The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 18

"Then if Zebedee goes a-fishing, he wouldn't dare to put on a linen coat for the price of his reputation. No indeed! Why, he never goes to the barn-yard without drawing on his white kids. Then he orders the most ruinous wines at dinner, and fees those white jackets, till his purse is as empty as an egg-sh.e.l.l. I declare it is _abominably_ expensive. I don't believe _rich people_ have the least idea how much it costs _poor people_ to live!"

LVIII.

INTERESTING TO BASHFUL MEN.

"'Faint heart ne'er won fair lady.'

"Didn't _it though_! I FAN-cy it _does_! If there's anything in the world that is _quite entirely_ interesting, it's a man who daresn't _say_ 'I love you,' though _his_ eyes told the story long ago! Of course you don't _know_ anything about it. Oh, no! Can't, for the soul of you, tell why he never comes near you without a tremor, or what possesses him to say 'yes,' instead of 'no,' or to kiss your little brother so often, and give him so much sugar-candy! Have no idea _why_ he looks so '_distrait_'and embarra.s.sed, when you take another gentleman's arm or smile at him. Never see that bright magnetic sparkle in his eye when you call him _Harry_, instead of _Mr._ Fay.

Don't see him pick up a rosebud that you dropped from your girdle, and hide it in his vest! (_don't like it, either!!_) You don't notice what a _long job_ he makes of it, putting your shawl on. You haven't the slightest suspicion _where_ the _mate_ of your little kid glove went, the last time you went to walk; you are _not at all magnetically affected yourself_! Oh, no, _not a bit of it_! Just as cool as a fur--_refrigerator_!

"Don't feel a bit _nervous_ when your mother gets up and leaves the room! Always have a topic at your tongue's end to dash off on. Never pick your ribbons all to pieces because you daresn't look him in the face. Never _refuse_ to go to ride with him, when you are just _dying_ to go. Never blush as red as a pulpit cushion, when your brother teases you about him, or say 'you don't care a fig for him.' When HIS ring at the door sends your heart to your mouth, you never s.n.a.t.c.h up a book and get so _entirely_ absorbed in it, that he is obliged to touch your arm, before you can find out that he's in your presence! _You never read his notes, when you could say them all off with your eyes shut!_ You never _hide them_ where anybody can find them--without you should be taken with a fainting fit! You take precious good care to keep _all that_ from _Mr._ Fay!

"All right, dear; don't hold out a _single straw to help him ash.o.r.e_!

Make him come _every step_ of the way _without a guide-board_! but when be GETS THERE--hem!--if you _own_ a soul--_tell him so_!

"'_Faint heart never won fair lady_,' hey! _I differ!_ If there's anything that's a _regular shower-bath to love_, it's your _'veni, vidi, vici' man_, who considers himself so _excruciatingly_ omnipotent! Softly, sir! _Forewarned, forearmed!_ You rouse all the antagonism in our nature! The more you _are sure you'll win, the more you won't_! You've to earn your laurels,--to _win_ your battle; (if you _ever noticed it_!)

"Do _you_ suppose we are going to lose all those interesting, half-broken sentences, and all those pretty little blunders you make when we come near you? If you only _knew_ how interesting it was for us to see the color rush to your forehead, at such times, or to see you look _so_ 'triste' when some old maid comes in to spend the evening, and you have to leave your little Paradise to go _creeping_ home with her! or to see you manoeuvre one whole evening with a diplomacy (deserving a reward) for a seat next to us! Goodness gracious! I tell you 'faint hearts' _never win anything else_ but 'fair ladies!'"

LIX.

THE ANGEL CHILD.

Little Mabel had no mother. She was slight, and sweet, and fragile, like her type, the lily of the valley. Her little hand, as you took it in yours, seemed almost to melt in your clasp. She had large, dark eyes, whose depths, with all your searching, you might fail to fathom.

Her cheek was very pale, save when some powerful emotion lent it a pa.s.sing flush; her fair, open brow might have defied an angel's scrutiny; her little footfall was noiseless as a falling snow-flake; and her voice was sweet and low as the last note of the bird ere it folds its head under its wing for its nightly slumber.

"The house in which Mabel lived, was large and splendid. You would have hesitated to crush with your foot the bright flowers on the thick, rich carpet. The rare old pictures on the walls were marred by no envious cross-lights; light and shade were artistically disposed.

Beautiful statues, which the sculptor (dream-inspired) had risen from a feverish couch to finish, lay bathed in the rosy light that streamed through the silken curtains. Obsequious servants glided in and out, as if taught by instinct to divine the unspoken wants of their mistress.

"I said the little Mabel had no mother; and yet there was a lady, fair and bright, of whose beautiful lip, and large dark eyes, and graceful limbs, little Mabel's were the mimic counterpart. Poets, artists, and sculptors, had sung, and sketched, and modelled her charms. Nature had been most prodigal of adornment--there was only one little thing she had forgotten--the Lady Mabel had no soul.

"She did not forget to deck little Mabel's limbs with costliest fabrics of most unique fashioning; not that every shining ringlet on that graceful little head was not arranged by Mademoiselle Jennet, in strict obedience to orders; not that a large nursery was not fitted up luxuriously at the top of the house, filled with toys which its little owner never cared to look at; not that the Lady Mabel's silken robe did not sweep, once a week, with a queenly grace through the apartment, to see if the mimic wardrobe provided for its little mistress fitted becomingly, or needed replenishing, or was kept in order by the smart French maid. Still, as I said before, _the little Mabel had no mother_!

"See her, as she stands there by the nursery window, crushing her bright ringlets in the palm of her tiny hand. Her large eyes glow, her cheek flushes, then pales; now the little breast heaves! for the gorgeous west is one sea of molten gold. Each bright tint thrills her with strange rapture. She almost holds her breath, as they deepen, then, fade and die away; and now the last bright beam disappears behind the hills; and the soft, grey twilight comes creeping on. Amid its deepening shadows, _one bright star_ springs suddenly to its place in the heavens! Little Mabel cannot tell why the warm tears are coursing down her sweet face, or why her limbs tremble, and her heart beats so fast, or why she dreads lest the shrill voice of Mademoiselle Jennet should break the spell. She longs to soar, like a bird, or a bright angel. She had a nurse once who told her 'there was a G.o.d.' She wants to know if _He_ holds that bright star in its place. She wants to know if Heaven is a long way off, and if _she_ shall ever be a bright angel; and she would like to say a little prayer, her heart is so full, if she only _knew how_; but poor, sweet little Mabel--_she has no mother_."

LX.

UNCLE BEN'S ATTACK OF SPRING-FEVER.

"'Tisn't possible you have been insane enough to go to housekeeping in the country for the summer? Oh, you ought to hear my experience,' and Uncle Ben wiped the perspiration from his forehead at the very thought.

"Yes, I tried it once, with city habits and a city wife; got rabid with the dog-days, and nothing could cure me but a nibble of green gra.s.s. There was Susan, you know, who never was off a brick pavement in her life, and didn't know the difference between a cheese and a grindstone.

"Well, we ripped up our carpets, and tore down our curtains, and packed up our crockery, and nailed down our pictures, and eat dust for a week; and then we emigrated to Daisy Ville.

"Could I throw up a window or fasten back a blind in that house, without sacrificing my suspenders and waistband b.u.t.ton? No, sir!

Weren't the walls full of Red Rovers? Didn't the doors fly open at every wind gust? Didn't the roof leak like the mischief? Wasn't the chimney leased to a pack of swallows? Wasn't the well a half a mile from the house?

"Oh, you needn't laugh. Instead of the comfortable naps to which I had been accustomed, I had to sleep with one eye open all night, lest I shouldn't get into the city in time. I had to be shaving in the morning before a rooster in the barn-yard had stirred a feather; swallowed my coffee and toast by steam, and then, still masticating, made for the front door. There stood Peter with my horse and gig (for I detest your cars and omnibusses.) On the floor of the chaise was a huge basket to bring home material for the next day's dinner; on the seat was a dress of my wife's, to be left 'without fail' at Miss Sewing Silk's, to have the forty-eleventh hook moved one-sixth of a degree higher up on the back. Then there was a package of shawls from Tom Fools & Co., to be returned; and a pair of shoes to carry to Lapstone, who was to select another pair for me to bring out at night; and a demijohn to be filled with Sherry, &c. Well, I whipped up Bucephalus, left my sleeping wife and babies, and started for town, cogitating over an intricate business snarl which bid defiance to any straightening process. I hadn't gone half a mile before an old maid (I hate old maids) stopped me to know if I was going into town, and if I was, if I wouldn't take her in, as the omnibusses made her sick. She said she was 'niece to Squire Dandelion, and had a few ch.o.r.es to do a-shopping.' So I took her in, or rather she took _me_ in (but she didn't do it but once--for I bought a sulkey next day)! Well, it came night, and I was hungry as a Hottentot, for I never could dine as your married widowers _pro tem._ do, at eating-houses, where one gravy answers for flesh, fish, and fowl, and the pudding-sauce is as black as the cook's complexion. So I went round on an empty stomach, hunting up _my express-man parcels_, and wending my way to the stable with arms and pockets running over. When I got home, found my wife in despair; no tacks in the house to nail down carpets, and not one to be had at the store in the village; the cook had deserted, because she couldn't do without 'her _city privileges_,' (meaning Jonathan Jones, the 'dry dirt' man;) and the chambermaid, a buxom country girl, with fire red hair and temper to match, was spinning round the crockery (a la Blitz) because she 'couldn't eat with the family.'

"Then Charley was taken with the croup in the night, and in my fright I put my feet into my coat sleeves, and my arms into my pants, and put on one of my wife's ruffles instead of a d.i.c.key, and rode three miles in a pelting rain, for some 'goose-grease' for his throat.

"Then we never found out till cherries, and strawberries, and peaches were ripe, how many _friends_ (?) we had. There was a horse hitched at every rail in the fence, so long as there was anything left to eat on a tree in the farm; but if my wife went in town shopping, and called on any of them, they were 'out, or engaged;'--or if at home, had 'just done dinner, and were going to ride.'

"Then there was no school in the neighborhood for the children, and they were out in the barn-yard feeding the pigs with lump-sugar, and chasing the hens off the nest, to see what was the prospect for eggs, and making little boats of their shoes and sailing them in the pond, and milking the cow in the middle of the day, &c.

"Then if I dressed in the morning in linen coat, thin pants, and straw hat, I'd be sure to find the wind 'dead east' when I got into the city; or if I put on broadcloth and fixins to match, it would be hotter than Shadrach's furnace, all day--while the dense morning fog would extract the starch from my d.i.c.key and shirt-bosom, till they looked very like a collapsed flapjack.

"Then our meeting-house was a good two miles distant, and we had to walk, or stay at home; because my factotum (Peter) wouldn't stay on the farm without he could have the horse Sundays to go to Mill Village to see his affianced Nancy. Then the old farmers leaned on my stone wall, and laughed till the tears came into their eyes, to see 'the city gentleman's' experiments in horticulture, as they pa.s.sed by 'to meetin'.'

"Well, sir, before summer was over, my wife and I looked as jaded as omnibus horses--she with chance 'help' and floods of city company, and I with my arduous duties as _express man_ for my own family in particular, and the neighbors in general.

"And now here we are--'No 9 Kossuth square.' Can reach anything we want, by putting our hands out the front windows. If, as the poet says, '_man made the town_,' all I've got to say is--he understood his business!"

LXI.

CONNUBIAL ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

On this subject f.a.n.n.y writes eloquently, as will be seen by the following sketch. She writes as if she had learned all about it, in the bitter school of experience.

"'CONNUBIAL.--Mr. Albert Wicks, of Coventry, under date of December 28th, advertised his wife as having left his bed and board; and now, under date of March 26th, he appends to his former notice, the following:

"'Mrs. Wicks, if you ever intend to come back and live with me any more you must come back now or not at all.

"'I love you as I do my life, and if you will come now, I will forgive you for all you have done and threatened to do, which I can prove by three good witnesses; and if not, I shall attend to your case without delay, and soon, too.'

"There, now, Mrs. Wicks, what is to be done? 'Three good witnesses,'

think of _that_! What the mischief have you been about? Whatever it is Mr. Wicks is ready to 'love you like his life.' Consistent Mr.

Wicks!

"Now take a little advice, my dear innocent, and don't allow yourself to be badgered or frightened into anything. None but a coward ever threatens a woman. Put that in your memorandum book. It's all bl.u.s.ter and braggadocio. Thread your darning-needle, and tell him you are ready for him--ready for anything except his 'loving you like his life;' that you could not possibly survive that infliction, without having your 'wick' snuffed entirely out.

"Sew away, just as if there was not a domestic earthquake brewing under your connubial feet. If it sends you up in the air, it sends him too--there's a pair of you! Put _that_ in his Wick--ed ear! Of course he will sputter away, as if he had swallowed a 'Roman candle,' and you can take a nap till he gets through, and then offer him your smelling-bottle to quiet his nerves.