we? By the title deed, and insurance policy, of this bran-new pretty house, which their sneers have helped us into, and whose doors shall always be open to those who have cheered us on, we’ll do it.
Dropped many a tear into you, have I? Well – who cares? You know, very well, that every rough word aimed at my quivering ears, was an extra dollar in my purse; every rude touch of my little Nell, strength and sinew to my unstrung nerves and flagging muscles. I say, old Ink-stand, look at Nell now! Does any landlady lay rough hands on those plump shoulders? Dare she sing and run, and jump and play to her heart’s content? Didn’t you yourself buy her that hoop and stick, and those dolls, and that globe of gold-fish? Don’t you feed and clothe her, every day of her sunshiny life? Haven’t you agreed to do it, long years to come? and won’t you teach her, as you have me, to defy false friends, and ill-fortune? And won’t you be to my little Nell a talisman, when my eyes grow dim, and hers brighten? Say, old Ink-stand?
THE SOUL – AND THE STOMACH
There is a good old man. His head is white – his form is bent – his step slow and tremulous. Life has no charms for him, and the opening grave is full of terrors; he wanders up and down – up and down – wringing his withered hands, and says, “I have committed the unpardonable sin; I am lost – lost – lost.” They who love him, and their name is Legion, look on dismayed at this good father, good husband, good neighbor, good Christian; and one of them says to me, “Why, if your God be merciful, does he afflict his faithful servant thus? God is not good!”
God is good, though all else fail, and we, like insects, creep and complain; God is good. It is not religion that makes the old man gloomy – it is not that the Word of God shall not stand forever; but He who has bid us care for the soul, bids us also care for the body. “If one member suffer, all the other members suffer with it.” If we neglect the laws of health, and abuse our bodies, even in His service, he does not guaranty to the delinquent, a strong mind, an unperverted spiritual vision – clouds and darkness will come between us and the Sun of Righteousness, and though we shall feel after Him, we shall grope like children in the dark. It is an earthly physician which such as that old man needs; a tonic for the body, not a sermon from the pulpit. Let him lean upon your arm; lead him forth to the green fields, where every little bird sings God is good; where waving trees and blossoming flowers pass the whisper round with myriad voices; take away the old man’s psalm-book, and let him listen to that anthem, and as the soft breath of spring lifts his white locks from his troubled brow, the film of disease will fall from his eyes, and he, too, shall sing that God is good.
Never lay upon the back of Religion what Dyspepsia should shoulder. The Christian warrior, no more than any other, can afford to neglect or gorge his “rations” when preparing for battle; nor if either faint by the way, in consequence, is it to be laid to the commander.
AWE-FUL THOUGHTS
“This had, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, induced in her that awe, which is the most delicious feeling a wife can have toward her husband.”
“Awe!” – awe of a man whose whiskers you have trimmed, whose hair you have cut, whose cravats you have tied, whose shirts you have “put into the wash,” whose boots and shoes you have kicked into the closet, whose dressing-gown you have worn while combing your hair; who has been down cellar with you at eleven o’clock at night, to hunt for a chicken-bone; who has hooked your dresses, unlaced your boots, fastened your bracelets, and tied on your bonnet; who has stood before your looking-glass, with thumb and finger on his proboscis, scraping his chin; whom you have buttered, and sugared, and toasted, and tea-ed; whom have seen asleep with his mouth wide open! Ri – diculous!
A WORD TO PARENTS AND TEACHERS
Why will New York women be eternally munching cake and confectionery? What is more disgusting than to see a lady devouring at a sitting, ounces of burnt almonds, and sugared wine and brandy-drops, or packing away, in her rosy mouth, uncounted platesful of jelly-cake or maccaroons? “But shopping is hungry business;” that is true, and many a shopper comes hungry distances to perform it; but are cake and confectionery wholesome diet between meals? and is not ice-cream at such a time rank poison? Call for a sandwich or a roll, and you may not be considered suicidal.
Every body knows that young girls are foreordained to go through a regular experience in eating slate-pencils, burnt quills, pickles, and chalk; but this green age passed, one looks for a little common sense. I have often seen New York women, not content with ruining their own constitution in this way (and consequently periling their prospective offspring), buy, before leaving the confectioner’s shop, five or six pounds of candy for nursery distribution, and ask Betty, the next day (the sapient mother!), “what can ail those children to fret so?” It were more merciful to purchase a dose of strychnine, and put an immediate end to their misery, than thus murder them by inches. Are the rosy, robust, beautiful English children, candy-fed? Are they suffered to gorge themselves on hot bread, preserves, cake and pastry, ad libitum? Do they have any thing but the plainest puddings, the stalest bread, and the most unmitigated roast and boiled meat, unpoisoned by those dyspepsia-breeding gravies of ours?
It is pitiful, this dwarfing of American children with improper food, want of exercise, and cork-screw clothes. It is inhuman to require of their enfeebled minds and bodies, in ill-ventilated schoolrooms, tasks which the most vigorous child should never have imposed upon his tender years. As if a child’s physique were not of the first importance! – as if all the learning in the world could be put to any practical use by an enfeebled body! As if a parent had a right, year after year, thus to murder the innocents.
Think of one of those candy-and-cake-fed young girls, bending over her tasks in school, from nine o’clock till three, with perhaps ten or fifteen minutes intermission (spent in the close air of the school-room) and two days out of a week at three, after another ten minutes’ intermission, and another cake-and-candy feed, commencing drawing, or music lessons, to last till five; her mother, meanwhile, rocking away as comfortably, in her chair at home, as if her daughter’s spine were not crooking irretrievably. I will not speak of the utter impossibility that this young girl should have a steady hand for drawing, under such circumstances, because any fool can understand that to be impossible.
I ask what right have you to require of your child, your growing, restless child, what it would be impossible for you to do yourself? You know very well that you could not keep your mind on the stretch for so many hours to any profit; or your body in one position for such a length of time, without excessive pain and untold weariness. Then add to this the tasks which must be conned on the return home for the next day’s lesson, and one marvels no longer at the sickly, sallow, narrow-chested, leaden-eyed young girls we are in the habit of meeting.
What would I have? I would have teachers less selfishly consult their own convenience, in insisting upon squeezing into the forenoon what should be divided between forenoon and afternoon, as in the good old-fashioned way of keeping school, with time to eat a wholesome dinner between. A teacher’s established constitution may possibly stand this modern nonsense (though I am told not long); but that children should be thus victimized, without at least a remonstrance on the part of their natural guardians, I can only ascribe to the criminal indifference of parents to the welfare of their offspring.
LADY DOCTORS
And so the female doctors are prospering and getting practice. I am sure I am heartily glad of it, for several reasons; one of which is, that it is an honest and honorable deliverance from the everlasting, non-remunerating, consumptive-provoking, monotonous needle. Another is, that it is a more excellent way of support, than by the mercenary and un-retraceable road, through the church-door to the altar, into which so many non-reliant women are driven. Having said this I feel at liberty to remark that we all have our little fancies, and one of mine is, that a hat is a pleasanter object of contemplation in a sick-room than a bonnet. I think, too, that my wrist reposes more comfortably in a big hand than a little one, and if my mouth is to be inspected, I prefer submitting it to a beard than to a flounce. Still, this may be a narrow prejudice – I dare say it is – but like most of my prejudices, I am afraid no amount of fire will burn it out of me.
A female doctor! Great Esculapius! Before swallowing her pills (of which she would be the first), I should want to make sure that I had never come between her and a lover, or a new bonnet, or been the innocent recipient of a gracious smile from her husband. If I desired her undivided attention to my case, I should first remove the looking-glass, and if a consultation seemed advisable, I should wish to arm myself with a gridiron, or a darning-needle, or some other appropriate weapon, before expressing such a wish. If my female doctor recommended a blister on my head, I should strongly doubt its necessity if my hair happened to be handsome, also the expediency of a scar-defacing plaster for my neck, if it happened to be plump and white. Still, these may be little prejudices; very like they are; but this I will say, before the breath is taken out of me by any female doctor, that while I am in my senses I will never exchange my gentlemanly, soft-voiced, soft-stepping, experienced, intelligent, handsome doctor, for all the female M. D.’s who ever carved up dead bodies or live characters – or tore each other’s caps.
THE CHERUB IN THE OMNIBUS
They stepped in together – the man and his wife – honest, healthy country-folk. She – rosy and plump; he – stalwart, broad-chested, and strong-limbed, as God intended man and woman to be. I might not have noticed them particularly, but they had a baby; and such a baby! None of your flabby city abortions; but a flesh-and-blood baby – a baby to make one’s mouth water – ay, and eyes, too! Such a baby as might have been born in the Garden of Eden, had the serpent never crept in; born of parents fed on strawberries and pomegranates – pure in soul, pure in body, and healthy and vigorous as purity alone can be.
Such a baby! such eyes – such a skin – such bewildering lips – such a heaven-born smile; my eyes overflowed as I looked at it. I was not worthy to hold that baby, but my heart yearned for it, and I held out my hands invitingly.
See! the little trusting thing leaps from its father’s arms and sits smiling on my knee. Ah! little baby, turn away those soft blue eyes from mine; is it not enough that my soul is on its knees to you? Is it not enough, that for every bitter word wrung from my tortured soul by wrong and suffering, I could cry: “God be merciful to me a sinner?”
And yet, little baby, I was once like thee. Like thee, I stretched out the trusting hand to those who – ah, little baby – I am not like thee now; yet stay with me, and perhaps I shall be. Jesus “took a little child and set him in the midst.” Take hold of my hand, and lead me to heaven.
Going? then God be with thee, as surely as he has been with me, in thy pure presence. I shall see thee again, little baby, if I heed thy teachings; thou hast done thy silent mission.
FANNY FORD
CHAPTER I
It was a mad freak of dame Nature to fashion Mary Ford after so dainty a model, and then open her blue eyes in a tumble-down house in Peck-lane. But Mary cares little for that. Fortune has given her wheel a whirl since then, and Jacob Ford is now on the top. Mary sees the young and the old, the grave and the gay, the wise and the ignorant, smile on her sweet face; as she passes, men murmur “beautiful,” and women pick flaws in her face and figure. She can not sleep for serenades, and her little room is perfumed, from May to January, with the rarest of hot-house flowers. Lovers, too, come wooing by the score. And yet, Mary is no coquette; no more than the sweet flower, which nods, and sways, and sends forth its perfume for very joy that it blossoms in the bright sunshine, all unconscious how it tempts the passer-by to pluck it for his own wearing. A queenly girl was the tailor’s daughter, with her Juno-like figure, her small, well-shaped head, poised so daintily on the fair white throat; with her large blue eyes, by turns brilliant as the lightning’s flash, then soft as a moonbeam; with her pretty mouth, and the dimple which lay perdu in the corner, with the flossy waves of her dark brown hair; with her soft, white hands, and twinkling little feet; with her winsome smile, and floating grace of motion.
Percy Lee was conquered. Percy – who had withstood blue eyes and black, gray eyes and hazel. Percy – for whom many a fair girl had smiled and pouted in vain. Percy the bookworm. Percy – handsome as Apollo, cold as Mont Blanc. Percy Lee was fettered at last, and right merrily did mischievous Cupid forge, one by one, his chains for the stoic. No poor fish ever so writhed and twisted on the hook, till the little word was whispered which made him in lover’s parlance, “the happiest of men.”
Of course, distanced competitors wondered what Mary Ford could see to admire in that book-worm of a Percy. Of course, managing mammas, with marriageable daughters, were shocked that Miss Ford should have angled for him so transparently; and the young ladies themselves marveled that the aristocratic Percy should fancy a tailor’s daughter; of course the lovers, in the seventh heaven of their felicity, could afford to let them think and say what they pleased.
The torpid sexagenarian, or frigid egotist, may sneer; but how beautiful is this measureless first love, before distrust has chilled, or selfishness blighted, or the scorching sun of worldliness evaporated the heart’s dew; when we trust with childhood’s sweet faith, because we love; when care and sorrow are undiscernible shapes in the distance; when at every footstep we ring the chime of joy from out the flowers. What can earth offer after this sparkling draught has been quaffed? How stale its after spiritless effervescences!
Percy’s love for Mary was all the more pure and intense, that he had hitherto kept his heart free from youthful entanglements. Fastidious and refined to a degree, perhaps this with him was as much a matter of necessity as of choice. In Mary both his heart and taste were satisfied; true, he sometimes wondered how so delicate and dainty a flower should have blossomed from out so rude a soil; for her father’s money could neither obliterate nor gild over the traces of his innate vulgarity; in fact, his love for his daughter was his only redeeming trait – the only common ground upon which the father and lover could meet. The petty accumulation of fortune by the penny, had narrowed and hardened a heart originally good and unselfish; the love of gold for its own sake had swallowed up every other thought and feeling. Like many persons of humble origin, whose intellects have not expanded with their coffers, Jacob Ford overrated the accident of birth and position, and hence was well pleased with Mary’s projected alliance with Percy.
“Well, to be sure, Lucy, beauty is a great thing for a girl,” he one day said to his wife. “I did not dream of this when Mary used to climb up on the counter of my little dark shop in Peck-lane, and sit playing with the goose and shears.”
“Nor I,” replied Lucy, as she looked around their handsome apartment, with a satisfied smile; “nor I, Jacob, when, after paying me one Saturday night for my week’s work, you said, ‘Lucy, you can be mistress of this shop if you like.’ I was so proud and happy: for, indeed, it was lonesome enough, Jacob, stitching in that gloomy old garret I often used to think how dreadful it would be to be sick and die there alone, as poor Hetty Carr did. It was a pity, Jacob, you did not pay her more, and she so weakly, too. Often she would sit up all night, sewing, with that dreadful cough racking her.”
“Tut – tut – wife,” said Jacob; “she was not much of a seamstress; you always had a soft heart, Lucy, and were easily imposed upon by a whining story.”
“It was too true, Jacob; and she had been dead a whole day before any one found it out; then, as she had no friends, she was buried at the expense of the city, and the coffin they brought was too short for her, and they crowded her poor thin limbs into it, and carried her away in the poor’s hearse. Sometimes, Jacob, I get very gloomy when I think of this, and look upon our own beautiful darling; and, sometimes, Jacob – you won’t be angry with me?” asked the good woman, coaxingly, as she laid her hand upon his arm – “sometimes I’ve thought our money would never do us any good.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Jacob, impatiently shaking off his wife’s hand; “pshaw, Lucy, you are like all other women, weak and superstitious. A man must look out for number one. Small profits a body would make to conduct business on your principles. Grab all you can, keep all you get, is every body’s motto; why should I set up to be wiser than my neighbors?”
Lucy Ford sighed. A wife is very apt to be convinced by her husband’s reasoning, if she loves him; and perhaps Lucy might have been, had she not herself known what it was to sit stitching day after day in her garret, till her young brain reeled, and her heart grew faint and sick, or lain in her little bed, too weary even to sleep, listening to the dull rain as it pattered on the skylight, and wishing she were dead.
A pressure of soft lips upon her forehead, and a merry laugh, musical as the ringing of silver bells, roused Lucy from her reverie.
“Good-by – mother dear,” said Mary; “I could not go to ride with Percy without a kiss from you. Come to the window – look! Are not those pretty horses of Percy’s? They skim the ground like birds! And see what a pretty carriage! Now acknowledge that my lover’s taste is perfect.”
“Yes – when he chose you,” said Jacob, gazing admiringly on Mary’s bright face and graceful form. “You would grace a court, Mary, if you are old Jacob Ford’s daughter.”
Mary threw her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissed his bronze cheek. To her the name of father was another name for love; nurtured in this kindly atmosphere, she could as little comprehend how a child could cease to worship a parent, as she could comprehend how a parent, when his child asked for bread, should mock his misery with a stone. Unspoiled by the world’s flatteries, she had not learned to undervalue her doting father’s love, that it was expressed in ungrammatical phrase; she had not yet learned to blush at any old-fashioned breach of etiquette (on his part), in the presence of her fastidious young friends; and by her marked deference to her parents in their presence, she in a measure exacted the same from them. It was one of the loveliest traits in Mary’s character, and one for which Percy, who appreciated her refinement, loved and respected her the more.
“Have your fortune told, lady?” asked a withered old woman, of Mary, as she tripped down the steps to join Percy.
“Of course,” said the laughing girl: “suppose you tell me whom I am to marry,” with a gay glance at Percy; and she ungloved her small white hand, while the dame’s withered fingers traced its delicate lines.
“Retribution is written here,” said the old woman, solemnly; “your sun will set early, fair girl.”
“Come away, Mary,” said Percy, with a frown, shaking his whip at the woman, “the old thing is becrazed.”
“Time will show,” muttered the beldame, pocketing the coin with which Mary had crossed her hand; “time will show; brighter eyes than yours, fair lady, have wept themselves dim.”
“What can she mean?” said Mary, drawing involuntarily close to the side of her lover. “I almost wish we had not seen her.”
The spirits of youth are elastic. The April cloud soon passed from Mary’s brow, and before the fleet horses had skimmed a mile, her laugh rang out as merrily as ever.
The lovers had both a trained eye for natural beauty, and the lovely road through which they passed, with its brown houses half hidden in foliage – the lazy grazing cattle – the scent of new-mown hay and breath of flowers – the rude song of the plowman and the delicate twitter of the bird – the far-off hills, with their tall trees distinctly defined against the clear blue sky – the silver stream and velvet meadows – the wind’s wild anthem, now swelling as if in full chorus, then soft and sweet as the murmur of a sleeping babe, all filled their hearts with a quiet joy.
“Life is very sweet,” said Mary, turning her lustrous eyes upon her lover. “People say that happiness and prosperity harden the heart; when I am most blest I feel most devotional. In vain might the infidel tell me ‘there is no God,’ with such a scene as this before me, or fetter my grateful heart-pulses as they adored the Giver.”
“You dear little saint,” said Percy, with a light laugh, “how well you preach. Well – my mother was neck-deep in religion; the prayers and hymns she taught me, stay by me now, whether I will or no. I often catch myself saying ‘Now I lay me,’ when I go to bed, from the mere force of habit; but your rosy lips were never made to mumble pater nosters, Mary: leave that to crafty priests, and disappointed nuns. Religion, my pet, is another name for humbug, all the world over; your would-be-saint always cheats in proportion to the length of his face and his prayers. Bah! don’t let us talk of it.”
“Don’t – dear Percy,” said Mary. “I like you less well when you talk so; religion is the only sure basis of character. Every superstructure not built on this foundation – ”
“Must topple over, I suppose,” said Percy. “Don’t you believe it, my angel. I am a living example to the contrary; but Cupid knows I would subscribe to any article of faith emanating from your rosy lips;” and Percy drew rein at the door of his father-in-law’s mansion, and leaping out, assisted Mary to alight.
“Such a lovely drive as we have had, dear mother,” said Mary, throwing her hat upon the table. “Percy has just gone off with a client on business; he will be back presently. Dear Percy! he’s just the best fellow in the world – a little lax on religious points, but he loves me well enough to be influenced there. Now I will sit down at this window while I sew, and then I shall see Percy when he comes up the street.”
Nimbly her fingers moved; her merry song keeping time the while. Now a blush flitting over her cheek, then a smile dimpling it. She was thinking of their beautiful home that was to be, and how like a fairy dream her life would pass, with that deep, rich voice lingering ever in her ear; cares, if they came, lightened by each other’s presence, or turned to joys by mutual sympathy. And then, she was so proud of him; A woman’s love is so deepened by that thought.
God pity her, who, with a great soul, indissolubly bound, must walk ever backward with a mantle (alas! all too transparent), to cover her husband’s mental nakedness!
