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

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LITTLE MAY.

"I wonder who made God? Mamma don't know. I thought mamma knew everything. The minister don't know, because I asked him. I wonder do the angels know? I wonder shall I know, when I go to heaven?"

Dear little May! She looked like an angel then, as she stood under the linden-tree, with her eyes fixes on the far-off sky, and the sunlight falling on that golden hair, till it shone like a glory round her head. You would have loved our little May,--not because her face had such a pensive sweetness in it, or that her step was light as a fawn's, or her little limbs so gracefully moulded,--but because her heart was full of love for every living thing which God had made. One day I rambled with her in the wood. She had gathered her favorite flowers,--the tiniest and most delicate;--the air was full of music, and the breeze laden with fragrance; the little birds were not happier than we. Little May stood still; her large eyes grew moist with happy tears, and, dropping her little treasures of moss, leaves, and flowers, at my feet, she said, "Dear Fanny, let me pray."

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She knew that the good God scattered all this beauty so lavishly about us, and she could not enjoy it without thanking Him. Dear little May! we listen in vain for her voice of music now.

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PART II.

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NICODEMUS NEY.
A DASH AT A CHARACTER WHOM EVERYBODY HAS SEEN.

Mr. Nicodemus Ney is a philanthropist,--so the world says; (and I, as in duty bound, have a great respect for the opinion of the world;) that is, he goes about collecting ninepences and half-dollars from poor, overtasked servant girls, and half-fed clerks, for the founding of "charitable institutions" for all sorts of distressed persons, who never knew what an unfortunate situation they were in, until he told them.

How much of the money thus obtained is paid out for the purpose specified is "nothing to nobody!" He often takes long journeys to Niagara, and other places of fashionable resort; but it would be very malicious "to put that and that together." Some of the donors, too, are occasionally impertinent enough to inquire, point blank, what has become of their funds! As if a man who belongs to the church, wears such a long face, fortified with such a white and stiff cravat, makes such long prayers, and has such a narrow creed, could be anything but the quintessence of honesty! It is astonishing how

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suspicious and impertinent some people are! Beside, don't Nicodemus dine once a week with the Hon. Dives Doncaster? And is he not always on the platform on all public occasions, as solemn as an owl, alongside of the other great guns? You can see, with half an eye, that suspicion of him is perfectly ridiculous.

Should Mr. Nicodemus Ney sit toasting his feet at the fire, after a surfeiting dinner, and should a poor, down-trodden creature come in for relief, you could not expect him to disturb his digestion by attending to such a petty case of distress. He is a great man, and only does things on a large scale,--on a scale that will tell! Beside, it is his forte to draw money out of people's pockets, not to put it in.

Very circumspect is Nicodemus. It would puzzle you to keep track of any of his personal or domestic expenditures; all his bargains are strictly "private," and he was never known to answer the simplest question without first doubling Cape Look-out! Is he attacked? He goes whining to "Dives;" and I would like to see any dog bark when a rich man tells him to hold his tongue.

And so Nicodemus grows fatter and sleeker every year, keeping wrinkled and rumors at bay. The poor draw a long, hopeless sigh as he passes them, and the uninitiated touch their hats respectfully, and say, "It is Nicodemus Ney, the great philanthropist!"

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ADVICE TO LADIES.

When the spirit moves you to amuse yourself with "shopping," be sure to ask the clerk for a thousand-and-one articles you have no intention of buying. Never mind about the trouble you make him; that's part of the trade. Pull the fingers of the gloves you are examining quite out of shape; inquire for some nondescript color, or some scarce number, and, when it is found, "think you won't take any this morning;" then, keep him an hour hunting for your sun-shade, which you, at length, recollect you "left at home;" and depart without having invested a solitary cent.

When you enter a crowded lecture-room, and a gentleman rises politely,--as American gentlemen always do,--and offers to give up his seat,--which he came an hour ago to secure for himself,--take it, as a matter of course; and don't trouble yourself to thank him, even with a nod of your head. As to feeling uneasy about accepting it, that is ridiculous! because, if he don't fancy standing during the service, he is at liberty to go home; it is a free country!

When you enter the cars, and all the eligible places

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are occupied, select one to your mind; then walk up to the gentleman, who is gazing at the fine scenery through the open window, and ask him for it, with a queenly air, as if he would lose caste instanter, did he hesitate to comply. Should any persons seat themselves near you, not exactly of "your stamp," gather up the folds of your dress cautiously, as if you were afraid of contagion, and apply a "vinaigrette" to your patrician nose!

Understand, thoroughly, the dexterous use of a sun-shade, in enabling you to avoid the infliction of a "bore," or an "unpresentable person," in the street; avoiding, under that shield, the unladylike impropriety of the "cut direct,"--allowable only in cases of undisguised impertinence.

Should you receive an invitation to a concert, manage to accept it,--conditionally;--leaving a door to escape, should a more eligible offer present itself.

When solicited to sing at a party, decline, until you have drawn around you the proper number of entreating swains; then yield gracefully, as if it were a great sacrifice of your timidity.

Flirt with an admirer to the last end of the chapter, and then "be so taken by surprise" when he makes the declaration you were driving at! As "practice makes perfect," every successful attempt of this nature will render you more expert at angling for hearts, besides exerting a very beneficial effect upon your character.

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As to cultivating your mind, that is all waste powder; you have better ammunition to attack the enemy; and as to cultivating your heart, there is no use in talking about a thing that is unfashionable! So, always bear in mind that all a pretty woman is sent into the world for, is to display the fashions as they come out; waltz, flirt, dance, sing, and play the mischief generally!

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THE MODEL WIDOW.

Would not wear her veil up, on any account;--thinks her complexion looks fairer than ever, in contrast with her sables;--sends back her new dress, because the fold of crape on the skirt "is not deep mourning enough;"--steadfastly refuses to look in the direction of a "dress coat" for--one week!--wonders if that handsome Tompkins, who passes her window every day, is insane enough to think she will ever marry again;--is fond of drawing off her glove, and resting her little, white hand on her black bonnet, thinking it may be suggestive of an early application for the same;--concludes to give up the loneliness of housekeeping, and try boarding at a hotel;--accepts Tompkins' invitation to "attend the children's concert," just to please little Tommy. Tommy is delighted, and thinks Tompkins "a very kind gentleman," to give him so much candy and so many bonbons. His mamma begins to admit certain alleviations of her sorrow, in the shape or protracted conversations, walks, rides, calls, &c. She cries a little, when Tommy asks her if she has not "forgotten to plant the flowers" in a certain cemetery. Tompkins comes in, and thinks her love-

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lier than ever, smiling through her tears. Tommy is sent out into the garden, to make "pretty dirt pies,"--to the utter demolition of a new frock and trousers,--and returns very unexpectedly, to find his mamma's cheeks very rosy, and to be tossed up in the air by Tompkins, who declares himself "his new papa."

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THE MODEL WIDOWER.

Begins to think of No. 2 before the weed on his hat loses its first gloss;--may be seen assisting young girls to find a seat in church, or ordering carts off dry crossings, for pretty feet that are waiting to pass over;--is convinced he "never was made to live alone;"--his "children must be looked after," or, if he has not any, he would like to be looked after--himself;--draws a deep sigh every time a dress rustles past, with a female woman in it;--is very particular about the polish of his boots and the fit of his gloves;--thinks he looks very interesting in black;--don't walk out in public much with his children; when he does, takes the youngest;--revives his old taste for moonlight and poetry;--pities single men with all his heart; wonders how they contrive to exist!--reproves little John for saying "Pa" so loud, when he meets him in the street;--sets his face against the practice of women's going home "alone and unprotected" from evening meeting;--tells the widows his heart aches for them!--wonders which, of all the damsels he sees, he shall make up his mind to marry;--is sorry he shall be obliged to disappoint them all but one!--has long since preferred

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orange-blossoms to the cypress-wreath;--starts up, some fine day, and refurnishes his house from garret to cellar;--hangs his first wife's portrait in the attic,--shrouded in an old blanket,--and marries a playmate for his oldest daughter.

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THE TEAR OF A WIFE.

"The tear of a loving girl is like a dew-drop on a rose; but on the cheek of a wife, is a drop of poison to her husband."

It is "an ill wind that blows nobody any good." Papas will be happy to hear that twenty-five dollar pocket-handkerchiefs can be dispensed with now, in the bridal trousseau. Their "occupation's gone"! Matrimonial tears "are poison." There is no knowing what you will do, girls, with that escape-valve shut off; but that is no more to the point, than--whether you have anything to smile at or not; one thing is settled--you must not cry! Never mind back-aches, and side-aches, and head-aches, and dropsical complaints, and smoky chimneys, and old coats, and young babies! Smile! It flatters your husband. He wants to be considered the source of your happiness, whether he was baptized Nero or Moses! Your mind never being supposed to be occupied with any other subject than himself, of course a tear is a tacit reproach. Besides, you miserable little whimperer! what have you to cry for? A-i-n-t y-o-u m-a-r-r-i-e-d? Is n't that the summum bonum,--the height of feminine ambition? You can't get beyond that! It

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is the jumping-off place! You've arriv!--got to the end of your journey! Stage puts up there! You have nothing to do but retire on your laurels, and spend the rest of your life endeavoring to be thankful that you are Mrs. John Smith! "Smile!" you simpleton!

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EDITORS.

We know of no state of slavery on earth like that attendant upon the newspaper life, whether it be as director or subordinate. Your task never ended, your responsibility never secured, the last day's work is forgotten at the close of the day on which it appeared, and the dragon of tomorrow waits open-mouthed to devour your thoughts, and snap up one morsel more of your vexed existence. Be as successful as is the nature of things to be;--write with the least possible degree of exertion;--be indifferent to praise, and lion-hearted against blame;--still will the human heart wear out before its time, and your body, if not your mind, exhibit every symptom of dry rot.--Newspaper

"Dry" fiddlestick! That man's dinner did not digest; or the wind was "dead east;" or his wife had astonished him with a pair of twins; or his boots pinched him.

I will wager you a new neck-tie that he is one of the cross-grained sort, who would go to fisticuffs with Gabriel and raise a rebellion in Paradise. There is not a word of truth in what he says. I have been behind the curtain, and I will speak this time! I tell you that editors are just the fattest, sleekest, happiest, most rolicksome, the cleverest, brightest, most intelligent and lovable set of humans in existence; and the only reason they don't

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"own up," is because they are afraid to let the world in general know how many little favors and perquisites fall to their lot!

They go down to the office in the morning,--after a careful toilette and a comforting breakfast,--make up a fire in the stove hot enough to roast an Icelander, "hermetically seal" every door and window, put on a pair of old slippers, light a cigar, draw up a huge easy-chair, stick their feet up twice as high as their heads, and--proceed to business (?); that is to say, between the whiffs of that cigar they tell excruciatingly funny stories, poke each other in the ribs, agree to join the mutual admiration society, retail all the "wire-pulling" behind the scenes, calculate which way the political cat is going to jump, and shape the paragraphs accordingly;--tell who threw that huge bouquet, at last night's concert, to Madam Fitz Humbug;--shake hands, and make room for all the "hale-fellows-well-met" that drop in to see them;--keep their intellects sharpened up by collision with the bright and gifted,--in short, live in one perpetual clover-field, and when they die, all the newspapers write nice little obituary notices, and give them a free pass to Paradise. I would like to know if that looks like a "vexed existence?"

Time would fail me to tell of the wedding-cake, and flowers, and fruits, and annuals, embroidered purses and tasselled smoking-caps, pretty little notes, braided watch-

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chains, the handkerchiefs they get perfumed, and gloves mended,--for nothing!

How everybody nudges his neighbor, when they appear at lecture, or concert, or opera, and says, "There's that clever fellow, the editor of The Comet!" How he has a season-ticket to a free seat by a Frog Pond; how he has,--but there is no use in telling all a body knows! Christopher Columbus! Editor's life a "vexed existence!"

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BACHELOR HOUSEKEEPING.

I think I see him! Ragged dressing-gown; beard two days old; depressed dickey; scowling face; out at elbows, out of sorts, and--out of "toast!" Poor thing! Don't the sight make my heart ache? How should he be expected to know that bread was the fore runner of toast, without a wife to tell him?

Bachelors never cut their "wisdom teeth!" It is astonishing how people can make themselves merry at their expense. I consider their case calls for the deepest commiseration. It is not toast they want,--it is a wife! Toast will naturally follow,--and in fine order, too! But, bless your soul! the poor creaturs don't know, half the time, what ails them. They have a general undefined feeling of discomfort which they cannot account for; never can find their winter or summer

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clothes when they want them; moths eat up all their woolens; the washerwoman ruins their flannels,--letting them soak in the water,--scorches their Sunday dickey, and irons off their shirt-buttons; stockings get mis-mated;--if you pulled off their boots, you would find they were--"Odd Fellows!" Silk neck-ties want hemming; when they run their arm into a coat-sleeve it gets tangled in a ragged lining; lose their portemonnaies, because the daylight shines through their pockets; fingers all peeping out their gloves; miss half their duds, moving from one boarding-house to another; chamber-maids thumb their nice books with greasy fingers, use all their Cologne, and make acquaintance with their head and tooth brush; let all their letters and notes,--everything but their tailor's bills--stay downstairs a week before they are delivered.

Poor things!--they feel themselves perfect ciphers, every time they see a family man go strutting past, like chanticleer with his hen and chickens! Afraid to ask a woman to have them, for fear she will say "No!" Ain't their sufferings intolerable?

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BORROWED LIGHT.

"Don't rely too much on the torches of others;--light one of your own."

Don't you do it!--borrowed light is all the fashion. For instance, you wake up some morning, fully persuaded that your destiny lies undeveloped in an ink stand. Well, select some popular writer; read over his or her articles carefully; note their peculiarities and fine points, and then copy your model just as closely as possible. Borrow whole sentences, if you like, taking care to transpose the words a little. Baptize all your heroes and heroines at the same font;--be facetious, sentimental, pathetic, terse, or diffuse, just like your leader. It may astonish you somewhat to ascertain how articles which read so easy, are, after all, so difficult of imitation; but, go on, only take the precaution, at every step, to sneer at your model, for the purpose of throwing dust in people's eyes.

Of course, nobody sees through it; nobody thinks of the ostrich who hides his head in the sand, imagining his body is not seen. Nobody laughs at your servility; nobody exclaims, "There's a counterfeit!" Nobody says, what an unintentional compliment you pay your leader.

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In choosing your signature, bear in mind that nothing goes down now-a-days, but alliteration. For instance, Delia Daisy, Fanny Foxglove, Harriet Honeysuckle, Lily Laburnum, Paulena Poppy, Minnie Mignonette, Julia Jonquil, Seraphina Sunflower, etc., etc.

If anybody has the impertinence to charge you with being a literary pirate, don't you stand it. Bristle up like a porcupine, and declare that it is a vile insinuation; that you are a full-rigged craft yourself, cruising round on your own hook, and scorning to sail under false colors. There's nothing like a little impudence!

That's the way it's done, my dear. Nobody but regular workies ever "light a torch of their own." It's an immensity of trouble to get it burning; and it is sure to draw round it every little buzzing, whizzing, stinging insect there is afloat. No, no!--make somebody else light the torch, and do you flutter round in its rays; only be careful not to venture so near the blaze as to singe those flimsy wings of yours.

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MISTAKEN PHILANTHROPY.

"Don't moralize to a man who is on his back;--help him up, set him firmly on his feet, and then give him advice and means."

There's an old-fashioned, verdant piece of wisdom, altogether unsuited for the enlightened age we live in; fished up, probably, from some musty old newspaper, edited by some eccentric man troubled with that inconvenient appendage called a heart! Don't pay any attention to it. If a poor wretch--male or female--comes to you for charity, whether allied to you by your own mother, or mother Eve, put on the most stoical, "get thee behind me," expression you can muster. Listen to him with the air of a man who "thanks God he is not as other men are." If the story carry conviction with it, and truth and sorrow go hand in hand, button your coat up tighter over your pocket-book, and give him a piece of--good advice! If you know anything about him, try to rake up some imprudence or mistake he may have made in the course of his life, and bring that up as a reason why you can't give him anything more substantial, and tell him that his present condition is probably a salutary discipline for those same peccadilloes!--ask him

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more questions than there are in the Assembly's Catechism, about his private history, and when you've pumped him high and dry, try to teach him--on an empty stomach--the "duty of submission." If the tear of wounded sensibility begins to flood the eye, and a hopeless look of discouragement settles down upon the face, "wish him well," and turn your back upon him as quick as possible.

Should you at any time be seized with an unexpected spasm of generosity, and make up your mind to bestow some worn-out old garment, that will hardly hold together till the recipient gets it home, you've bought him, body and soul, of course; and are entitled to the gratitude of a life-time! If he ever presumes to think differently from you, after that, he is an "ungrateful wretch," and "ought to suffer." As to the "golden rule," that was made in old times; everything is changed now; it is not suited to our meridian.

People should not get poor; if they do, you don't want to be bothered with it. It is disagreeable; it hinders your digestion. You would rather see Dives than Lazarus; and, it is my opinion, your taste will be gratified in that particular,--in the other world, if not in this!

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THE MODEL MINISTER.

He never exchanges;--is not particular whether he occupies a four-story house or a ten-footer for a parsonage;--considers "donation parties" an invention of the adversary;--preaches round and round the commandments, in such a circular way as not to hit the peculiarities of any of his parishioners;--selects the hymn to suit the singing choir instead of himself;--never forgets, when excited in debate, that pulpit cushions are expensive articles;--visits all his people once a month, and receive their visits whenever they choose to inflict them;--brings forth things "new and old" every Sunday, more particularly new;--knows, by intuition, at a funeral, the state of mind of every distant relative of the deceased, and always hits the right nail on the head in his prayers;--when he baptizes a girl-baby, never afflicts the anxious mother by pronouncing Louisa, Louizy;--frowns upon all attempts to get him a new cloak;--looks upon bronchitis, throat complaints, and journeys to Europe, as modern humbugs;--never wears a better coat than any of his parishioners;--submits his private personal expenses to a committee of the greatest dunderheads in his

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congregation;--has the eloquence of Paul, the wisdom of Solomon, the patience of Job, the meekness of Moses, the constitution of an elephant, and--lives on two hundred dollars a year!

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THE WEAKER VESSEL.

"Time after time you must have known women decide questions on the instant, with unerring accuracy, which you had been poring over for hours, perhaps, with no other result than to find yourself getting deeper in the tangled noose of difficulties. A witty French writer says, 'When a man has toiled step by step, up a flight of stairs, he will be sure to find a woman at the top.'"

My dear Monsieur, that's Gospel truth; but only a gallant Frenchman like you would own it. "Jonathan" would whittle, and John Bull would eat roast-beef, till jack-knife and digestion gave out, before they would step into that confession-box. You are a gentleman, and a scholar, if you do live on fricasseed kittens and frog-soup. I'll tell you what it is, Monsieur,--between you and I and your snuff-box,--when an American woman gets to the top of that mental staircase, she is obliged to appear entirely unconscious of it, or it would be "disputed territory" quicker than a report of your musket. You may have heard of a place this side of the "big pond," called "Bunker Hill;"--if you have n't, John Bull knows all about it. Well, all the husbands over here have signed the "Declaration of Independence,"--that's all,--and the way they won't surrender to flesh and blood, or even

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to one of their own "ribs," would be edifying to your French ears. Consequently, my dear Monsieur, what can't be had by force, must be won by stratagem. So we sit on "that top stair," and laugh in our sleeves at them,--all the time demurely deferring to their opinion. Just so long as they have no suspicion of bit, bridle, or mistress, they can be led by the nose. It is only very fresh ones, Monsieur, who keep the reins in sight. You won't be astonished to hear, in such cases, that there is great rearing, and plunging, and curveting, without even the reward of "throwing dust in the eyes" of the animal driven. I think you will agree with me, that it is a great mistake to contend with one of the "lords of creation." A little finesse, Monsieur;--you understand!--walk round the bump of antagonism, and pat the bump of self-conceit. That's the way we do it.

Remember me to "my uncle's" nephew; and tell him he is about as near the mental state of "Napoleon," as Tom Thumb is to the Colossus of Rhodes! Bon jour!

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A TEMPEST IN A THIMBLE.

Never in Frogtown? That shows you have not made the "grand tour." It had one long street, one orthodox steeple, one blacksmith's shop, one town-pump, one pair of hay-scales, and a little thread-and-needle shop, four feet square. Should you go into the latter to buy a spool of cotton, the number of your spool, and the name of the purchaser, would be ticketed on the village record in less than half an hour.

Was n't there a hum-buzz in Frogtown when sunset released all the gossips from their labors? Did n't they collect in knots in the doorways, on the fences, on barn-yard gates, and on the church steps, and, with rolled up sleeves and eyes, empty each their particular budget of news, and compare notes and observations? The tailor, the farmer, the dressmaker and the milliner, loved scandal, better than patronage, or coppers, or crops. The price of the minister's last new hat, or his wife's new churn, was no more of a secret than the fall of Adam. They "guessed that the 'squire and his wife had had a falling out," and "they guessed the 'squire did n't know about the smart young man who walked about with his pretty wife," just as if they were not posted up, when every

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bush in Frogtown had an eavesdropper under it, and every tree had a "Zachheus" perched in its branches! And Miss Pinch, the seamstress, who had been five-and-forty years trying to solve the problem of her single-blessedness, laughed derisively, till her little gooseberry eyes were quite shut up, at the idea of there being a secret in the village that she could not be at the top and bottom of.

O, Frogtown was a great place! Did a stranger walk through it, the plough was left sticking in the furrow; the children flew out, with unwashed faces; the matrons ran to the door, with the suds dripping from their red elbows; the dogs barked, and poor old Brindle's milk was riled up for an hour, trying to fathom the disturbance!

You ought to have been there! Such an event as it was, when the "Neptune" was dragged from the engine-house, once a week, to be washed; when the "trainers" shared the village green with the pigs, on a muster-day; when the old cracked school-house bell summoned the Fogtownites to "town meetin';" when the minister's son walked up the aisle, on a Sunday, in his first long-tail coat! Kossuth's advent, or the nuptials of Louis Napoleon, were nothing to it. The excitement was perfectly tremendous.

O, they are "fast" livers in Frogtown! After getting seasoned up there, one might venture to spend the "carnival" at Rome or a winter in Paris!

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