The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 23

Lx.x.x.

THE CROSS AND THE CROWN.

"Are there no martyrs of whom the world never hears? Are there no victories save on the battle-field? Are there no triumphs save where one can grasp earth's laurel crown? See you none who rise early and sit up late, and turn with a calm, proud scorn from a _gilded fetter_ to _honest toil_? Pa.s.s you never in your daily walks, slight forms with calm brows, and mild eyes, whose whole life has been one prolonged self-struggle? Lip, cheek and brow tell you no tale of the spirit's unrest.

"The 'broad road' is pa.s.sing fair to look upon. The coiled serpent is not visible amid its luxurious foliage. The soft breeze fans the cheek wooingly; laden with the music of happy, careless idlers. Youth, and bloom, and beauty; ay! even _silver hairs_ are there! No tempest lowers; the sky is clear and blue. _What stays yonder slender foot?_ Why pursue so courageously the th.o.r.n.y, rugged, stumbling path? The eye is bright; the limbs are round and graceful; the blood flows warm and free; the shining hair folds softly away from a pure, fair brow; there are sweet voices _yonder_ to welcome! _there is an_ INWARD _voice to hush_! there are _thrilling_ eyes _there_, to bewilder! _What stay that slender foot?_

"Ah! _The foot-prints of Calvary's_ SUFFERER _are in that 'narrow path_!' That youthful head bends low and unshrinkingly to meet its 'crown of thorns.' The '_Star in the East_' shines far above those rugged heights, on which its follower reads:--'_To him that_ OVERCOMETH, will I give to eat of the Tree of Life!'

"Dear reader, for _a brief day_, the CROSS; for _uncounted ages_, the CROWN!"

Lx.x.xI.

TOM FAY'S SOLILOQUY.

"'Most any female lodger up a stair, Occasions thought in him who lodges under.'

"Don't they, though? Not a deuced thing have I been able to do since that little gipsy took the room overhead, about a week ago!

Pat--pat--pat, go those little feet over the floor, till I am as nervous as a cat in a china closet, (and _confounded_ pretty they _are_, too, for I caught sight of 'em going up stairs.) Then I can hear her little rocking-chair _creak_, as she sits there sewing, and she keeps singing, '_Love not--love not_,' (just as if a fellow could _help_ it.) Wish she wasn't quite so pretty; it makes me decidedly uncomfortable. Wonder if she has any great six-footer of a brother, or cousin with a sledge-hammer fist? Wish I was her washerwoman, or the little n.i.g.g.e.r who brings her breakfast; wish she'd faint away on the stairs; wish the house would catch fire to-night! Here I am, in this great barn of a room (all alone;) chairs and things set up square against the wall; no little feminine _fixins_ round; I shall have to buy a second-hand _bonnet_, or a pair of little gaiter-boots, to cheat myself into the delusion that there's _two of us_! Wish that little gipsy wasn't as shy as a rabbit? I can't meet her on the stairs if I die for it; I've upset my inkstand a dozen times, hopping up, when I thought I heard her coming. Wonder if she knows (when she sits vegetating there,) that Shakspeare, or Sam Slick, or somebody says, that 'happiness is born a twin?' 'cause if she don't, I'm the missionary that will enlighten her? Wonder if she earns her living, (poor little soul!) It's time I had a wife, by Christopher! (Sitting there, p.r.i.c.king her pretty little fingers with that murderous needle!) If she was sewing on _my d.i.c.keys_, it would be worth while now.

_That's it_--by Jove! _I'll get her to make me some d.i.c.keys_--don't _want_ 'em any more than Satan wants holy water, but _that's_ neither here nor there. I shall insist upon her taking the _measure of my throat_ (bachelors have a right to be _fussy_). There's a pretty kettle of fish, now; either she'll have to stand on a cricket, or I shall have to get on my knees to her! Solomon himself couldn't fix any thing better; deuce take me, if I couldn't say the right thing _then_! This fitting d.i.c.keys is a _work of time_, too. d.i.c.keys _isn't_ to be got up in a hurry.

"Halloo! there's the door-bell! there's a great big trunk dumped down in the entry! 'Is Mrs. Legare at home?' _M-r-s._ Legare?! I like _that_, now! Have I been in love a whole week with M-R-S. Legare? Never mind, _may be_ she's a _widow_! Tramp, tramp, come those masculine feet up stairs--(handsome fellow, too!) N-e-b-u-c-h-a-d-n-ezzar! If I ever heard a kiss in my life, I heard one then! I won't stand it!--it's an invasion of my rights. I'll listen at the door, as I am a sinner! 'My dear husband!!!'--p-h-e-w! What right have sea-captains on sh.o.r.e, I'd like to know? Confound it all! Well, I always _knew_ women weren't worth thinking of; a set of deceitful little monkeys; changeable as a rainbow, superficial as parrots, as full of tricks as a conjuror, stubborn as mules, vain as peac.o.c.ks, noisy as magpies, and full of the 'old Harry' _all_ the time! There's 'Delilah,' now; didn't _she_ take the 'strength' out of Sampson?--and weren't 'Sisera' and 'Judith' born _fiends_? And didn't the little minx of an Herodias dance John the Baptist's head off? Didn't Sarah 'raise _Cain_' with Abraham, till he packed Hagar off? Then there was----(well, the least said about HER, the better!) but didn't Eve, the _foremother_ of the whole concern, _have one talk too many with the old 'serpent_?' OF course; (she didn't do _nothing else_!!) Glad I never set _my_ young affections on _any_ of 'em! Where's my cigar-case! How tormented hot this room is!"

Lx.x.xII.

A CHAPTER ON CLERGYMEN.

"Oh, walk in, Mr. Jones, walk in; a minister's time isn't of much account. He ought to expect to be always ready to see his parishioners. What's the use of having a minister, if you can't use him? Never mind scattering his thoughts to the four winds, just as he gets them glowingly concentrated on some sublime subject; that's a trifle. He's been through college, hasn't he? Then he ought to know a thing or two; and be able to take up the thread of his argument where he laid it down; else where's the almighty difference between him and a layman? If he can't make a practical use of his Greek and Latin and Theology, he had better strip off his black coat, _unshake_ his 'right hand of fellowship,' and throw up his commission. Take a seat, Mr.

Jones; talk to him about your crops; make him plough over a dozen imaginary fields with you; he ought to be able to make a quick transit from 'predestination' to potatoes. Why, just think of the man's salary--_and you helping to pay it_! Nebuchadnezzar! haven't you hired him, soul and body? He don't belong to himself at all, except when he's asleep. Mind and give him a little wholesome advice before you leave; inquire how many pounds of tea he uses per week, and ask him how he came to be so unclerical as to take a ride on horseback the other day; and how much the hostler charged him for the animal, and whether he went on a gallop, or a canter, or an orthodox trot? Let him know, very decidedly, that ministers are not expected to have nerves, or head-aches, or side-aches, or heart aches. If they get weary writing (which they've no business to,) let them go down cellar and chop some wood. As to relaxation suggestive of beautiful thoughts, which a gallop on a fleet horse through the country might furnish, where the sweet air fans the aching temples caressingly, where fields of golden grain wave in the glad sunlight, where the blended beauty of sky and sea, and rock and river, and hill and valley, send a thrill of pleasure through every inlet of the soul--pshaw! that's all transcendental nonsense, fit only for green boarding-school girls and silly scribbling women,--a minister ought to be above such things, and have a heart as tough as the doctrine of election. He ought to be a regular theological sledge-hammer, always sharpened up, and ready to do execution without any unnecessary glitter. That's it!

"Fact is, Mr. Jones, (between you and I and the vestry door,) it is lucky there are some philanthropic laymen like yourself who are willing to look after these ministers. It's the more generous in you because we are all aware it's a thing you don't take the _slightest pleasure_ in doing(?) You may not get your reward for it in this world, but if you don't in the next, I shall make up _my_ mind, that Lucifer is remiss in his duty."

Lx.x.xIII.

f.a.n.n.y FERN ON HUSBANDS.

"'Husbands should by all means a.s.sist their wives in making home happy, and strive to preserve the hearts they have won.

When you return from your daily avocations, meet your beloved with a smile of joy and satisfaction--take her by the hand--imprint an affectionate kiss upon her lips.'

"Isn't that _antimonial_? Don't you do any such thing! If you've made a married woman of her, I'd like to know if that isn't an honor that she might spend a life-time trying to repay you for; and come out at the little end of the horn _at that_?

"Land of love! there's many a woman _dies_ of 'hope deferred.' Put _that_ in her ear. Ask her what in mercy she thinks would have become of her, if you hadn't taken pity on her. Make her sensible of her beatified condition. Just tell her that any 'little favor' you do for her now, is an extra touch of philanthropy; that you may possibly go whole days without noticing her at all--except to stow away the food she prepares for you;--that, as to thanking her for every b.u.t.ton she sews on, Caesar! the boot is on the _other foot_! and should she lose her beauty or get sickly, of course she can't expect you'll care as much for her as when she was bran-new--the idea is absurd. She has no business to grow ugly; and as to sickness, it _would_ be stepping off your pedestal to be puttering round, inquiring whether your wife's gruel was furnished at the right time or not; you've got other things to do, of more importance; such as betting on elections, peeping into concerts and theatres, and so forth.

"'He might take _me_, too.' You nonsensical little nuisance! In the first place--he--he--he--well, the upshot of it is, _he don't want you_! it would spoil all his fun. So just sit down in your rocking-chair and contemplate your stocking-basket; and if your spirits droop for change of scene, for a kind word, or a loving glance--that's nothing! You can die any time you get ready; he will stop mourning for you long before the weed on his hat gets rusty.

Besides, the world is full of women--a real crowd of 'em; he knows that well enough; dare say he'd be obliged to you to pop off.

'Variety is the spice of life.'

"So there's the map before you, my dear. _That's all there is of Life._ If you've got married, you've climbed to the top of the hill--so now you can do as the rest of the wives do--stand still and crow a little while; and then commence your descent. No new discoveries to be made that _I know of_. Cry, if you feel like it--pocket handkerchiefs are only ninepence a-piece now."

Lx.x.xIV.

f.a.n.n.y'S IDEAS ABOUT MONEY MATTERS.

"'The Military Argus has a long and prosy article headed 'How to make Home Happy.' A friend of ours has now a work in preparation, which solves the question--'It is to give your wife as much money as she asks for.' This entirely abolishes the necessity of kisses and soft sawder.'

_True Flag, Aug. 28._

"Betty! throw up the windows, loosen my belt, and bring me my vinaigrette!

"It's no use to faint, or go into hysterics, because there's n.o.body here just now that understands my case! but I'd have you to understand, sir----(fan me, Betty!) that----o-o-h!----that----(Julius Caesar, what a Hottentot!) that if you have a wife _as is a wife_, neither 'kisses,' 'soft sawder,' or 'money,' can ever repay her for what she is to you!

"Listen to me! Do you remember when you were sick? _Who_ tip-toe-d round your room, arranging the shutters and curtain-folds with an instinctive knowledge of light, to a ray, that your tortured head could bear? Who turned your pillow on the cool side, and parted the thick, matted locks from your hot temples? Who moved gla.s.ses and spoons and phials without collision or _jingle_? Who looked at you with a compa.s.sionate smile, when you persisted you 'wouldn't take your medicine because it tasted so bad;' and kept a sober face, when you lay chafing there like a caged lion, calling for cigars and newspapers, and mint-juleps, and whiskey punches? Who migrated, unceasingly and uncomplainingly, from the big baby before her to the little baby in the cradle, without sleep, food, or rest? Who tempted your convalescent appet.i.te with some rare dainty of her own making, and got fretted at because there was 'not sugar enough in it?' Who was omnipresent in chamber, kitchen, parlor and nursery, keeping the domestic wheels in motion that there should be no jar in the machinery? Who oiled the creaking door, that set your quivering nerves in a twitter? Who ordered tan to be strewn before the house, that your slumbers might be unbroken by noisy carriage wheels? Who never spoke of weary feet or shooting pains in the side, or chest, as she toiled up and down stairs to satisfy imaginary wants, that 'n.o.body but wife'

could attend to? and who, when you got well and moved about the house just as good as new, choked down the tears, as you poised the half dollar she asked you for, on your forefinger, while you inquired 'how she spent the last one?'

"'_Give her what money she_ ASKS for!' Julius Caesar! (Betty! come here and carry away my miserable remains!) n.o.body but a _polar bear_ or a _Hottentot_ would WAIT to have a wife '_ask_' for 'money!'"

Lx.x.xV.

A LETTER TO A SELF-EXILED FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

"Dear Norah:--'Tell you the news!' Ah, I _knew you'd come to it_! I was _sure_ you'd tire of your _oyster life_, up there in the mountains. Pleasant, isn't it--after dandelions and b.u.t.tercups have ceased to be a novelty--after you know who lives in the little brown house opposite, and who in the hut at the end of the lane? After you have read through that 'Alpha and Omega' of a country library--_the Almanac_! After you've watched your landlady wash dishes, and feed pigs, and make b.u.t.ter, till you are qualified to take a diploma in those branches yourself! After you've seen the old rooster fight his hen-harem till they are subjugated to his lordly mind! After you've listened to the drowsy hum of insect life, till you are _half a vegetable_ yourself! After you have seen the old ricketty front door fastened up, when the hens go to roost, and every soul in the house in the 'land of Nod,' and you sitting at your window, _expiring_ for a new sensation, though it come in the shape of a lightning stroke, or a tornado! listening compulsorily to the doleful doxology of the cricket, and the _base_ voluntary of the bullfrog, and lamenting that brick and mortar are _unfashionable_ in dog-days! True, 'tis a pity--pity 'tis true--that the _mind rusts_, while the _body flourishes_, in the country.

"Not less to be avoided, is that mockery of comfort, a gay watering-place; where neither mind nor body can remain _en dishabille_ for one blessed hour. Where slander, and gossip, and humbug, reign triumphant; where caps and characters are pulled to pieces by the feminines, and the chart of _conquest_ is marked out (without a shoal or quicksand,) by the _gentlemen_. Where half a year's salary is spent in a week by the ambitious dandy, (in embryo,) who gets laughed at for his pains and pretensions, and returns with damaged pockets and wardrobe to his attic room, to be dunned remorselessly by tailor and laundress for many a pitiless day. Where the simpering demoiselle who has cried 'give, give,' to papa's pocket-book, till it is as dry as 'Gideon's fleece,' catches in the net of her one hundred dollar shawl and ruinous silk, some brainless fop, who finds, too late, that '_papa's stocks_' are--_nowhere_!

"No! no! Commend _me_ to _home_, with all its little familiar comforts. Small they may be, but indispensable. Your nice little rocking-chair, where you have had so many pleasant reveries--_that_ 'porte feuille,' and the memory of the friend who gave it you, and the thousand little mementos that meet your eye, all suggestive of _happiness_.