The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 4

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 "f.a.n.n.y 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 "f.a.n.n.y 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.

f.a.n.n.y's sentiments on this subject are decidedly contradictory. If one were to read any two of her articles, without a definite knowledge of her circ.u.mstances, 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-gla.s.s; 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 d.i.c.kies, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 pa.s.s 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-l.u.s.tre 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 b.u.mps 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.

f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y's wit and genius, and this friendly tribute gave birth to

"MISS f.a.n.n.y 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, p.u.s.s.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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."