Transcriber's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.

On page [136], "othewise" should possibly be "otherwise".

On page [165], unclosed parenthesis should possibly be closed after "clamorous for supper".

THE
LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN.

"Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice."

Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON, NO. 306 CHESTNUT STREET,
GIRARD BUILDINGS, ABOVE THIRD.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year One Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-five, by H. LONG & BROTHER, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York

PREFACE.

In preparing for the press "The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern," we have given to the reader a statement of the most prominent incidents in her eventful career, which is authenticated, not only by the testimony of her nearest relatives, but by communications from her own lips. The lives of distinguished men or women have always been accounted public property, and, in narrating that of Fanny Fern, we have confined ourselves to simple facts, leaving the fancy-pictures to be filled up by others.

In giving selections from her "Beauties," we present the reader with a bouquet of "Ferns," all freshly gathered. In so doing, we have infringed on no one's copy-right; the sketches having been copied, in every instance, from the papers to which they were originally contributed. A large proportion of them have never before appeared within the covers of a book. These latter are the very articles upon which Fanny made her reputation. We have given quotations which do justice to every variety of her versatile style. One page flashes with the keen edge of satire, another brims over with mirth, and a third is tearful with pathos.

We have shown Fanny at home, on the street, and in church, and have thus furnished a key which will unlock many of the mysteries of "Ruth Hall," and "Fern Leaves."

CONTENTS.

LIFE AND BEAUTIES
OF
FANNY FERN

I.
GENIUS IN PANTALETTES.

Saral Payson Willis, the subject of this sketch, was born in Portland, Maine, July 9th, 1811. Through the negligence, doubtless, of the clerk of the town, it is not recorded that the sun stood still on the eventful morning, but old housewives tell a legend of the cocks' crowing with extraordinary shrillness in honor of this wonderful advent. She is the daughter of Mr. Nathaniel Willis, one of the most industrious and respectable citizens of Boston, now a man well advanced in years. It is scarcely necessary to add that she is sister to Mr. N. P. Willis, the brilliant essayist and poet.

Mr. Willis, senior, "commenced life" as a mechanic, and at the time of his marriage worked at the case as a journeyman printer. He afterwards published the Eastern Argus, in Portland. Meeting with reverses in that city, he removed to Boston, where he established, and for many years edited, the "Recorder," the oldest religious paper in New-England.

Mr. Willis has met with a similar experience to that of most men in his calling. He never made a fortune at publishing. At the present time, although aged and infirm, he finds it necessary to devote his failing energies to the publication of the "Youth's Companion." Yet, notwithstanding his narrow means, Mr. Willis contrived—at how great a sacrifice only parents can guess, to give his sons and daughters that education which is a poor man's noblest legacy.

II.
FANNY AT SCHOOL.

In accordance with the course he had wisely planned for his children, Sarah Willis—the veritable "Fanny"—was favored with an early introduction into the seminary of Miss Catherine E. Beecher, in Hartford, Conn. At this well-conducted establishment—the most popular in the country, at that time—Miss Fanny received her first strong impressions of life and the world. We have never heard her spoken of as a very apt or studious pupil. Staid works of philosophy and learning were not much to her taste. But from the prohibited pages of romances and poems, eagerly devoured in secret, her craving genius derived an active stimulus. Already she had become a keen dissector of the human heart, and she found plenty of pleasant practice for the scalpel of her wit among the young ladies of the school. Here, too, the novel and startling experiences of boarding-school flirtation gave their warm coloring to her future life. Fanny possessed a large capacity for this description of knowledge, and her writings show a better memory for those more pleasant branches of female education, than for the dry rules of syntax and prosody. In fact, the best of her sketches are transcripts of her school-girl life—for Fanny writes well only when giving the concentrated vinegar and spice of her own vivid experiences.

A sketch of Fanny's, entitled "A Leaf from my Experience," referring to her school-life, may, perhaps, form the best embodiment of the earlier portion of her school-history.

"Miss Jemima Keturah Rix was at the head of a flourishing school for very young ladies and gentlemen. She originated in the blue state of Connecticut, where the hens, from principle, refrain from laying eggs on Sunday, and the yeast stops working for the same reason. She had very little opinion of her own sex, and none at all of the other. Her means were uncommonly limited, yet 'she was too much of a gentlewoman to keep school, had it not been for her strong desire to reform the rising generation.'

"In person, she was tall and spare, with small, snapping black eyes, and thin, compressed lips, telling strongly of her vixenish propensities. She could repeat the Ten Commandments and Assembly's Catechism backwards, without missing a word; and was a firm believer in total depravity and the eternal destruction of little dead babies.

"She had the usual variety of temper and disposition, generally found in a school, and a way of her own of getting along with them. She would catch a refractory pupil with one hand by the shoulder, and press the thumb with such force into the hollow of the arm, that the poor victim was ready to subscribe to any articles of faith or practice she might see fit to draw up; and who of us will soon forget that old brass thimble, mounted on her skinny forefinger, as it came snapping against our foreheads?

"Being considered an untamable witch at home, I had the ill luck to be sent to this little initiatory purgatory. This was unfortunate, as Miss Rix and I looked at life through very different pairs of spectacles. The first great grief I can remember, was when I was about as tall as a rosebush,—nearly breaking my heart, because a little boy threw away one of my ringlets, that I cut off for his especial keeping. In fact, I may as well own it, I was born a coquette; and the lynx eyes of Miss Rix had already discovered it.

"She always made a chalk line on the floor between the girls and boys, that neither were allowed to cross without a special permit. Being aware of this, I had been in the habit of making certain telegraphic communications with a little lover of mine, in jacket and trowsers, on the other side of chalk-dom.

"Little dreaming of the storm that was brewing, I sat watching her one morning, as she slowly drew from her pocket a long piece of cord, and tested its strength. Raising her sharp cracked voice to its most crucifying pitch, she called,

"'Miss Minnie May and Mr. Harry Hall step out upon the floor.' Of course, we didn't do anything else, when, turning us back to back, she silently proceeded to tie our elbows together with the cord, remarking, with a satanic grin, as she sat down, that 'we seemed to be so fond of each other, it was a pity to keep us apart.'

"Now this was a very cutting thing to me, in more ways than one, as Harry's jacket sleeves protected his arms, while my little fat elbows were getting redder every minute from the twitches he made to extricate himself; for, like some bigger boys, he was very willing to be a fair-weather lover, but couldn't face a storm. I've never forgiven him for it, (true to my woman nature,) and though I often meet him now, (he is a thriving physician with an extensive practice;) and he looks so roguishly from out those saucy black eyes, as much as to say, 'I wouldn't mind being tied to you now, Minnie,' I give him a perfect freezer of a look and 'pass by on the other side.'

"I understand that Miss Rix has rested from her labors and gone to her reward. I wish no better satisfaction than that she may get it!"

III.
THE NEW NAME.

Fanny's career as a young lady seems to have been very lively. She recalls many amusing reminiscences of early flirtations. Among others, she led away captive the heart of a certain Unitarian clergyman, the son of a wealthy family. As she affirms, however, "papa" concluded that he had learned the Westminster Catechism to so little purpose as to be no safe partner for his orthodox daughter. But, like a large spare chamber, swept and garnished, her affections had plenty of room for a new occupant.

There were breezy walks on the common, mysterious whisperings over skeins of thread with handsome clerks, until at length the conquering hero came. Like a sun-flower in the beams of morning, her heart expanded at the warm suit of her favored lover.

May 4th, 1837, at a period of well-matured womanhood, Sarah Willis became Sarah Eldredge. The fortunate husband of the yet undeveloped genius, was an only child—the son of the late Dr. Eldredge, a highly esteemed physician, in the neighborhood of Boston. Her first child died at the age of three years, but two remaining daughters, the fruit of this union, now reside with their mother in New York. One is about ten, and the other we should judge from her appearance to be some fifteen years of age.

Mr. Eldredge enjoyed a handsome income from his services as cashier of the Merchant's Bank, the largest institution of the kind in Boston. Now we esteem the domestic virtues of economy and prudence; but a penurious mode of life is not so readily pardoned as the opposite extreme of lavish expenditure; and the devoted husband of so spirited a young wife may certainly be excused for "living" to the extent of his means. But, as Othello very properly observes, "Who can control his fate?" Had the young banker been as wise as he was generous and indulgent, he would have looked forward through the long, bright vista of the present, to that proverbial "rainy day," liable at any time to befall. In the prime of manhood, October 6th, 1846, he was cut off by a sharp, quick stroke from Death's remorseless hand; and the wife and mother, awaking suddenly from her gay dreams, saw affliction and widowhood descend upon her like a pall.

IV.
THE HUSBAND'S DEATH.

Throughout the whole course of Fanny's writings we are presented with frequent and most pleasing pictures of her own self. Not only does she figure as the graceful heroine of "Ruth Hall," but all her sketches have a connection more or less remote with the events of her own life. The following sketch, as we are assured, is a description of the death of her husband, though it contains one of the customary portraitures of Fanny herself.

"The Young Wife's Affliction.—A delightful summer we passed, to be sure, at the —— Hotel, in the quiet village of S——. A collection of prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants, and loose neck-ties; their wives, equally independent till their return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wildwood.

"There were no separate 'cliques' or 'sets;' nobody knew, or inquired, or cared, whether your great grandfather had his horse shod, or shoed horses for other people. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their fingers, or their reputation, if they washed their own children's faces; and didn't consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband's waistband, or mended a ragged frock.

"Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girding a fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated in the cool of the evening on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty, heated city. It was delightful to see their business faces brighten up, as each fair wife came forward and relieved them from the little parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated foreheads. A cold bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at the supper table, where merry jokes flew round, and city news was discussed between the fragrant cups of tea, and each man fell in love with his pretty wife over again, (or his neighbor's, if he liked!)

"It was one harmonious, happy family! Mrs. —— and her husband were the prime ministers of fun and frolic in the establishment. It was she who concocted all the games, and charades, and riddles, that sent our merry shouts ringing far and wide, as we sat in the evening on the long moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the picnics and sails, and drives in the old hay-cart; the berry parties, and romps on the green; and the little cosy suppers in the back parlor just before bed time (that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the fussy old landlord.) It was she who salted our coffee and sugared our toast; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses; it was she who sewed up pockets in overcoats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends in water; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house; it was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps, for unskilful mothers; it was she who was here and there, and every where, the embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness; and as she flew past her handsome husband, (with her finger on her lip,) bent upon some new prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, more eloquent than words.

"He was the handsomest man I ever saw—tall, commanding and elegant, with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering white teeth, and a form like Apollo's. Mary was so proud of him! She would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected as she read its language. He was just the man to appreciate her—to understand her sensitive, enthusiastic nature; to know when to check, when to encourage; and it needed but a word, a look; for her whole soul went out to him.

"And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of breaking up our happy circle; but ah! there came one, with stealthy steps, who had no such scruples!

"The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above, lies Mary's princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears that never fall; day and night without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil; while (unconscious of her presence,) in tones that pierce her heart, he calls unceasingly for 'my wife!' She puts back the tangled masses of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, 'to procure a nurse.' She fears not to be alone with him when he is raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the impress of an (almost) deadly blow from the hand that was never before raised but to bless her. And now the physician, who has come once, twice, thrice a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in the hall that his patient must die; not one dare break the news to the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no questions, but she knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no persuasion can draw her from the bedside.

"The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling form, and says, 'My child, you cannot meet the next hour—leave him with me.'

"A mournful shake of the head is his only answer, as she takes her seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low, upon that clammy hand; praying God that she may die with him.

"An hour of TIME—an ETERNITY of agony has passed! A fainting, unresisting form is borne from that chamber of Death.

"Beautiful as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!—no trace of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lie upon the marble cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, cluster profusely round the noble forehead; those chiseled lips are gloriously beautiful in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. Oh that bitter, BITTER waking! (for she does wake. God pity her!)

"Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead; she remembers! she is a widow!! She looks about the room—there is his hat, his coat, his cane; and now, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says, betwixt a tear and a smile, 'Now God be praised—SHE WEEPS!'

"And so with the falling leaves of Autumn, 'the Great Reaper' gathered in our noble friend. Why should I dwell on the agony of the gentle wife? or tell of her return to her desolate home in the city; of the disposal of the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its walls by the refined taste of its proprietor; of the NECESSARY disposal of every article of luxury; of her removal to plain lodgings, where curious people speculated upon her history, and marked her moistened eyes; of the long, interminable, wretched days; of the wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet, fatherless child of her love; of her untiring efforts to seek an honorable, independent support? It is but an every-day history, but (God knows) its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt by the sufferer!"

V.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.

Fortunately for the subject of our sketch, her father, though poor, as we have said, hastened to make what provision he could afford for the comfort of the broken family. Nor did Dr. Eldredge turn a deaf ear, or pass by on the other side. Some bitter thoughts were doubtless occasioned, by the remembrance of the luxuries of which she had been so suddenly bereft; it was hard to sink like a star behind the hills of adversity—to pass suddenly from a gay and splendid career into the obscurity of a more common-place and quiet life; and we can excuse the sensitive Fanny for some unreasonable complaints; but, thanks to her own and her husband's father, she had the consolation and treasure of a home—a home, which, however modest, was in every respect comfortable, and not altogether inelegant.

Sarah Eldredge was now in the full flush and vigor of womanhood—and a widow! It is a wise provision of nature which ordains that the most deeply wounded heart shall not always bleed. Hope springs from the ashes of grief. Time buries the dead past, and lifts the curtain from the glowing future. Night comes, that another morning, with all its glory and freshness, may dawn upon the earth. Why then waste the energies of youth in mourning over graves? They will not give up their dead; already the spirit of the lost one looks down upon us from blissful spheres, and says, "Be happy!" to our sorrowing hearts. Such a voice came to the young widow. She called reason and faith to her aid. She saw herself still blooming and attractive; the same inviting world lay all around her; she longed for sympathy, for change, for life. Her first matrimonial venture had proved a happy one; and the memory thereof prompted her to risk another voyage on Wedlock's perilous sea. Thus it might have been the very power of love that bound her to her first husband which threw open the welcoming doors to the advances of a new suitor.

Mr. Farrington, a merchant of Boston—a man of energy and upright character—made an offer of his hand. He had himself enjoyed matrimonial experience—was himself a parent—and was well qualified to sympathize with the young widow. They sought mutual consolation in marriage. But scarce was the honeymoon over, when that mutual consolation was followed by mutual surprise. Fanny learned to her sorrow that all husbands are not equally fond and indulgent; and the bridegroom discovered that Mrs. F. No. 2 wasn't the exact counterpart of Mrs. F. No. 1. The contrast was, in fact, so vast and amazing, that it seemed to require solitude and quiet, to consider it in all its bearings. Accordingly, Mr. Farrington resorted to travel and a change of scene; journeyed westward; and has not since been seen on the down-east slope of the continent. The slender tie of affection between the happy pair, thus long drawn out, like a thread of India rubber, finally snapped.

At the time of his departure, Fanny was boarding with her children at the Marlboro' Hotel in Boston. Soon after, however, she removed to quiet but pleasant lodgings in another quarter of the city.

Mr. Farrington took up his abode in Chicago, and soon after Fanny was connubially advertised in the columns of the Boston Daily Bee. Then, from the auction mart of a western court, Mr. F. gave out three warnings; cried—"Going!—going!!—gone!!!" and legally knocked down his wife with the hammer of divorce.

Once more separated from her husband, the dashing Fanny wore no mourning weeds. Her lively circle of acquaintances found her fireside no less attractive than formerly. Once more a widow she had learned to wear gracefully her honors.

VI.
FANNY FERN AT HOME.

Fanny Fern's writings are expressive of her character. But, if possible, she is twice as original, spicy, and entertaining, in her person as in her sketches. To understand her perfectly, one should see her and talk with her; and to see her and talk with her to advantage, one should meet her on terms of chatty familiarity in her own private apartments.

Fanny's home in Boston is well remembered by her favored acquaintances. Introduced into her unique parlor, the visitor found himself surrounded by pleasing evidences of luxury and taste, characterizing its occupant as a woman of elegant leisure. A subdued, monastic light, pervading the apartment, never failed to add its charm to the visit. Convenient shutters, and heavy folds of curtains robbed the saucy daylight of its too garish beams, and by night, in the still and quiet hours, a rich shade surrounded the glowing globe of the astral, tempering its lustre to a soft, mellow effulgence.

Fanny—as we have hinted—is just like her sketches, only "more so." Bubbles and flashes might be gathered from her conversation, that would eclipse anything she ever wrote. To have her sit by your side one hour, and——sparkle, (talk don't express the idea,) is worth all the Fern Leaves and Ruth Halls in the world. Witty and pathetic by turns; now running over with fun, and now with tears; always sprightly, always plain and terse in her language, she is sure to entertain you for one hour at least, as no other woman can. She will entertain you another hour, some time, if you choose. But the probability is, you don't choose. Such women don't wear well. Their conversations are like "Fern Leaves"—brilliant enough at first, but presently wearisome, and insipid. Consequently they have a great many short acquaintances, but no long ones. Their friends are not fast friends. We doubt if Fanny ever enjoyed an enthusiastic friendship which lasted more than a couple of years.

Fanny's words are the least of her fascinations. Her manner is that of a consummate actress. And it is not long before you discover that she is little else than an actress. Her tears are regular stage tears. If she desires to excite your sympathy, she knows better than anybody else, how to do it. She'll improvise a "Ruth Hall" story for you, inventing wrongs and sufferings to fit the occasion, and drop a few ready tears, like hot wax, to seal her testimony,—sometimes sobbing a little, and pressing your hand convulsively, to heighten the effect.

Oh, she can be fascinating as Cleopatra. She knows how to thrill you with an unexpected touch. Then her voice, how artistically tender its modulations, how musically mirthful, how musically sad by turns! Oh, Fanny is a great woman! She should go upon the stage, or institute a new "school of art and design" for the fair sex.

Fanny has an off-hand, dashing way of entertaining company, which we have never seen surpassed. If you are so fortunate as to be a favored visitor, and to find her alone, you may make sure of her, for at least one evening. No matter who calls; the haughty Mr. A., the foppish B., the jealous and frowning C., are all neglected for your sake. "Sit still," says Fanny, "and they'll have sense enough to see they are not wanted, and withdraw." Accordingly, in a little while, out goes A., very stiffly. Then B. retires, bowing snobbishly, and making insipid remarks about the weather. Finally comes poor C.'s gruff and lowering "good evening." And Fanny, clapping her hands, and laughing merrily, rejoins you upon the sofa, after shutting the door upon her last visitor—and whispering a consoling word in his ear, behind your back. Oh, matchless, diplomatic Fanny!

Of course the polite Fanny does the agreeable in introducing you to her friends. But she entertains odd ideas about names. Sometimes you are ready to explode in convulsions of mirth, at the delightfully careless manner in which she bestows upon you some comic patronymic, never before heard of in your family history. To-night you are Mr. Pilridge. Last night you figured as Smith. To-morrow you'll be Jenkins or Jones.

Fanny is consistent, and invents names for all her visitors. You are no exception. Mr. White is introduced to you as Mr. Brown. (Why, indeed, shouldn't a lady take the same liberty with her friends' names as with her own complexion, and just change the color a trifle?) Mr. Webb becomes Mr. Wing—a mere difference of a pinion. Mr. Rose is transformed into Mr. Minks,—probably on the principle that a rose by any other name will smell as sweet. In the same way a Walker is dignified as a Ryder; Dix is expanded into Richards; Rich becomes Poore, and French is translated into English.

Now mistakes will happen in the best regulated families. Some funny ones occur in Fanny's. 'Tisn't so easy a thing to remember all her names. Accordingly, forgetting that you are called Johnson, for this evening, you gravely address Mr. Howard by that name. That gentleman replies, with a knowing smile, that Johnson is your name—you laugh, Fanny laughs, and it passes as a good joke. Or, perhaps, the other visitor has also become slightly confused, and readily subscribing to Johnson, bestows Howard upon you, by way of exchange. Or, while passing for Smith, you meet some one who knew you last week as Pilridge.

Another pleasant incident is liable to occur. By a coincidence, you meet at Fanny's some friend whom you astonish into silence. You are similarly astonished; and observing no signs of recognition, Fanny proceeds to introduce you. You can scarcely contain yourself on hearing familiar Bob Peters dubbed as General Budington; and he looks hugely tickled at your appellation of Rev. Mr. Bird.

One additional circumstance we should not fail to state. You never meet a lady visitor at Fanny's. There appears to be but little affinity between her and her own sex. "Cause unknown," as coroners' verdicts say of "poor deaths" that occur through neglect of the city authorities.

VII.
EARLY LITERARY EFFORTS.

Fanny first appeared before the public, in the columns of the Olive Branch, sometimes as "Fanny Fern," and in several instances as "Olivia Branch." We knew, personally, the good old man, "frosty, yet kindly," who at that time filled the editorial chair of that paper. We remember distinctly his own account of some of their frequent interviews. Like most others who viewed Fanny through the enchanted medium of a not too intimate acquaintance, he was, in some sense, dazzled by her fascinations. Fanny is a regular meteor. You cannot choose but look at her, even if you don't place much faith in a light so erratic and fitful. The bewildered old gentleman felt the touch of those magnetic little fingers upon his shoulder, and looked up, over his spectacles, in absolute bewilderment, at the thing of smiles and tears standing before him.

No wonder that he thought the sensitive, impulsive Fanny must be faultless, and sympathized profoundly in her execrations on hard-hearted parents and tyrannical husbands. No wonder, if defended by such lips, the worse appeared the better reason—and the price per column dwindled into comparative insignificance. Mr. Norris was Fanny's faithful friend. Already tottering toward the grave, he was not, indeed, able to render her as much actual service as the younger and more vigorous editor of The True Flag, who was, next to Mr. N., her earliest patron, but the proprietor of the Olive Branch gave her employment, friendship and counsel, which should have secured in return, at least gratitude.

As we have intimated, Fanny had contributed but few articles to the Olive Branch, before forming an engagement with the Boston True Flag, and our next chapter will be devoted to a graphic description of her connection with that paper, by its editor.

VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG.

Scene, True Flag Office, Morning.—Industrious Editor at his desk.—Enter dapper young gentleman, bowing.—Editor, with a pen over each ear and one in his fingers, looks up, nodding politely.

Young Gent.—Are you in want of contributions to your paper?

Ed.—We are always glad to get good original articles, sir. Please take a seat.

Y. G.—Thank you, sir. (Sits down in a Flag-bottomed chair—we mean, a chair with a pile of True Flags in it.) I am not a writer myself, but I have a lady friend, who, although inexperienced, manifests a good deal of literary talent, and would like to try her hand at an article or two for your paper. She belongs to a distinguished literary family; her father is an editor, and she has a brother who is also an editor, and the author of several of the most popular books ever published in this country.

Ed.—Very well; we should be pleased to see a specimen of what she can do. (Y. G. withdraws.)

Such was substantially the manner in which the yet unknown authoress, destined soon to become so celebrated, was first introduced to our notice. We should not, however, fail to state, in this connection, that already Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch, had communicated to a member of our firm the fact, that a sister of Mr. N. P. Willis had applied to him for employment, and that he had recommended the True Flag as an additional source of income. Therefore, without the calling of names, we were prepared to make a shrewd guess at the identity of the young gent's lady friend.

According to agreement, a couple of fragrant Ferns were plucked in due season, (no pun on the word due,) and sent to our office. We found the leaves a little coarse in fibre, but spicy, and acceptable. Fanny wrote upon a big foolscap page, in a large, open, very masculine hand. The manuscript was characteristic—decidedly Ferny—dashed all over with astonishing capitals and crazy italics—and stuck full with staggering exclamation points, as a pin-cushion with pins. In print, the italics were intended to resemble jolly words leaning over and tumbling down with laughter, and the interjections were supposed to be tottering under the two-fold weight of double-entendres and puns. At first sight, the writing looked as though it might have been paced off by trained canary-birds—driven first through puddles of ink, then marched into hieroglyphic drill on the sheet like a militia company on parade. All Fanny's manuscripts demanded a good deal of editorial care to prepare them for the press; her first productions, particularly, requiring as thorough weeding as so many beds of juvenile beets and carrots.

Fanny's price—we mean the price of her articles—was two dollars a column. This was readily acceded to; and the young gent received the money for her first contributions—eight dollars for four columns—the morning after their delivery into our hands. In this place, it would be inexcusable not to speak of another characteristic of the Fern manuscripts. When purchased, paid for, properly pruned and prepared for the printer's hands, they were invariably found to fall short of the stipulated amount of reading matter—one of her spread-eagle pages nestling very quietly and nicely into a few lines of print. So trifling a circumstance, however, was not, of course, to be considered, in dealing with a lady.

Another Scene. True Flag Office, ten o'clock, A. M. Editor at his desk, with pens as before, and an additional pencil in his hair.—Enter jaunty bonnet, with gay feathers, elegant veil, rich broadcloth cloak, and silk dress—rather magnificent, if not more so. Editor hastens to place a chair.

Jaunty Bonnet, (in a low, half-whisper, under the veil)—Excuse me—I'm a little out of breath, running up stairs. I've brought Mr. Snooks to introduce me.

Mr. Snooks turned out to be a Fern manuscript. The jaunty bonnet carried him in an elegant reticule, in close proximity to a coquettish hankerchief, redolent of perfume. The jaunty bonnet turned out to be—Fanny herself! Mr. Snooks was for sale, and we bought him. Price, two dollars a column—cheap enough for Snooks. We afterwards dotted his i's, dressed him up a little, changed his name—Snooks was a bad name—and printed him.

This was our first interview with the witty and brilliant Fanny. Certainly, we did not judge that so gay and fashionable an attire had that morning issued from a dismal garret, in a dark and narrow lane—that those well-rounded proportions drew their sole subsistence from the "homœopathic broth" of niggardly landladies. Indeed, no starving necessity had compelled her to resort to the pen. With a true woman's spirit, she believed she could do something for herself, and determined to try. We liked her articles—she liked our pay—so we engaged her as a regular contributor. We suggested that she should write stories, in addition to her sketches—by which arrangement she might easily earn fifteen dollars a week. She pleaded the necessity of finishing everything she undertook, at one sitting, and her inability to elaborate a long story. Still she desired more employment; at the same time, the too-frequent repetition of "Fanny Fern" in our columns would injure both herself and us; so the matter was compromised by giving her a second nom de plume—that of "Olivia,"—which was attached to a number of her sketches.

Up to this period, Mrs. Farrington had no reputation whatever as a writer, and we purchased her articles for their intrinsic merits only, paying for them what they were actually worth to us. As her reputation increased, and her value as a contributor was heightened, her remuneration was augmented accordingly. Although we paid her five dollars a column,—the columns generally falling short one-third, at that,—we cheerfully gave her her own terms, until, when she demanded twelve dollars a column, we thought we would just take three or four days to scratch our editorial ear, and think about it. In this place, it may be proper to state that, at one time, without giving us any notice whatever, she broke her engagement, and entered into a contract with a New York publisher, by which she was to write exclusively for his paper for one year. The terms offered were liberal, and for her sake, we rejoiced at her good future. But munificent promises do not always lead to rich fulfilment; and it was not long before Mrs. Farrington gladly returned to those in whose service she had always been promptly and handsomely paid.

Fanny's style was novel and sparkling, if not very refined, and her fame sprang up almost in a night-time. Messrs. Derby & Miller, booksellers, of Auburn, N. Y., had the shrewdness to see that a volume of her sketches would be apt to make a stir in the market, and wrote to us for information touching her real name and address. We replied that we were not then at liberty to divulge the name, but that any communications directed to our care would reach her. A correspondence was at once opened, and Mrs. Farrington was offered four hundred dollars for sufficient material for a volume—or, if she preferred, ten cents a copy on every edition printed.

Now four hundred dollars cash, was tempting. It would purchase a rich dress, a dashing shawl, "several pairs of gaiter-boots," and numerous boxes of those sovereign preparations, noted for the qualities that "impart a natural beauty to the complexion." In accordance with our advice, however, (for we foresaw a large sale for the book,) she resolved to risk a little, in the hope that much might be gained, and accept the commission of ten cents a copy. The volume was easily thrown together, being compiled principally from the files of the Olive Branch and the True Flag. It was stereotyped at the New-England Foundry, in this city, and all the proof-sheets passed through our hands.

At this time, Mrs. Farrington and her youngest child, "little Ella," boarded with a respectable family, in the spacious brick dwelling-house, No. 642 Washington-street; her eldest daughter residing with her grandfather Eldredge. Fanny occupied an elegant suite of rooms on the second floor. The parlor was sumptuously furnished; chairs of solid mahogany, covered with velvet—with centre-table, sofa, carpet, &c., of corresponding richness. The numerous visitors had no reason to suspect that all these luxuries were only poverty in disguise. Nor would one readily imagine that the plump Ella and her blooming mother were accustomed to breakfast on shadowy dishes of hope, have the same served up, cold, for dinner, and then go supperless to bed. The landlady had an excellent reputation for liberality and kindness, and looked like anything but the cruel ogress represented in Fanny's writings. The fact is—whatever may be said to the contrary by Fanny and her especial sympathizers,—she was at this time living in a style of luxury and elegance which would have reflected no discredit upon any lady of fashion. There may be some good reason for concealing this suggestive fact, but we cannot discover any.

"Fern Leaves, from Fanny's Portfolio"—the last part of the title originated with ourselves, and was adopted by Fanny—finally made its appearance. She was fortunate in her publishers. Never was book advertised so lavishly. No expense of time, money, or tact, was spared, to create a sensation and great sales. The result is known; Fanny had occasion to thank us for our counsel; her commission amounted to several thousand dollars. Flushed with success, she moved from our sober, puritanic town, to the gay metropolis of New-York. But such reputations are short-lived. "Little Ferns" followed, and met with but a moderate sale. A second series of Leaves was then published—but "oh, what a falling off was there!" The demand for the book was quite limited.

IX.
FANNY FERN IN CHURCH.

During Fanny Fern's residence in Boston she was a regular attendant at the Park-street (Orthodox) church. Undoubtedly this circumstance arose from a strong sentiment of natural affection. Not being on particularly intimate terms with her family, it was without doubt a great pleasure to catch such stray glimpses of their well-known faces as might be obtained under the lofty dome of their favorite church.

It must have been by accident that she strayed away, one Sunday, from the well-beaten Calvinistic path into the new Music Hall, to listen to the eloquence of Theodore Parker. We regret, however, that she labored under a misconception with regard to the character of this church. Meting out justice to all, we must admit that it is the most democratic place of the kind in Boston. Black and white, rich or poor, alike are welcome. The seats are free, in pursuance of the old adage, "first come, first served." Not here, as in too many of our churches, is the Christian gospel, "Son, give me thy heart," perverted by the man with the black velvet bag into "Son, give me thy cash!" The contribution box, that terror to church-goers, is very rarely encountered, the expenses being defrayed by voluntary yearly subscriptions. But Fanny, regardless of these facts, must be held responsible for the sketch which follows:—

"Do you call this a church? Well, I heard a prima dona here a few nights ago; and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to moving fans; and opera-glasses and ogling, and fashion and folly reigned for the nonce triumphant. I can't forget it; I can't get up any devotion here, under these latticed balconies, with their fashionable freight. Now if it was a good old country church, with a cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should feel all right; but my soul is in fetters here; it won't soar—its wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine! Nobody can come in at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut. The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean on his staff in the porch, a long while, before he'd dare venture in, to pick up his crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank God, the unspoken prayer of penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, though our mocking church-spires point only with aristocratic fingers to the rich man's heaven.

"That hymn was beautifully read; there's poetry in the preacher's soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk; now he crosses the platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered. What right has he to know there was a woman in the house? Let the bonnets find their own hymns—'tisn't clerical!

"Well, I take a listening attitude, and try to believe I am in church. I hear a great many original, a great many startling things said. I see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox Calvinistic sentiments which I nursed in, with my mother's milk, and which (please God) I'll cling to till I die. I see the polished blade of satire glittering in the air, followed by curious, eager, youthful eyes, which gladly see the searching 'Sword of the Spirit' parried. Meaning glances—smothered smiles, and approving nods, follow the witty clerical sally. The author pauses to mark the effect, and his face says—That stroke tells! and so it did, for 'the Athenians' are not all dead, who 'love to see and hear some new thing.' But he has another arrow in his quiver. How his features soften—his voice is low and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He speaks of human love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart vibrates; and stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles are chased away.

"Oh, there's intellect there—there's poetry there—there's genius there; but I remember Gethsemane—I forget not Cavalry! I know the 'rocks were rent' and the 'heavens darkened,' and 'the stone rolled away;' and a cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear 'Jesus of Nazareth' lightly mentioned.

"Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish voice they cry, 'Away with Him!'

"'With Mary,' let me 'bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with the hairs of my head.'

"And so, I 'went away sorrowful,' that this human teacher, with such great intellectual possessions, should yet 'lack the one thing needful.'"

X.
FANNY FERN IN BROADWAY.

"Ha! there she comes, Ned!" says Mr. Augustus Smallcane, lounging on the arm of his friend.

"Mag-nif-i-cent!" drawls Mr. Tapwit, putting his glass in his eye. "What a bust!"

"Isn't that a gait, Ned!"

"It's a-door-able!"

Mr. Tapwit chuckled, to let Mr. Smallcane see that a pun was intended. Mr. Smallcane recognized it with an "O, don't now, Ned!"

"Won't we have a splendid sight at her?" exclaimed Mr. Tapwit. "Crowd this way. What a figure!"

"What a foot!" adds Smallcane.

And the gentlemen continue to stare and make remarks while the lady passes.

Does she care? She looks as if she liked it! She is none of your feeble, timid, common-place women. She "goes in" for sensation and effect—which few know so well how to produce.

Fanny Fern—there! we didn't mean to let the secret out; but it is Fanny we mean—is a full, commanding woman. She looks high, steps high, and carries her head high. She has light brown hair, florid complexion, and large, blue eyes. When she appears in company, her color verges upon the rosy. If you talk with her in broad daylight, she has a trick of dropping her veil, to prevent a too close scrutiny of her features. When her veil is up, you can see that she has a luscious cheek, large nose, slightly aquiline, mouth of character, if not of beauty, and a vigorous chin. Fanny isn't handsome, and never was. But she has a splendid form, a charming foot and ankle, a fascinating expression, and the manners of a queen.

Dress and equipage are not the least part of Fanny. She is as dependent upon these as a peacock upon his tail. She wears black because it becomes her better than any other color. A widow of forty—fair—in mourning—how interesting! Her magnificent, sweeping flounces occupy the space of any five ordinary, uninflated females. She moves with a great rustle and swell, majestic.

She is preceded by her eldest daughter, already a young lady, as a sort of armor-bearer. Her youngest child, "Ella," follows sprucely at her heels, like a page. And so, up and down Broadway, sails Fanny Fern, proud, haughty, ambitious, scorned by some, admired by many—loved by few.

XI.
FANNY AT THE TREMONT HOUSE.

Good John Walter is Fanny's man-at-arms. He is the last and most faithful of her servants. She needs some person in that capacity, and shrewdly manages never to be without such a champion. She was fortunate, after many trials, in falling upon so choice an acquisition as John Walter.

Fanny cannot be accused of choosing her champion from any such motive as personal beauty. John isn't alarmingly handsome—not half so beautiful as he is good. Of tall and gaunt figure, with a lean-and-hungry-Cassius look, bran-like eyes, an oyster-like open to his mouth, fiery hair, an incendiary whisker, a windy manner of talking, and a gaseous atmosphere pervading his person generally—oh, no! Fanny couldn't have chosen John for his beauty.

John's championship never shone with more dazzling lustre, than on his visit to Boston, in her train, last summer. He came like the very Napoleon of snobs. Boston was to be taken by storm. "The three-hilled city," said John, "shall bow down at our coming." "John," answered Fanny, "I regard you as a prophet. You are a man of sense. The three hills shall bow down."

They fortified themselves in the Sebastopol of the Tremont House,—that stronghold so formidable to turkey,—and sent forth their proclamations. But, somehow, there was no movement of the three-hilled city. Not a block trembled. Not a brick stirred. Fanny began to chafe. In vain she searched the columns of the daily papers, to find complimentary notices of her arrival. Not a word on the subject. She, who expected a triumph equal to Jenny Lind's, found herself of no more account in the three-hilled city, whose duty it was to bow down, than the wife of John Smith, the joiner, who went on at the same time to hunt up a second cousin.

Meanwhile good John Walter exerted himself. In his windiest manner, he thrust that lank figure of his into every nook and corner, where he hoped to generate a little interest in his famous protégée.

"She's come!" whispered John mysteriously, in the ear of an influential editor.

"Ha!" said the editor, "has she?" and went on with his writing.

"She is at the Tremont House," resumed John, with an air of vast importance, "where she receives her friends. The rush to see her is very great, and we have to resort to every means to keep the multitude at bay. You, of course, would be a privileged one, and I should be happy to introduce you."

"Thank you," said the editor, as he dipped his pen.

"Do you know,"—John began to bluster—"there are vipers in human form, in this city, who have dared to sting that woman's reputation?"

"I know nothing of the kind," replied the editor.

"You ought to know it; and I am authorized to say this: Fanny expects her friends to vindicate her character, and crush these vipers. There is that rascal, Mr. Blank——"

"Mr. Blank is a friend of mine, sir."

"But"—John waxed bombastic—"You cannot be a friend of his and a friend of Fanny Fern's. He said, in his paper, that she has a husband living——"

"Which is true, I believe," remarked the editor, quietly.

"But sir"—here John choked—"she is a woman, and no gentleman will make remarks of the kind about a WOMAN,—a woman, sir, is sacred; and Fanny Fern is one of the noblest of her sex. From your character as an editor and a man, I had every reason to believe that you would not hesitate to espouse her cause——"

"Mr. Walter," interrupted the editor, "your assumption is somewhat astounding, but it has not quite taken away my breath—I have still a modest word to say. I do not see that it is my duty to go and cudgel Mr. Blank, nor do I consider the inducement you hold out, quite sufficient to authorize me to engage in any quarrels except my own. I will not trouble you to introduce me to Miss Fern. I wish you a good morning, sir!"

John varied his manner with different people. To some he was insinuating and smooth; to others, bluff and lowering; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. Nobody would go and whip Mr. Blank; nobody cared much about meeting Fanny Fern. And here let us not be misunderstood. It was no fault of John's, that he did not succeed. He was zealous to the last degree. Still less was it Fanny's fault. She was, as he expressed it, "the noblest of her sex." The truth is,—and to the shame of that city be it spoken,—there was no Don Quixote in Boston! If Boston could have boasted of so much chivalry, Mr. Blank would have been cudgelled, and Fanny avenged.

Having utterly failed to create any kind of a sensation,—having waited in vain to "receive friends" at the Tremont,—it was judged expedient to make a grand sally upon the town. An open barouche was accordingly ordered, and Fanny, richly attired, and attended by noble John Walter, rode ostentatiously through the streets. A kind of sensation was produced,—but not the right kind. People looked, and laughed, and winked. Some said, "Lucky John Walter!" Others, who knew Fanny, said, "Poor John Walter!" Still Fanny was let alone; nobody troubled her; the world turned round, and Boston turned with it, the same; and Mr. Blank remains uncudgelled to this day.

And so Fanny and the redoubtable John made haste to evacuate their Sebastopol, withdrawing their forces quietly, and returned, inglorious, to New York.

XII.
A KEY TO "RUTH HALL."

Fanny Fern's latest literary effort is the production of a novel entitled "Ruth Hall." Much curiosity has been excited in the minds of the public as to the originals of her various portraitures. It will be fully satisfied by the perusal of the following criticism from the pen of an able reviewer.

"Wouldn't I call things by their right names? Would I praise a book because a woman wrote it?"—Ruth Hall, p. 307.

"We have called Fanny Fern a literary star. We should qualify the expression. There is no clear, strong lustre, no steady splendor, no mild, benignant twinkle, to Fanny. She flashed into our sky like a meteor, seemingly larger than Jupiter, and for the moment more ruddy than Venus, more flaming than any planet or fixed star. Or perhaps we should liken her to a rocket—going up with a great rush and whiz, then paling, dying, falling, and finishing up with a loud, angry pop, and a sudden shower of little fiery tadpoles, dropping on the head of her enemies.

"The 'loud, angry pop' came with the publication of her last work, 'Ruth Hall,'—a book that appears to have been exploded in a fit of desperation, to revive the writer's sinking fame, and to revenge herself on her relatives, and everybody she imagines ever injured her. Fortunately, the rockets' fiery droppings are harmless as moonbeams, and there is little but hiss, and whiz, and crack, to its anger;—else some very respectable families had been blown to atoms, and entirely devoured and eaten up forever by the fiery tadpoles.

"How we used to admire Fanny! We never, indeed, saw much to love in her writings, but the snap, and vigor, and originality of her style, was truly refreshing. We could never sufficiently praise these qualities in her early sketches. Her power was partly owing to native genius, partly to the circumstances of her life. She was a full-grown woman when she began to write. The age of feeble sentimentalism was passed. She had seen the world; enjoyed society; known adversity. She had been twice a wife, and twice a mother; had lost one husband by death, and another by—no matter what. In years she was forty; in experience at least a hundred and forty. And all this life and knowledge she had kept bottled up, like old wine. How it sparkled and foamed when the wires were cut and the cork blown out! She poured off those first sketches, bubbling, frothing, effervescing, like prime champagne newly opened. Wine of this quality soon deadens; but Fanny kept pouring out, determined to make up in quantity what was wanting in flavor; and now—in 'Ruth Hall'—she has squeezed the bottle and flung it at the heads of the public.

"Speaking of this queer book, the New York Courier says, 'If the writer ever showed the manuscript to her friends, they acted most cruelly towards her, in not advising her to throw it into the fire.' We think so too. We have never seen so sad a revelation of a woman's heart. There are some flashes of genius in the book, but there are more flashes of that unmentionable fire, supposed to be familiar to wicked souls.

"The principal characters in Ruth Hall bristle all over with iron spikes of selfishness and cruelty. The able critic of the Boston Post declares that 'art would never admit such stony-hearted monsters in a story of real life.' Now, 'Ruth Hall' is understood to be an autobiography. That it was intended as such by the writer, there can be no doubt in the mind of any person who knows her and reads her book. Following this view of the subject, we have, first and foremost among the monsters, Fanny's own father. He is the 'old Ellet' of the story—a man who 'thinks more of one cent than of any child he ever had;' who coldly leaves his daughter and grandchildren to suffer almost the extremes of want and privation; who would not, indeed, throw them a crumb, were it not that, as a church-member, he has a 'Christian reputation to sustain,' and fears public opinion. The caricature is gross and awful. Yet it is not even a caricature. Fanny (Ruth Hall) has daubed the hideous picture of an impossible character, and scrawled beneath it the angry words, 'This is my father! let all the world see and abhor him!' O, Goneril! O, Regan! could woman's hate do more? Oh, dear and sweet revenge upon a parent! because, forsooth, the white-haired old man, who, even now, totters daily up his office stairs to earn a livelihood, possessed too much calm wisdom to impoverish himself in order that she might sit a queen—because he deemed it sufficient, in all love and justice, to support her comfortably, as his means afforded—because her own indiscretions, and extravagant and unreasonable demands, had called down upon her head deserved severity and reproof—this is the fire kindled in her heart! We are sorry to speak in this strain. But if we speak at all, we must utter what justice and truth call out of us. Even were Mrs. Farrington's charges against her father well-founded, we could not but cry out in condemnation of the parricidal spirit that seeks so devilish a revenge.

"Her first husband's father, the late Dr. Eldredge, meets with a similar treatment. The grave that has closed over him could not shield his breast from the tearing claws of the vampire of vengeance. He figures as Dr. Hall—just such another unfeeling, unnatural, impossible monster, as the old man Ellet. Mrs. Hall (Fanny's mother-in-law, Mrs. Eldredge,) is a slice from the same raw material, with the addition of a little feminine salt and pepper. Fanny had an opportunity to write something of her own spirit in 'Mrs. Hall'—thus relieving the deadness of the character with occasional sparks of real human nature.

"Mr. N. P. Willis appears in the book as Mr. Hyacinth Ellet—'a mincing, conceited, tip-toeing, be-curled, be-perfumed popinjay.' Like the other monsters, he has not a grain of heart in his composition. Such a burlesque of a gentleman so well known for his fine qualities of heart and mind as Mr. N. P. Willis, is simply disgusting. It is too coarse and flat to be tolerated even in a farce.

"Other monsters in the book may be briefly alluded to. The Millets are the——s,—represented as horrid people, of course, being so unfortunate as to be related to Fanny. Mr. Lescom, editor of the 'Standard,' is the late Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch. The True Flag is personified as 'Mr. Tibbets.'

"Now with regard to the angels in the book. First, of course, is Fanny herself. She is 'Ruth Hall'—a perfect celestial. We are surprised that any person, whose judgment was not altogether swallowed up in vanity and egotism, should have made so bald and sickening an attempt at self-exaltation. Ruth is a model wife, a model mother, a model widow, a model saint. She is very beautiful, and a great genius. There was never a woman on earth until Ruth was let down out of heaven. What a capital joke, that so rare a creation should have been born the daughter of old Ellet, and the sister of Hyacinth!

"'Harry Hall' is the name given to Fanny's first husband. It is a singular fact, by the way, that no allusion is made to her second marriage. Why is Mrs. Farrington so anxious to suppress the fact, and the subject of her divorce? She should not have neglected so good an opportunity to give Mr. F., what in the vulgar idiom is termed 'fits.'

"Mr. Horace Gates, Hyacinth's assistant, on the 'Irving Magazine,' is Mr. J. Parton, late of the Home Journal. Mr. Parton has recently written a book for Fanny's new publishers, so she thought proper to puff him. Mr. P. is a talented writer, and may, for aught we know, be an excellent man; but he is unfortunate in sitting for the portrait of Mr. Horace Gates. We should prefer anything rather than praise from such a quarter.

"But of all the overdone specimens of goodness, the character of virtuous John Walter is the most ridiculous to those who know the original. John Walter is——laugh, ye gods! and hold your sides!—is—but we will spare the poor man's blushes. This pure and fragrant gentleman—who, by the way, never knew Fanny until after the establishment of her reputation, and her contract with Derby & Miller, for the publication of 'Fern Leaves'—has since devoted himself to her service, contented to lick what crumbs may fall to him from her table, as a reward for his brave championship. He 'puts through' the newspaper puffing which heralds her books, acting as her counsellor, companion, and gentleman friend generally—and so she makes an angel of him out of gratitude. Delicious John Walter!

"The story of Ruth Hall is nothing. There is no plot whatever; no thread of interest to hold one to its pages. There are some spicy, quite Ferny sketches, in the first half of the volume—but the rest is all chaff, filled in to swell the covers to a respectable capaciousness. Towards the close, for want of better matter, we are surfeited with letters from people nobody cares anything about, and a tedious phrenological examination, designed to set off the transcendent mental, moral and affectional qualities of that heavenly creature, Ruth—alias Fanny!

"The book abounds with horrors of cruelty and neglect—which all who are aware in what style Mrs. Farrington used to live, know to be false—until we come to the introduction of good John Walter, when everybody commences laughing. Indeed, such expressions as 'said Ruth, laughing,' 'said Mr. Walter, laughing,' 'said Katy, laughing,' 'said Ruth, beginning to laugh,' occur ad nauseam. Sometimes we have 'said Ruth, smiling,' which amounts to the same thing. And so the book draws to a verbose and feeble close. We are glad to have shut it up, never to open it again. We love not these bad-hearted books. Let us then hasten to take leave of this one, and of Fanny Fern, forever. It was no agreeable task we had to do, but we have done it conscientiously and faithfully; and here let it end."

XIII.
A WORD ABOUT N. P. WILLIS.

Of the command, "Honor thy father and mother," says the Boston Transcript, Ruth Hall has been a significant reminder, to those who know the excellent man vilified in that novel as the heroine's father, and admitted in many ways to be intended by "Fanny Fern" as a picture of her own father, Mr. Willis. How differently he is looked upon by his other children it is a relief to humanity to know, and we are glad to be able to copy from the "Youth's Companion," the paper which Mr. Willis publishes in his declining years, the following lines addressed to him by his son, N. P. Willis, the brother of "Fanny Fern."

TO MY AGED FATHER.

[ON HEARING OF HIS RECENT CALAMITY, IN HAVING HIS OFFICE DESTROYED BY THE LATE FIRE IN SCHOOL-STREET.]

BY N. P. WILLIS\.

Cares thicken round thee as thy steps grow slow,

Father beloved!—not turn'd upon, as once,

And battled back with steadfastness unmov'd—

(That battle without fame or trump to cheer—

That hardest battle of the world—with care—

Thy life one patient victory till now!)

Faint has thy heart become. For peace thou prayest—

For less to suffer as thy strength grows less.

For, oh, when life has been a stormy wild—

The bitter night too long, the way too far—

The aged pilgrim, ere he lays him down,

Prays for a moment's lulling of the blast—

A little time, to wind his cloak about him,

And smooth his gray hairs decently to die.

Yet, oh, not vain the victories unsung!

Not vain a life of industry to bless.

And thou, in angel-history—where shine

The silent self-forgetful who toil on

For others until death—art nam'd in gold

In heaven it is known, thou hast done well!

But, not all unacknowledg'd is it, here.

Children thou hast, who, for free nurture, given

With one hand, while the other fought thy cares,

Grow grateful as their own hands try the fight.

And more—they thank thee more! The name thou leavest

Spotless and blameless as it comes from thee—

For this—their pure inheritance—a life

Of unstained honor gone before our own—

The father that we love an "honest man"—

For this, thy children bless thee.

Cheer thee, then!—

Though hopelessly thy strength may seem to fail,

And pitilessly far thy cares pursue!

What though the clouds follow to eventide,

Which chased thy morn and noon across the sky!

From these thy trying hours—the hours when strength,

Most sorely press'd, has won its victories—

From life's dark trial clouds, that follow on,

Even to sunset—glory comes at last!

Clouds are the glory of the dying day—

A glory that, though welcoming to Heaven,

Illumes the parting hour ere day is gone.

XIV.
IDEAS ABOUT BABIES.

Fanny's sentiments on this subject are decidedly contradictory. If one were to read any two of her articles, without a definite knowledge of her circumstances, they would be at a loss to determine whether she is maid or matron. The language of the first article which we shall quote is certainly very anti-motherly.

"Folly—For girls to expect to be happy without marriage. Every woman was made for a mother, consequently, babies are as necessary to their 'peace of mind,' as health. If you wish to look at melancholy and indigestion, look at an old maid. If you would take a peep at sunshine, look in the face of a young mother."

"Now I won't stand that! I'm an old maid myself; and I'm neither melancholy nor indigestible! My 'PIECE of mind' I'm going to give you, (in a minute!) and I never want to touch a baby except with a pair of tongs! 'Young mothers and sunshine!' Worn to fiddle-strings before they are twenty-five! When an old lover turns up he thinks he sees his grandmother, instead of the dear little Mary who used to make him feel as if he should crawl out of the toes of his boots! Yes! my mind is quite made up about matrimony; but as to the 'babies,' (sometimes I think, and then again I don't know!) but on the whole I believe I consider 'em a d——ecided humbug! It's a one-sided partnership, this marriage! the wife casts up all the accounts!

"'Husband' gets up in the morning and pays his 'devours' to the looking-glass; curls his fine head of hair; puts on an immaculate shirt-bosom; ties an excruciating cravat; sprinkles his handkerchief with cologne; stows away a French roll, an egg, and a cup of coffee; gets into the omnibus, looks slantendicular at the pretty girls, and makes love between the pauses of business during the forenoon generally. Wife must 'hermetically seal' the windows and exclude all the fresh air, (because the baby had the 'snuffles' in the night;) and sits gasping down to the table more dead than alive, to finish her breakfast. Tommy turns a cup of hot coffee down his bosom; Juliana has torn off the string of her school-bonnet; James 'wants his geography covered;' Eliza can't find her satchel; the butcher wants to know if she'd like a joint of mutton; the milkman would like his money; the ice man wants to speak to her 'just a minute;' the baby swallows a bean; husband sends the boy home from the store to say his partner will dine with him; the cook leaves 'all flying,' to go to her 'sister's dead baby's wake,' and husband's thin coat must be ironed before noon. 'Sunshine and young mothers!!' Where's my smelling-bottle?"

To the foregoing denunciation of the infant-angels, the following defence furnishes quite a decided contrast.

"Baby-carts on narrow side-walks are awful bores, especially to a hurried business man."

"Are they? Suppose you, and a certain pair of blue eyes, that you would give half your patrimony to win, were joint proprietors of that baby! I shouldn't dare to stand very near you, and call it 'a nuisance.' It's all very well for bachelors to turn up their single blessed noses at these little dimpled Cupids; but just wait till their time comes. See 'em, the minute their name is written 'Papa,' pull up their dickies, and strut off down street as if the Commonwealth owed them a pension! When they enter the office, see their old married partner (to whom babies have long since ceased to be a novelty) laugh in his sleeve at the new-fledged dignity with which that baby's advent is announced! How perfectly astonished they feel that they should have been so infatuated as not to perceive that a man is a perfect cypher till he is at the head of a family! How frequently one may see them now, looking in at the shop windows, with intense interest, at little hats, coral and bells, and baby-jumpers. How they love to come home to dinner, and press that little velvet cheek to their business faces! Was there ever music half so sweet to their ear, as its first lisped 'Papa'? Oh, how closely and imperceptibly, one by one, that little plant winds its tendrils round the parent stem! How anxiously they hang over its cradle when the cheek flushes and the lip is fever-parched; and how wide, and deep, and long a shadow in their happy homes, its little grave would cast!

"My DEAR sir, depend upon it, one's own baby is never 'a nuisance.' Love heralds its birth."

It's just possible though, that Fanny may be actuated by a spirit of sheer contradiction; for, happening in some of her readings, to come across Tupper's declaration, that

"A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure,"

she takes up the gauntlet, and holds forth in the following vigorous style:—

"Now, Mr. Tupper, allow me to ask you, did you ever own a baby? I meant to say, did you ever have one? Because I knew a woman once that had; and shall use the privilege of an American 'star and stripe' female, to tell you that that English sentiment of yours, won't pass this side the water!

"Ain't we a LITTLE the smartest people on the face of the earth? and if any country could grow decent babies, wouldn't it be America? Yes, SIR! but I tell you, it's my solemn conviction that they are nothing more nor less than a 'well-spring' of botheration, wherever they are raised. Don't I know? Didn't that shapeless, flimsy, flappy little nuisance I allude to, rule the house from garret to cellar before it was a month old? Wasn't it entirely at its option, whether the mother dined at 2 o'clock at noon, or 2 at night? In fact, whether she dined at all? Didn't the little wretch keep its lack-lustre eyes fixed on her, and the minute she turned her back upon it and moved towards the door, contrive to poke one eye half out with its fist, or get its toes twisted into a knot, or some such infantile stratagem to attract attention? Didn't it know, by instinct, whenever she had an invitation to ride, or walk, or visit? and get up a fit of sham distress to knock it all in the head? Didn't she throw away dozens of pairs of good shoes because they creaked? Did she ever know what she was to be allowed to do the next minute?

"'Well-spring of pleasure!' Ha! ha! Ask her husband, Tom! Didn't he have to emigrate up two flights of stairs because it screeched so incessantly nights, that it unfitted him for business next day? He's very fond of babies; HE is!

"Well, Mr. Tupper, we won't mention creeping time—when skeins of yarn, and pins, and darning needles are swallowed, with a horrifying ravenousness suggestive of a 'stomach pump;' or its first essays at walking, when it navigates the carpet like a sailor fresh from 'board ship;' raising bumps never marked down on any phrenological chart! or clutching at the corner of the tablecloth, dragging off inkstands, vases, annuals, and 'Proverbial Philosophys,' with an edifying promiscuousness! Then, making for the open door, and taking a 'flying leap' down two pairs of stairs, to the astonishment of John, Betty and Sally!

"Now, Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper, 'philosophize' as beautifully as only you know how, but take an American woman's advice, and don't mention babies! unless you'll sketch from life as I do! You needn't stand up for English babies; they're all alike, from Queen Victoria's DOWN to Mike O'Flaherty's, or UP to American babies!

"I'm astonished at you, Mr. Tupper! a poet and a HANDSOME poet, too!! I'm surprised. I am!"

XV.
PRAISE FROM A WOMAN.

Fanny always was grateful. This well-known fact is humorously exemplified in the following article, referring to Mrs. H. Marion Stephens. This lady, in her "Town-Talk," for the Boston Times, made a few graceful allusions to Fanny's wit and genius, and this friendly tribute gave birth to

"MISS FANNY FIDDLESTICK'S SOLILOQUY,
"ON READING A COMPLIMENTARY NOTICE OF HERSELF, BY A LADY.

"Praise from a woman! What did I ever do to injure her, I'd like to know? There's something behind that! If she had abused me now, I should have been as placid as an oyster. Here, pussy, come taste this cup of tea for me; I'll give you ten minutes to repent of all your feline flirtations, on that back shed, with promiskus Grimalkins; for ten to one you'll keel over in a fit as soon as you've swallowed it. I don't touch it till I know whether it's poisoned or not. There's more cats than Ferns in the world, and complimentary notices from a female woman look suspicious. I shall be up and dressed, now I tell you. There's a bundle just come in. When I open it alone, I guess you'll know it; I've heard of infernal machines before to-day. I don't touch it off without a minister and Marshal Tukey, I promise you. Praise from a woman! Oh, this Fanny isn't verdant, if she is a Fern! There's something behind it! When a woman pats you with one hand you may be morally certain she's going to scratch you with the other. Here;—hands off! clear the track of all petticoats! I'm going to the pistol gallery to take lessons in shooting. That complimentary notice is the fore end of a runner of something."

XVI.
THE REMARKABLE HISTORY OF JEMMY JESSAMY.

"Jemmy Jessamy," writes Fanny Fern, "was a double-distilled old bachelor. He had occupied the same quarters at —— Hotel for five-and-twenty years. The chamber-maid that 'cleared up' No. 25, dared not, at the price of her scalp, misplace a boot or a tooth-brush. If his breakfast was brought up five minutes before the time, it was ordered down again—and woe to the luckless waiter who brought him hot water when he spoke for cold, or failed to transmit, with telegraphic speed, any card or parcel left at the bar. The first thing he knew he didn't know nothing. In other words, Jemmy saved him the trouble of going down stairs, by landing him, 'on his own hook,' (nolens volens) in the lower entry.

"Jemmy took two or three hours to make himself up in the morning, emerging from his shell at 10 o'clock in the forenoon, a perfect Beau Brummell. The most fastidious taste could detect no flaw; the most critical or censorious eye no foppery. His figure was matchless, or his tailor, or both together; and his coats always of a shade of color unattainable by any one but Jemmy. Last, not least, he rejoiced in a set of dickies that left him at perfect liberty to look east, west, north or south, without cutting his ears off! He never appeared in public, 'en dishabille,' either of body or mind. Both were, at such times, in their holiday suit.

"Now it was very selfish in Jemmy to 'waste his sweetness on the desert air,' for so many years; but he had two good reasons for it. The first was that he considered himself too bright a jewel to be in the possession of any one woman exclusively. The next was, he was terribly afraid of being taken in. He never made a call on a single woman without taking some male acquaintance (not too attractive) to neutralize the force of the compliment. A bright eye or a pretty ankle gave him spasms. He couldn't live away from their owners, and he was afraid to go too near them.

"He was most at his ease in a large family of sisters, where he could sprinkle about his attentions and gallantries in homœopathic doses; or in the society of married ladies, where a man stands in no fear of being asked "his intentions."

"Susy —— was the bright, particular star in this firmament. She was always in choice spirits, sparkling as a bottle of champagne, well-dressed, good-tempered, always ready for a drive, a walk, a sail or a pic-nic, and always the belle of the party.

"She was visiting at the house of a friend; and Jemmy felt himself so safe there. The newest piece of music, the most fragrant of Gibbens' bouquets, the last of Dickens's perpetrations, found their way to "Barley Place, No. 5." Susy hemmed three splendid neck-ties, with her own fair fingers; mended the little rips in his gloves, (that he had amused himself making for her when he sat alone in his room,) and told him, confidentially, how to trim his moustache and where to lay the pruning-knife to his whiskers. Jemmy was a lucky man!

"Jem," said Tom Lane, one night, as they sat smoking their cigars with their feet ten degrees higher than their heads, "how much longer are you going to trifle with that little widow? Why don't you ask her and done with it?"

"Widow! ask her! done with it!" said Jem, with a stupid stare, as his cigar fell into the ashes. "They said 'her husband was absent.'"

"Absent! Ha! ha! his tombstone will tell you about that!"

"I'm ruined," said Jem, "ruined! I have driven her out; walked with her, sailed with her, praised her eyes and hair, sent her bouquets, and music, and poetry; I've—I've done everything, Tom. What's to be done? I won't be married. I'd as lief be hung;" and pronouncing the latter part of the word condemnation, rather audibly, he rushed into the open air to take breath!

"The next day the following item appeared in the newspapers:

"Mysterious.—The admirers of James Jessamy, Esq., will be pained to learn of his sudden and unaccountable disappearance from the —— Hotel. No clue has as yet been discovered of his whereabouts. His papers, books and wearing-apparel, are in safe keeping for his relatives, and may be had on application to Sam Springle, —— Hotel."

XVII.
JEMMY JESSAMY'S DEFENCE.

To Fanny Fern.—Miss Fern: Your wanton and unprovoked attack upon me, in the last edition of the "True Flag," headed "Look before you Leap," is a leetle more than I can stand. I should like to know what on earth has induced you to expend your electricity upon "Jemmy Jessamy, the double-distilled bachelor?" Calling me by name, and thus setting me up as a public mark, and proclaiming just the number of years I have boarded in "—— Hotel, No. 25," and then heralding my peculiarities in regard to the chamber-maid, has put me in no enviable predicament. I begin to think it is high time I knew "something."

My hour for rising, I acknowledge, is ten A. M. I am not, then, the perfect "Beau Brummell" you have described; for I have never obtruded my calls upon anybody until ten o'clock, by my double repeater. Well, if I was skittish about approaching women, formerly, what must I be now, since your virago-tongue has used me up by piecemeal! Talking about my "dickeys" sitting comfortably! What if I do allow myself a commendable latitude for turning every way? When such weather-cocks are in the market, it behooves us to "look before we leap." Besides, I have never taxed a female eye to stitch a dickey, sew on a button, make a shirt, or repair an overcoat since I have been in the above hotel. My tailor has always been my seamstress: and his bills, like some of the married fraternity, do not remain unpaid. But what right had you to assign my reasons for remaining single, and bestowing my attentions in "homœopathic doses upon a whole family of sisters?"

Then I am served up at "No. 5 Barley Place," and a game is made about myself and the widow "Susy." I am represented as playing the part of a lover, supposing her a married lady. She never sewed a rip in my glove, nor cut or curled a single hair of my moustaches in her life. To be sure, Tom Lane is a joking fellow, and he did talk about her husband's tombstone; but it was all gas, and, as I thought, ended in smoke.

But, last of all, I am described as absconding from my hotel. Heavens! what a tongue you have got. Hadn't I a right to go South to cure a consumption, without a strange woman's meddling about it? While I was there, however, Miss Fan, I heard of a place just suited to your capacities. An editor advertised for a partner "that could write out thunder and lightning at a stroke." I thought of you, and added, I knew one that could do that, and throw a powerful deluge along with it. This is evidently your latitude. People at the South indulge in personalities, and then challenge each other for a duel. In this way, you would be spared many of your random shots.

The time was, when I seriously thought of the subject of marriage. I have bothered over the subject, whether women are really what they appear, until I am satisfied. If you are an untamed, undisguised, plain representative of the sex, may heaven protect all future Caudles from such emblems of affection! If I am an old bachelor, I am determined to wear the breeches myself. You need not dream about a codicil being attached to my will,—for your last attack has completely and forever estranged you from all claims, human or divine on

Jemmy Jessamy.

XVIII.
THE GOVERNESS.

The following tale is Fanny Fern's earliest attempt at a long story, now for the first time given to the world within the covers of a book.

"'If you please, ma'am, a young woman in the hall, dressed in mourning, wishes to speak with you.' The lady addressed might have been, (we are aware we are treading on debatable ground,) about thirty-eight years of age. Time, that had spared her the attraction of a graceful, pliant form, had robbed her blue eyes of their lustre, and thinned her flaxen tresses. She still rejoiced, however, in a pair of diminutive feet and ankles, which she considered it a great sin to 'hide under a bushel,' and had a way of her own of exhibiting on all occasions, known only to the ingenuity of a practised coquette, or an ex-belle. She raised her eyes languidly from the last new novel she was perusing, and with the air of a victim closed the book, as John ushered in the intruder.

"Slightly raising her eyebrows, she said, 'So you are the young person who answered my advertisement for a governess?' levelling at the same time a scrutinizing glance upon her that brought the color into her fair cheek. 'In mourning, I see; very becoming, but it always gives me the dismals to see a black dress about; don't cry, child, people will die when their time comes, it's a thing that can't be helped. I suppose you understand French, German, Italian, Spanish, and all that sort of thing, if you are a governess. I desire Meta to be fashionably educated, and if you stay, I hope you will understand your business and be thorough, for it is a great bore to me to look after such things. I shall want you to clear starch my collars and ruffles, and trim my breakfast caps; I see you look as though you would object to this, but you won't find such a place as this every day, and people who are driven to the wall by necessity, and have to get their own living, can't afford to be fastidious. Pity you are so pretty, child; never mind, you must keep close; you'll see no company at my house, and I trust you are no gadder. What is your name? Grace Clifford? very romantic! Well, if you'd like to stay, John will show you to your room—but pray put away that mass of curls and wear it plain, as it looks too childish for a governess. You needn't trouble yourself to dress for dinner, as you will eat with Meta in the nursery. John! Show Miss Clifford to her room.'

"And thither, fair reader, we will follow her. Poor Grace! Left to herself, a sense of her utter loneliness overpowered her, and she wept like a child. Early left an orphan, dependent through her childhood and youth, up to the present time, upon relatives who made her feel each day, each hour, how bitter was that dependence; who grudged the bread she ate; who, envious of her beauty and superior abilities, constantly made them the subject of coarse jests and coarser taunts, Grace gladly answered Mrs. Fay's advertisement, hoping for relief from the fetters of so galling a chain. Sensitive to a fault, she had endeavored to nerve herself with strength to endure much that was annoying and repulsive in the situation she sought; but the total want of delicacy and courtesy displayed by Mrs. Fay, her coarse allusion to her late bereavement, (the death of a sister,) her ill-concealed envy of her personal charms, all combined to depress and dishearten her.

"But Grace Clifford was a Christian. She had been early called to suffer; she knew who had mixed for her the cup of life, and she pushed it not away from her lips because the ingredients were bitter. She knew an ear that was never deaf to the orphan's cry, and that the promise 'When thy father and mother forsake thee,' was all her own to claim; and she rose from her knees with a brow calm as an angel's, a spirit girded for the conflict, and a peace that the world knoweth not of.

"Grace's patroness, Mrs. Fay, was the only daughter of a petty shop-keeper in the village of ——. Worshipped by doating parents for her beauty, of which little now remained, she received from them a showy, superficial education, which she was taught from childhood to consider valuable only as a stepping-stone to an establishment in life. She contemptuously turned the cold shoulder to her rustic admirers, one after the other. How this human butterfly succeeded in entrapping a matter-of-fact man, like Mr. Fay, is quite unaccountable. Be that as it may, the honeymoon saw in its decline the death of his love, and wearied with her doll face and vacant mind, he sought, after the birth of his little daughter, his chief pleasure in the nursery, for which she entertained an unconquerable aversion.

"Reader, have you never in a Summer's day ramble stopped to admire in some secluded spot a sweet flower that had sprung up as if by magic—rich in color, beautiful in form, throwing unconsciously its sweet fragrance to the winds, unappreciated, unnoticed, uncared for, save by His eye who painted its delicate leaves? Such a flower was Meta Fay. Delicate, fragile as Spring's first violet, with a brow and eyes that are seldom seen, save where death's shadow soonest falls; and with a mind that face belied not, earnest, thoughtful and serious.

"Repulsed by her mother, who saw nothing in that little shrinking form but a bar to the enjoyment of her empty pleasures, doted on by a father who was the slave of Mammon, and who, unable to fathom the soul that looked out from the depths of those clear eyes, lavished as a recompense for the many unanswered questions prompted by her restless mind, the costliest toys of childhood. From all these would Meta turn away dissatisfied, to clasp to her bosom the simplest daisy that decked the meadow, or to hail with rapture the first sweet star that came stealing forth at evening.

"Such was Grace Clifford's pupil. All thought of herself was soon lost in the delight of watching her young mind develop; and if a thought of her responsibility as its guardian sometimes startled her, yet it also made her more watchful, more true to her trust. A love almost like that of parent and child grew up between them. Often, when engaged in their studies, when Meta's love-speaking eyes were fixed upon her young teacher, and the flush upon her delicate cheek was coming and vanishing like the shadows of a Summer cloud, would Grace tremble for the frail casket that contained so priceless a gem.

"Meantime, Mrs. Fay continued her treadmill round of visiting, shopping and dressing, occasionally looking into the nursery, quite satisfied that her child was wonderfully improved in beauty, and willing to take it for granted everything else was as it should be. On one of these occasions Meta said,

"'Mamma! Papa and I think Miss Clifford is a beauty.'

"'Indeed!' said Mrs. Fay.

"'Yes, and when I pull out her comb and let all her beautiful hair down over her shoulders, papa says it looks like waves of gold.'

"Mrs. Fay walked up to her husband and said, in a hissing whisper—

"'So this accounts for the interest you take in the child's studies! In my opinion that Grace Clifford, with her sly demure face, is a great flirt—I thought she was too pretty when I engaged her. 'Golden waves!' and with a toss of the head, be-tokening a domestic thunder-storm, her ladyship left the nursery.

"The next day, as Grace sat busy with her work, with Meta beside her, the child suddenly looked up and said,

"'What is a flirt, Miss Clifford?'

"Grace was about to burst into a hearty laugh, but there was a look almost amounting to distress on Meta's face that checked her.

"'Why do you ask me that question, my pet?'

"'Oh! because mamma told papa yesterday that you was a flirt, and I thought—and (the child hesitated) it meant something naughty, because mamma was so angry.'

"Poor Grace! The blood rushed in a torrent over cheek, neck and brow. Meta, frightened at the effect of her question, began to sob as if her heart would break, when the door opened, and Mr. Fay came in. Grace rushed precipitately past him, and gaining her own room, burst into a passionate flood of tears. In vain she taxed her memory to recall an indiscreet word or action, or anything that a jealous wife could construe into an invasion of her matrimonial rights. The sin, if there was any, was not forthcoming. In vain had been all her efforts to propitiate this weak-minded woman, by pulling away the obnoxious ringlets, by clear starching her muslins, or trimming with tasteful fingers her dainty little breakfast caps. The serpent had entered Eden; and although no 'forbidden fruit' had been tasted, she none the less clearly saw the flaming sword that was to drive her thence. Sheltering herself under the plea of a violent headache, she excused herself from appearing again below, and sat until a late hour at night, devising the best mode of leaving, as farther stay was impossible in such a humiliating position. She must go; that was plain;—but where?

"Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of hurrying feet in the hall. A quick rap at the door, and a summons to Meta's room followed. She had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Grace forgot everything in anxiety for her darling, and hastily snatching a dressing gown, she flew to her room. The poor child was tossing restlessly from side to side; her little hands were hot and burning, and her cheeks crimsoned with fever. Mr. Fay hastily resigned her to Grace's care, while he went for a physician.

"With the tenderness of a mother she changed the heated pillows, parted the thick curls from her little forehead, bathed the throbbing temples, and rendered the thousand little nameless services, known only to the soft step, quick eye, and delicate hand of woman.

"Meanwhile the mother slept quietly in an adjoining room, solacing herself that the doctor knew better than she what was best for the child, and fearing the effect of night vigils upon her complexion.

"When Mr. Fay returned with the physician, Meta had sunk into an uneasy slumber. Resigning her post to him, Grace watched his countenance with an anxious eye while he felt the pulse and noted the breathing of her little pupil. Writing his prescriptions, he handed them to Grace, who had signified her intention of spending the night, adding as he did so,

"'It is needless to enjoin quiet upon one who seems so well to understand the duties of a nurse.'

"With a glance at his child, in which all the father was expressed, and a grateful 'God bless you' to Grace, Mr. Fay left the room. Shading the small lamp, lest it might waken the child, Grace unhanded her rich tresses, and loosening the girdle of her dressing gown, seated herself beside her.

"Silently, slowly, pass the night watches, in the chamber of the sick and dying! The dull ticking of the clock, falling upon the sensitive ear of the watcher, strikes to the throbbing heart a nameless terror. With straining eye, its hours are counted; with nervous hand, at the appointed time, the healing draught is prepared for the sufferer. The measured tread of the watchman, as he passes his rounds beneath the windows, the distant rumble of the stage-coach, perchance the disjointed fragment of a song from bacchanalian lips, alone break the solemn stillness. At such an hour, serious thoughts like unbidden guests rush in. Life appears like the dream it is; Eternity the waking; and involuntarily the most thoughtless look up for help to Him, by whom 'the hairs of our head are all numbered.'

"The stars, one by one, faded away in the golden light of morning. The sun rose fair to many an eye that should never see its setting. Meta was delirious. In fancy she roved with her dear teacher in green fields, and listened to the sweet song of birds, and was happy.

"'Do not tell me my darling will die,' said the stricken father to the physician; then turning to Grace, he said, almost in the form of a command, 'you know how to pray; you taught her the way to heaven, when I could not; ask for her life; God hears the angels.'

"'While there is life there is hope,' said the sympathizing physician, wiping away a tear; 'all that we can do we will, and leave the event with a higher power.'

"Day after day, night after night, regardless of food or rest, Grace kept tireless watch by the little sufferer; the selfish mother occasionally looking in, declaring her inability to stay in a sick-room, and expressing her satisfaction that others had more nerve than herself for such scenes.

"That day a new harp was strung, a white robe was worn, a new song was heard in heaven. On earth, 'the child was not!'

"'Alone again in the world, alone with the dead,' faltered Grace, as she sank insensibly by the little corpse.

"Well was it for the grief-stricken father that a new object of solicitude was before him; well for the mother that such devotion to her dead child had at last touched a heart so encrusted with worldliness. All their united efforts, joined with the skill of the friend and physician, were needed to rescue Grace from the grave. To an observing eye, the interest the latter evinced for his fair patient was not entirely professional. He had been touched by her self-sacrificing devotion, and her friendlessness, and each day more and more charmed with her beauty and simplicity.

"Softly fell the moonlight on the countless sleepers in the vast cemetery of ——. Each tiny flower swaying in the night-breeze was gemmed with nature's tears. The solemn stillness was unbroken save by the sweet note of some truant bird returning to his leafy home. How many hearts so lately throbbing with pain or pleasure lay there forever stilled! There, in her unappropriated loveliness, slept the betrothed maiden; there, the bride with her head pillowed on golden tresses whose sunny beauty e'en the great spoiler seemed loth to touch; the dimpled babe that yesterday lay warm and rosy in its mothers breast; the gray-haired sire, weary with life's conflict, the loving wife and mother in life's sweet prime, deaf to the wail of her helpless babe and to the agonized cry of its father; the faithful pastor, gone at last to hear the 'Well done, good and faithful servant;' the reckless youth, who with brow untouched by care, and limbs fashioned for strength and beauty, had rushed unbidden into the presence of his Maker, impatient for the summons of the 'great Reaper.' On his tombstone, partial friends had written, 'he sleeps in Jesus,' while underneath, (in 'the handwriting on the wall') methought I could read, 'no murderer hath eternal life.'

"There lay the miser, who only in death's agony loosened his hold of his golden god. The widow he has made houseless, and her shivering orphans, read the mocking falsehood on the splendid marble that covers him, and murmur in words that are God's own truth, 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.'

"With a saddened heart I turn to inhale the sweet breath of the flowers planted by the hand of affection, or strewn in garlands with falling tears over the loved and lost. Before me, shining in the moonlight, is a marble tablet; on it I read, 'Our little Meta.' I advance toward it; suddenly I see a female figure approaching, looking so spiritual in the moonlight—with her snowy robe and shining hair—that I could almost fancy her an angel guarding the child's grave. She advanced toward it, and kneeling, presses her lips to the fragrant sod, saying in a voice of anguish,

"'Would to God I had died for thee, my child, my child!'

"A kind friend had followed Grace's footsteps. A rich, manly voice is borne upon the air. It shall fall like dew upon the stricken flower. Listen to the chant!

'There is a Reaper whose name is Death,

And with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath;

And the flowers that grow between.

'He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He raised their drooping leaves,

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

'Oh not in cruelty, not in wrath,