Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)

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KITTY'S RESOLVE.

It would puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to tell why Kitty Gray looks so serious as she sits by her latticed window this bright summer morning. Is she not the undisputed belle of ---- ?--adored by the young men, envied by the girls, who try in vain to find out the spell by which she monopolizes all hearts. Has she, at last, found one insensible mortal, cold-hearted enough to resist all love's artillery? That would be a novelty for Kitty! Has she detected a gray hair stealing in among her tresses, or an incipient crow's-foot at the corner of her eye? Banish the thought, at sweet eighteen!

Mirror never reflected back lovelier tresses, brighter eyes, a fairer brow, or more symmetrical form. The hand her cheek rests on is faultless, and her foot is as perfect as a model. Ah, Miss Kitty, you were cut out for a coquette, but spoilt in the making! Nature gave you a heart. You are neither making a female Alexander of yourself by sighing for fresh hearts to conquer, nor considering profoundly the fashion of your next ball-dress. You have lived eighteen years in this blessed world, and your life has been all sunshine. Why not?

Beauty and wealth have made you omnipotent; but

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you are weary of your crown. My little queen has on her "thinking cap," and it becomes that sweet brow passing well. She wonders, "Is this all of life?" Has a pretty woman nothing to do but smile and look captivating, and admire herself? She might as well be the marble Venus in her dressing-room! And then she casts her mental eye over the circle of her acquaintance. For aught she sees, they are quite satisfied with the same butterfly existence. Women frivolous; men, on the coxcomb order,--all but Harvey Fay. He is talented; owns a soul; is not dependent on a moustache or French boots for happiness; is refined in all his tastes, and a gentleman in the highest sense of the word; can sing the soul out of you, and make time fly faster than any man you ever saw. Alas! that there must always be a "but!" Harvey, the peerless Harvey, had one sad foible--and it was that which had clouded Kitty's brow and saddened her heart. True, it had not, as yet, become a fixed habit, but where was the security for the future?

And so Kitty sat leaning her cheek upon her hand, and wondering if a woman's power, if her nice tact and delicacy, were not bestowed upon her for something better than to further her own selfish purposes? Harvey was sensitive, proud and high-spirited,--it must be a very gentle hand that would turn him back from that dizzy precipice. Could she not save him? She resolved

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to try; she would exert her power--for once--for some noble purpose.

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It was a gay scene--that ballroom! The fairy forms that floated down the dance, with flowing tresses and sparkling eyes, and snowy necks, might have bewildered the sober head of age. Soft, entrancing music, brilliant lights, and the overpowering perfume of myriad sweet flowers, all lent their aid to complete the spell. Kitty shone, as usual, the brightest star of the evening. One cannot gaze long at a "star" without being dazzled; so how can I describe it? I can only say Kitty was irresistible. One minute you'd think it was her eyes; then, the little dimpled hand that rested on your arm; then, her golden ringlets, or the tiny feet that supported that swaying, graceful figure. As to her eyes, whether black, or blue, or hazel, you could not tell. You only knew it was very dangerous looking at them long at a time, unless you had made up your mind to surrender.

Well, Kitty had received her usual share of homage, with her usual sweet nonchalance, and now accepted the arm of a gentleman to the supper-table, where wit flew like champagne corks, and hearts were lost and won with a celerity worthy this progressive age. Harvey was as handsome as he well could be, and be mortal; in high good-humor, and as felicitous as only he knew how to be, in saying a thousand brilliant nothings.

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Kitty followed him with her eyes, and saw him, ere long, retire to a side-table, and, turning out a glass of wine, hold it to his lips. In an instant she was by his side.

"It is mine!" said she, playfully, extending her little hand to grasp it; but there was a deep glow upon her cheek, and an earnest, imploring look in her eyes, that said more than her words, and deepened the flush on Harvey's temples.

"As you will, fair lady," said he, with a slight shade of embarrassment; "but wherefore?"

"O, only a woman's whim!" said Kitty. "You are not true knight, if you cannot serve a lady without a reason."

"I'd serve you forever!" said Harvey, as he looked admiringly upon her changing countenance.

"Then drink no wine to-night, unless I fill the glass for you," said she, smiling, as she joined the dancers.

"Only a woman's whim!" Harvey did n't believe it. "How very lovely she looked! What could she mean? Could it be she thought him in danger? Had he gone so far, almost imperceptibly to himself? Could Kitty think that of him? Pshaw! it could n't be;" and he drew himself proudly up. "It must be some girlish nonsense,--a wager, or a bet of some kind. But that imploring, timid look! O there was something in it,

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after all! He would n't be so tortured; he would know before he slept that night."

There's an end to all things, and balls are no exception. Happy cavaliers were performing the agreeable duty of settling refractory shawls upon round, white shoulders. "Rigoletts" were to be tied under pretty chins, and lace kerchiefs around swan-like throats.

These interminable matters being concluded, Kitty accepted Harvey as her escort home. They talked about a thousand little nothings, about which neither cared, when Harry cut it all short, very suddenly, with,

"Miss Gray, will you tell me frankly why you 'tabooed' that glass of wine?"

All Kitty's practiced self-possession forsook her. She hesitated a moment;--she feared to wound his feelings. No, she would not falter! So she said, in a clear, low voice, while her long lashes swept her cheek, "Because I knew that to you it was a poisoned draught, Mr. Fay; and I were not true friend did I fail to warn you. You will not be vexed with me?" said she, with winning sweetness, as she extended him her hand.

Harvey's answer is not recorded; but it is sufficient to say, that the secret of his high legal eminence is known only to the belle of ----.

Alas! that woman, gifted with an angel's powers, sent on an angel's mission, should so often be content with the butterfly life of a pleasure-seeking fashionist!

WOMAN.

"If a woman once errs,
     Kick her down, kick her down;
If misfortune is hers,
     Kick her down;
Though her tears fall like rain,
And she ne'er smiles again,
     Kick her down.

If man breaks her heart,
     Kick her down, kick her down;
Redouble the smart--
     Kick her down;
And if low her condition,
On, on to perdition,--
     Kick her down."

Ay! pass her by on the other side; speak no word of encouragement to her; measure not her fall by her temperament, or her temptations, but by the frigidity of your own unsolicited, pharisaical heart. Leave no door of escape open; close your homes and your hearts; crush every human feeling in her soul; teach her that the Bible and religion are a fable; check the repentant prayer on her Magdalen lip; thrust her back upon the cruel

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tender mercies of those who rejoice at her fall; send her forth with her branded beauty, like a blight and a mildew. "Stand aside, for thou art holier;"--holier than the Sinless, whose feet were bathed with her tears, "and wiped with the hairs of her head." Cast the "first stone" at her, O thou whited sepulchre! though those holy lips could say, "Neither do I condemn thee,--go and sin no more."

THE PASSIONATE FATHER.

"Greater is he who ruleth his spirit, than he who taketh a city."

"Come here, sir!" said a strong, athletic man, as he seized a delicate-looking lad by the shoulder. "You've been in the water again, sir! Have n't I forbidden it?"

"Yes, father, but--"

"No 'buts!'--have n't I forbidden it, hey?"

"Yes, sir. I was--"

"No reply, sir!" and the blows fell like a hail-storm about the child's head and shoulders.

Not a tear started from Harry's eye, but his face was deadly pale, and his lips firmly compressed, as he rose and looked at his father with an unflinching eye.

"Go to your room, sir, and stay there till you are sent for. I'll master that spirit of yours before you are many days older!"

Ten minutes after, Harry's door opened, and his mother glided gently in. She was a fragile, delicate woman, with mournful blue eyes, and temples startlingly transparent. Laying her hand softly upon Harry's head, she stooped and kissed his forehead.

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The rock was touched, and the waters gushed forth. "Dear mother!" said the weeping boy.

"Why did n't you tell your father that you plunged into the water to save the life of your playmate?"

"Did he give me a chance?" said Harry, springing to his feet, with a flashing eye. "did n't he twice bid me be silent, when I tried to explain? Mother, he's a tyrant to you and to me!"

"Harry, he's my husband and your father!"

"Yes, and I'm sorry for it. What have I ever had but blows and harsh words? Look at your pale cheeks and sunken eyes, mother! It's too bad, I say! He's a tyrant, mother!" said the boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth; "and if it were not for you, I would have been leagues off long ago. And there's Nellie, too, poor, sick child! What good will all her medicine do her? She trembles like a leaf when she hears his footsteps. I say, 't is brutal, mother!"

'Harry"--and a soft hand was laid on the impetuous boy's lips--"for my sake--"

"Well, 't is only for your sake,--yours and poor Nellie's,--or I should be on the sea somewhere--anywhere but here."

Late that night, Mary Lee stole to her boy's bedside, before retiring to rest. "God be thanked, he sleeps!" she murmured, as she shaded her lamp from his face. Then, kneeling at his bedside, she prayed for patience

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and wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the heavy cross under which her steps were faltering; and then she prayed for her husband.

"No, no, not that!" said Harry, springing from his pillow, and throwing his arms about her neck. "I can forgive him what he has done to me, but I never will forgive him what he has made you suffer. Don't pray for him,--at least, don't let me hear it!"

Mary Lee was too wise to expostulate. She knew her boy was spirit-sore, under the sense of recent injustice; so she lay down beside him, and, resting her tearful cheek against his, repeated, in a low, sweet voice, the story of the crucifixion. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!" fell upon his troubled ear. He yielded to the holy spell.

"I will!" he sobbed. "Mother, you are an angel; and if I ever get to heaven, it will be your hand that has led me there."

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There was hurrying to and fro in Robert Lee's house that night. It was a heavy hand that dealt those angry blows on that young head!

The passionate father's repentance came too late,--came with the word that his boy must die!

"Be kind to her!" said Harry, as his head drooped on his mother's shoulder.

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It was a dearly-bought lesson! Beside that lifeless corpse, Robert Lee renewed his marriage vow; and now, when the hot blood of anger rises to his temples, and the hasty word springs to his lip, the pale face of the dead rises up between him and the offender, and an angel voice whispers, "Peace, be still!"

THE PARTIAL MOTHER.

Fancy that little, pale, neglected, sensitive child, meekly returning that touching answer to the mother of her petted, beautiful sister! Who would not find a warm corner in their heart for her? Who would not hasten to make those sad, pensive eyes beam happiness? Who would not raise her estimate of her own powers, chilled and crushed in the germ, by the hand that should wipe away every childish tear? Ah! "the coat of many colors" is not yet worn out. The sullen brow of defiance, or the early grave, is too often the sad penalty. Other Josephs and Ishmaels may yet "thirst in the desert;" other Jacobs and Elis have their "gray hairs brought with sorrow to the grave." How seldom is equal justice done to the children of a large family! The superficial, the brilliant, the showy, the witty, throw a dazzling glare over parental eyes. They mark not the less gifted, but often warmer-hearted, child, as she creeps with swelling heart and filling eyes to some unnoticed corner, to sob, with passionate tears, "Ah, it's only me!"

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Frown not, impatience, at the little, shrinking creature at your side,--slow of speech and stammering of tongue, turning his eye timidly even from a mother's glance,--because the quick flush of embarrassment mounts to his forehead, and he stands not up with a bold, flashing eye, to answer the pleased guest! Chide him not! Let him hide his tearful eye and blushing cheek in the folds of your dress, if he will; put a loving arm about him, and let him creep to your heart, and nestle there, till the little dove gains courage to flutter and soar with a strong wing. He shall yet, eagle-like, face the sun! You shall yet scarce keep in sight his soaring pinions! Bear with him yet a while, ambitious mother!

THE BALL-ROOM AND THE NURSERY.

"You are quite beautiful to-night," said Frank Fearing to his young wife, as she entered the drawing-room dressed for a ball; "I shall fall in love with you over again. What! not a smile for your lover-husband? and a tear in your eye, too! What does this mean, dearest?"

Mary leaned her beautiful head upon her husband's shoulder, and turned pale as she said:

"Frank, I feel a strange, sad presentiment of some impending evil; from whence, I cannot tell. I have striven to banish it, but it will not go away. I had not meant to speak of it to you, lest you should think me weak or superstitious; and, Frank," said his sweet wife, in pleading tones, "this is a frivolous life we lead. We are all the world to each other,--why frequent such scenes as these? A fearful shadow lies across my path. Stay at home with me, dearest; I dare not go to-night."

Frank looked at her thoughtfully a moment, then, gayly kissing her, he said,

"This vile east wind has given you the blues; the more

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reason you should not give yourself time to think of them; beside, do you think me such a Blue Beard as to turn the key on so bright a jewel as yourself? No, no, Mary, I would have others see it sparkle and shine, and envy me its possession; so throw on your cloak, little wife, and let us away."

"Stop a moment, then," said Mary, with a smile and a sigh, "let me kiss little Walter before I go; he lies in his little bed so rosy and so bright. Come with me, Frank, and look at him."

With kisses on lip, brow, and cheek, the child slumbered on, and the carriage rolled away from the door to the ball.

It was a brilliant scene; that ball-room!--Necks and arms, that shamed for whiteness the snowy robes that floated around them; eyes rivalling the diamond's light; tresses whose hue was borrowed from the sun; manhood's peerless form and noble brow; odorous garlands, flashing lights, music to make the young blood race more swiftly through the veins; all--all--were there, to intoxicate and bewilder.

Peerless in the midst--queen of hearts and of the dance--stood the young wife of Frank Fearing. Accepting the offered hand of an acquaintance, she took her place among the waltzers. She made a few turns upon the floor, then, pale as death, she turned to her husband, saying,

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"O, Frank, I cannot,--I feel such an oppression here, here;" and she placed her hand on heart and brow.

Frank looked annoyed; he was very fond of his wife; her beauty was the admiration of the room. She had never looked lovelier than to-night. Whispering in her ear, "For my sake, Mary, conquer this weakness," he led her again to the dancer. With a smile of gratified pride he followed her with his eyes, as her fairy form floated past him, excitement and exercise lending again to her cheek its loveliest glow, while on all sides murmurs of "Beautiful,--most beautiful!" fell on his ear. "And that bright vision is mine," said Frank to himself; "I have won her from hearts that were breaking for her."

When the dance was over, following her to the window, he arranged her scarf about her neck, with a fond care; and with a "Thank you, dearest," was leaving her, when she again laid her hand upon his arm, saying, with a wild brilliancy in her eye, "Frank! something has happened to Walter! take me home now."

"Pshaw! Mary, dear; you looked so radiant, I thought you had danced the vapors away. One more, dearest, and then, if you say so, we will go."

Suffering herself to be persuaded, again those tiny feet were seen spurning the floor; towards the close, her face grew so deadly pale, that her husband, in alarm, flew to her side.

"The effort costs you too much, Mary," said Frank;

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"let us go home." He wrapped her cloak carefully about her. She was still, and cold as a marble statue.

As her carriage stopped at their door, she rushed past him with the swiftness of an antelope, and, gaining her boy's chamber, Frank heard her exclaim, as she fell senseless to the floor, "I knew it, I told you so!" The child was dead.

The servant in whose care it had been left,--following the example of her mistress,--had joined some friends in a dance in the hall. That terrible scourge of children, the croup, had attacked him, and alone, in the still darkness, the fair boy wrestled with the "King of Terrors."

From whence came the sad presentiment that clouded the fair brow of the mother; or the mysterious magnetism drawing her so irresistibly back to her dying child? Who shall tell?

For months she lay vibrating between life and death.

"Yet the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart,
      And taken her treasure away;
To allure her to Heaven, he has placed it on high,
      And the mourner will sweetly obey."

"There had whispered a voice,--'t was the voice of her God,--
'I love thee!  I love thee! pass under the rod!"

* * * * * * * *

Other fair children now call her "mother;" but never again, with flying feet, has she chased the midnight hours away. Nightly, as they return, they find her within the

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quiet circle of home,--within call of helpless childhood. Dearer than the admiration of the gay throng,--sweeter to her than viol or harp,--is the music of their young voices, and tenderly she leads their little feet "into the green pastures and unto the still waters of salvation;" blest with the smile of the Good Shepherd, who saith, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not."

ALL'S WELL.

"Twelve o'clock at night, and all's well!"

False prophet! Still and statue-like, at yonder window, stands the wife. The clock has told the small hours; yet her face is pressed closely against the window-pane, striving in vain, with straining eye, to pierce the darkness. She sees nothing; she hears nothing, but the beating of her own heart. Now she takes her seat; opens a small Bible, and seeks from it what comfort she may, while tears blister the pages. Then she clasps her hands, and her lips are tremulous with mute supplication. Hist! There is an unsteady step in the hall; she knows it! Many a time and oft it has trod on her very heart-strings. She glides down gently to meet the wanderer. He falls heavily against her; and, in maudlin tones, pronounces a name he had long since forgotten "to honor." O, all-enduring power of woman's love! No reproach, no upbraiding--the slight arm passed around that reeling figure, once erect in "God's own image." With tender words of entreaty, which he is powerless to resist, if he would, she leads him in. It is but a repetition of a thousand such vigils! It is the performance of a vow,

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with a heroism and patient endurance too common and everyday to be chronicled on earth; too holy and heavenly to pass unnoticed by the "registering angel" above!

"All's well!"

False prophet! In yonder luxurious room sits one whose curse it was to be fair as a dream of Eden. Time was when those clear eyes looked lovingly into a mother's face--when a gray-haired father laid his trembling hand, with a blessing, on that sunny head--when brothers' and sisters' voices blended with her own, in heart-music, around that happy hearth. O! where are they now? Are there none to say to the repenting Magdalen, "Neither do I condemn thee,--go, and sin no more?" Must the gilded fetter continue to bind the soul that loathes it, because man is less merciful than God?

"All's well!"

False prophet! There lies the dead orphan. In all the length and breadth of the green earth there was found no sheltering nest where that lonely dove could fold its wings, when the parent birds had flown. The brooding wing was gone, that covered it from the cold winds of neglect and unkindness. Love was its life; and so it drooped!

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"All's well!"

False prophet! Sin walks the earth in purple and fine linen; honest poverty, with tear-bedewed face, hungers and shivers and thirsts, "while the publican stands afar off!" The widow pleads in vain to the ermined judge for "justice;" and, unpunished of Heaven, the human tiger crouches in his lair, and springs upon his helpless prey!

"All's well!"

Ah, yes, all is well!--for "He who seeth the end from the beginning" holds evenly the scales of justice. "Dives" shall yet beg of "Lazarus." Every human tear is counted. They shall yet sparkle as gems in the crown of the patient and enduring disciple! When the clear, broad light of eternity shines upon life's crooked paths, we shall see the snares and pitfalls from which our hedge of thorns has fenced us in; and, in the maturity of our full-grown faith, we shall exultingly say,--"Father! not as I will, but as Thou wilt!"

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