Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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THE MODEL LADY.
Puts her children out to nurse and tends lap-dogs;--lies in bed till noon;--wears paper-soled shoes, and pinches her waist;--gives the piano fits, and forgets to pay her milliner;--cuts her poor relations, and goes to church when she has a new bonnet;--turns the cold shoulder to her husband, and flirts with his "friend;"--never saw a thimble;--don't know a darning-needle from a crow-bar;--wonders where puddings grow;--eats ham and eggs in private, and dines on a pigeon's leg in public;--runs mad after the last new fashion;--dotes on Byron;--adores any man who grins behind a moustache;--and when asked the age of her youngest child, replies, "Don't know, indeed; ask Betty!"
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INDULGENT HUSBANDS
"A husband too indulging is apt to make an impertinent wife."
Now, how did you know that, Mr. True Flag? Bachelors never cut their wisdom teeth. Put 't is as true as gospel. If you did take it on credit, I endorse it. A husband should always wrap himself in a mantle of dignity,--never step off his pedestal to be communicative or facetious. The very minute you do it your wife will take advantage of it. I should n't wonder if she sat down on the other half of your chair, or pushed the hair off your godlike forehead, or settled your neck-tie with her profane little fingers. Just think of it once. You ought to be on your guard, and mind what precedents you set up. You ought not to call her anything but MRS. Jeremiah Jones; and, if the little monkey gets loquacious, just make her ask you a question a dozen times over, to show her that you have a few other topics under consideration besides those she suggests; and don't, for mercy's sake, ever ask her opinion about anything. I would n't give a soap-bubble for your connubial sceptre after you have committed that egregious blunder. If you can ever get
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the noose over her wilful head after that, my name is n't Fanny. She'll arch her neck, and canter off to the farthest limit of the matrimonial pasture; ten to one she'll leap the bars if you persist! Just as if, when you had allowed her to taste the sweets of liberty, she would bend her head and be dragged off, to trot only at your pace, for the rest of your life. Never a bit! So I tell you,--mind how you begin. Women are like children; they won't bear petting. It makes them saucy as the mischief! They never will stop till they get ready, after they once get a-going, if you frown at them till your face looks like "Glidden's Mummy." It stands to reason a man can't be trifled with that way. A lord of creation, too! Where'd be the distinction between a hat and a bonnet, I'd like to know? Jupiter Olympus! It would be perfectly ridiculous!
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A FERN SOLILOQUY.
That I, who detest uniformity; who go frantic at a pair of anything; who hate "a four-leaved clover;" who adore "striped grass," because there's no two blades alike; who love the clouds, because they change as I gaze; the sea, because it ebbs and flows; the wind, because it is untameable and fetterless,--first an anthem, then a wail, then a soft, low sigh; that I, by some mysterious Providence, should have a pew behind the six Misses Pecksniff, with their six pink silk bonnets, and six rosettes on corresponding sides; with their six sky-blue shawls, crossed over their six unappropriated hearts; six pair of brimstone kid gloves, clutching six Village Hymn Books, folded in six pocket-handkerchiefs trimmed with sham cotton lace; six muslin collars, embracing their six virgin jugulars, fastened with six gold crosses all of a size! It's perfectly annihilating! I can't think what I've done to be punished that way. I never "stole;" I never "coveted;" I never--well, at any rate, I wish they'd catch the cholera or a husband--either will answer my purpose, as far as they are concerned;--wish they would n't sit down on the pew-cushion as if it
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was stuffed with live kittens;--wish they'd take a nap in meeting, or get off the track in singing time, or get into the wrong pew;--wish there'd come a shower and spoil their six pink bonnets;--wish they'd do anything but sit there, so straight, so proper, and so pasteboard-y. O, I shall die of excess of Pecksniff, I'm sure of it, if the sexton don't put some of them out of sight!
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AUNT HETTY ON MATRIMONY.
"Now girls," said Aunt Hetty, "put down your embroidery and worsted work; do something sensible, and stop building air-castles, and talking of lovers and honeymoons. It makes me sick; it is perfectly antimonial. Love is a farce; matrimony is a humbug; husbands are domestic Napoleons, Neroes, Alexander,--sighing for other hearts to conquer, after they are sure of yours. The honeymoon is as short-lived as a lucifer-match; after that you may wear your wedding-dress at breakfast, and your night-cap to meeting, and your husband would n't know it. You may pick up your own pocket-handkerchief, help yourself to a chair, and split your gown across the back reaching over the table to get a piece of butter, while he is laying in his breakfast as if it was the last meal he should eat in this world. When he gets through he will aid your digestion,--while you are sipping your first cup of coffee,--by inquiring what you'll have for dinner; whether the cold lamb was all ate yesterday; if the charcoal is all out, and what you gave for the last green tea you bought. Then he gets up from the table, lights his cigar with the last evening's
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paper, that you have not had a chance to read; gives two or three whiffs of smoke,--which are sure to give you a headache for the afternoon,--and, just as his coat-tail is vanishing through the door, apologizes for not doing 'that errand' for you yesterday,--thinks it doubtful if he can to-day,--'so pressed with business.' Hear of him at eleven o'clock, taking an ice-cream with some ladies at a confectioner's, while you are at home new-lining his coat-sleeves. Children by the ears all day; can't get out to take the air; feel as crazy as a fly in a drum. Husband comes home at night; nods a 'How d'ye do, Fan?' boxes Charley's ears; stands little Fanny in the corner; sits down in the easiest chair in the warmest nook; puts his feet up over the grate, shutting out all the fire, while the baby's little pug nose grows blue with the cold; reads the newspaper all to himself; solaces his inner man with a cup of tea, and, just as you are laboring under the hallucination that he will ask you to take a mouthful of fresh air with him, he puts on his dressing-gown and slippers, and begins to reckon up the family expenses; after which he lies down on the sofa, and you keep time with your needle, while he sleeps till nine o'clock. Next morning, ask him to leave you a 'little money,' he looks at you as if to be sure that you are in your right mind, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, and asks you 'what you want with it, and if a half-a-dollar won't do?' Gracious
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king! as if those little shoes, and stockings, and petticoats could be had for half-a-dollar! O, girls! set your affections on cats, poodles, parrots or lap-dogs; but let matrimony alone. It's the hardest way on earth of getting a living. You never know when your work is done. Think of carrying eight or nine children through the measles, chicken-pox, rash, mumps, and scarlet fever,--some of them twice over. It makes my head ache to think of it. O, you may scrimp and save, and twist and turn, and dig and delve, and economize and die; and your husband will marry again, and take what you have saved to dress his second wife with; and she'll take your portrait for a fire-board!
"But, what's the use of talking? I'll warrant every one of you'll try it the first chance you get; for, somehow, there's a sort of bewitchment about it. I wish one half the world were not fools, and the other half idiots."
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WAS N'T YOU CAUGHT NAPPING?.
Tupper, speaking of the choice of a wife, says, "Hath she wisdom? it is well, but beware that thou exceed!"
My dear sir, was n't you caught napping that time? Did n't you speak in meeting? Did n't cloven feet peep out of your literary shoe? Don't it take an American woman to see through you? Is n't that a tacit acknowledgment that there are women who do "exceed"? Wouldn't you think so if you lived this side the pond? Hope you don't judge us by John Bull's daughters, who stupefy themselves on roast beef and porter. I tell you, Yankee women are on the squirrel order. You'd lose your English breath trying to follow them. There is not a man here in America who knows as much as his wife. Some of them own it, and some don't but they all believe it like gospel. They ask our opinion about everything; sometimes straight forward, and sometimes in a circle; but they ask it! There are petticoats in the pulpit, petticoats in the editorial chair, petticoats in the lecturer's desk, petticoats behind the counter, petticoats labelled "M.D." O, they "exceed"! no mistake about that. All femality is wide awake, over
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here, Mr. Tupper. They crowd, and jostle, and push, just as if they wore hats. I don't uphold them in that, because, as I tell them, 't is better policy to play possum, and wear the mark of submission. No use in rousing any unnecessary antagonism. But they don't all know as much as I do. I shall reach the goal just as quick, in my velvet shoes, as if I tramped on rough-shod, as they do, with their Woman's Rights Convention brogans!
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A LADY ON 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."
Betty! throw up the windows, loosen my belt, and bring my vinaigrette!
It's no use to faint, or go into hysterics, because there's nobody 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, who deserves the name, neither "kisses," "soft sawder," nor "money," can ever repay her for what she is to you.
Listen to me! Do you remember when you were sick? Who tip-toed 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 to the cool side, and parted the thick, matted locks from your hot temples? Who moved glasses and spoons and phials without collision or jingle? Who looked at you with a compassionate smile, when you
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persisted you "would n'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 appetite 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 wide, or chest, as she toiled up and down stairs to satisfy imaginary wants, that "nobody 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 inquire "how she spent the last one?"
"Give her what money she asks for!" Julius Caesar!--Betty! come here and carry away my miserable remains!--Nobody but a polar bear or a Hottentot would wait to have a wife "ask" for "money!"
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MRS. CROAKER.
"How do you manage your husband, Mrs. Croaker? Such a job as I have of it with Smith!"
"Easiest thing in the world, my dear;--give him a twitch backwards, when you want him to go forward. For instance, you see, to-day I had a loaf of cake to make. Well, do you suppose, because my body is in the pastry-room, that my soul need be there, too? Not a bit of it! I'm thinking of all sorts of celestial things the while. Now, Croaker has a way of tagging round at my heels, and bringing me plump down, in the midst of my aerial flights, by asking the 'price of the sugar I'm using.' Well, you see, it drives me frantic! And when I woke up this morning, and saw this furious storm, I knew I had him on my hands for the day, unless I managed right;--so I told him that I hoped he would n't think of going out to catch his death, such weather;--that if he was n't capable of taking proper care of himself, I should do it for him;--that it was very lonesome, rainy days, and that I wanted him to stay at home and talk to me; at any rate, he must n't go out; and I hid his umbrella and india-rub-
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bers. Well, of course, he flared up directly,--just as I expected,--and in less than five minutes, he was streaking off down street, at the rate of ten knots an hour.
"You see there's nothing like understanding human nature! No woman should be married till she is thoroughly posted up in this branch of her education."
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TO THE EMPRESS EUGENIA.
"The new Empress of France had fifty-eight splendid wedding dresses made a few days previous to her marriage. Her pocket handkerchiefs, it is said, cost 2000 francs apiece."
It can't be possible, my dear woman, that you sold all your bright charms for that silly trash! It is my female opinion, that those "two thousand franc" pocket handkerchiefs will be pretty well tear- stained before you get through with them. You ambitious little monkey! you played your card to perfection. I like you for that, because I like to see everything thoroughly done, if it is only courting; but if you don't get tired to death of that old roue, my name is not Fanny. He bears about as much resemblance to his "uncle," as Tom Thumb does to the Colossus of Rhodes. He is an effeminate, weak-minded, vacillating, contemptible apology for a man;--never has done anything worthy the name of Napoleon, that ever I heard of. Keep him under your thumb, you beautiful little witch, or your pretty head may pay the forfeit,--who knows? It won't require much diplomacy, for you are the smarter of the two, unquestionably; but you had better look as meek as Moses, and "keep dark"
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about that. Don't let that managing mother of yours be poking her Spanish nose into French state secrets. Give her a baby to tend, and keep her quiet. Look as handsome as you can. Frenchmen adore beauty;--in that respect differ from men in general! Keep on good terms with the common people, and don't flirt--if you can help it--with the prime ministers. If you can get a chance to think, and to improve your mind, I would;--but it don't matter much; you are so handsome you will be a "card," anyhow. I wonder if you have a true woman's heart, hey!--or are you nothing but a miserable little butterfly of a coquette? Do you like anything so well as your own pretty self? And have you any resources when your youth and beauty have flown? Bless my soul! what a stupid Americanism! I humbly beg your Highness' pardon,--I forgot that a French woman never grows old or ugly! Well, dance away, little Empress; but I tell you that you are dancing over a volcano. I would not be in your satin slippers for a bright sixpence. In the first place, I should despise such a doll-baby husband. In the next place, I hate form, and state, and etiquette. I should be as nervous as an eel in a frying-pan, to have all those maids of honor tagging at my heels. I know that I should be sure to laugh in the wrong place, and cry when I felt like it, spite of dukes and duchesses. I should be just as likely to tell Napoleon to tie up my slipper, or pull his moustache, if he
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said anything I did not like. Yes, a French court would not take my republican blood. I will give you permission, my dear, to drop me a line now and then, when your old gentleman is asleep, or closeted with some of his old "parlez vous," and tell me if you don't tire of all their French grandeur, and long to drop your regal robes, and slip off incog. to some dim old wood, where you can lay your soft cheek to the cool grass, and hear only the little birds sing! My name is Fanny Fern, your Highness; and any further information you may require, you can procure of anybody in the United States, for they all know more about my own affairs than I do myself!
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EMPRESS EUGENIA'S MAIDS OF HONOR.
"Rumor tell us that two New York ladies, Mad. R., late Miss L., and Mrs. R., formerly Miss C., have been appointed dames d'honeur of the Empress Eugenia."
Certainly! it takes American gems to sparkle in foreign diadems. Now, my dears, stand up for your own country, and all its institutions, till your last gasp. Send over here for all your boots and bonnets. Tell them France is a villainous place, and you are never sure you are not eating a defunct frog in your fricassee; that here in America we all have our blessed little homes, full of love and sunlight, and don't go wandering round spending half our lives in a cafe, and the other half in a theatre. Tell them that all the proceeds from the sale of Uncle Tom's Cabin the authoress will devote to liberating, and educating, and polishing up all the dark meat in slaverydom (?), and that the American woman don't go stampeding round the country in dickeys and broadcloth, vociferating for "Woman's Rights!" (?)
Yes, and see you keep a stiff upper lip when that milk and water Napoleon speaks to you, and give those little dapper Frenchmen fits all round. Tell them they make
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passable cavaliers; but it would take a whole nation of them, fed on frogs' legs, and sugar and water, to make one of our satisfactory, magnificent, American husbands. Stay that our men are the handsomest, and the most gallant, and the bravest, and the best informed of any nation upon the face of the globe; that our babies are all born repeating "the Declaration of Independence;" and that our backs will be up quicker than the click of a musket, if things are not managed over there to suit our Bunker Hill notions.
And now, good-by; toss your bonnets up in the air every time you see "the stars and stripes;" hiss at the "Marseilles Hymn," and clap your hands till they are blistered whenever our blessed "Yankee Doodle" strikes upon your ear.
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FAST DAY.
What is Fast Day? O! 't is a day set apart by "his Excellency the Governor," for the special benefit of fast men, fast horses, fat foot-balls, fast cricket-matches, fast eating, fast drinking, fast billiard-playing, and fast ninepin-rolling. A fast day for theatres, and concerts, and museums,--for the literary pig,--for the calf with two heads,--and for the nondescript animal captured by Capt. Humbug, which measures 'zactly six feet form his nose to his tail, and ten feet from his tail to his nose!
A day when the "upper ten" stay carefully within doors because the "snobs" go out; a day when Nancy hangs up her mop at an early hour, puts on a yellow bonnet and a rainbow gown, and rest the tips of her cotton gloves confidingly on John's broadcloth, as they saunter lovingly round the Frog Pond.
A day when "Brother Jonathan" yawns prodigiously at the idea of a whole day of pleasuring; when the straight-laced earn an uproarious appetite for an early tea; when the ministers fire off political squibs,--for their audience, the sexton;--and when the streets and environs of the city look as if Boston had taken an emetic.
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THE BORE OF THE SANCTUM.
Walk in, Mr. Leisure; you are perfectly welcome. There is never anything of importance going on in an Editor's Sanctum; visitors are always anxiously expected, and the advent of anybody like yourself is a perfect God-send. Editors have nothing of consequence to do; they are only drones in the literary hive, living on the honey made by their subordinates. They have a little manuscript and a few letters to read occasionally, and perhaps a bill or two to settle, now and then; but that is nothing.
Take the arm-chair, Mr. Leisure,--the one with a cushion and revolving seat; draw it up to the table, and with one sweep of your elbow send all the Editor's scissor-ations flying, like snow-flakes, into the air; examine the superscriptions of his letters, and peep inside of them if you like. What's the use of calling this a free country, if you can't act with freedom? Pull over the "exchanges," tear off the wrappers, and pocket any papers you may fancy, before the Editor has had an opportunity of seeing them, and without troubling yourself to ascertain whether you are welcome to do so, or not. Suppose you are not, that's nothing to you; and what the Editor's wishes may be, is of no consequence.
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Order the office boy to make up more fire, or to open a window, just as your individual thermometer may dictate. You will, of course, wish to write a letter. Very well; help yourself to paper,--there is plenty of it, you see; and a pen and ink, too. Interrupt the Editor's cogitations by asking him the day of the month, and what county the town of Shrewsbury, state of Iowa, is in. Tell him that his ink is abominable and his pen perfectly atrocious,--throwing in a few general remarks, to the effect that editorial and hotel pens are always unmitigatedly bad,--and set him rummaging for something better. Then tell him that your letter is to a lady, and that, of course, you want a white envelope, instead of "one of those yellow things;" and a letter stamp, too, as you must prepay it. If he has no white envelopes or letter stamps, request him to send the boy out for some; and express your regret that you have no small change to pay for them, saying,--and you can laugh at your wit, and so pass the thing off handsomely,--"But these little things always regulate themselves in the end." Having sealed your letter, vociferate to the "devil" to come and carry it to the post-office, quick; and borrow a quarter of the editor to pay him for carrying it; remarking that it is a principle with you never to ask a gratuitous favor of anybody, especially of a boy; but that you always pay for services rendered. Now, you borrow a cigar from the editor's case; call for matches;
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"apply the caloric to the prepared weed;" throw your muddy boots over a pile of "accepted manuscripts," and puff away; occasionally humming, in a tone between a gurgle and a howl, snatches of--
"I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled,"--
or of something else "appropriate to the occasion;" ever an anon knocking off your cigar ashes into the ink stand.
Your cigar finished, turn around to your victim, and ask, in a confidential tone, "What is the exact circulation of his paper?" and stick to the point till you get some definite information about it. Try, also, to worm out of him what each assistant editor gets a week; what contributors receive; how much the advertisements annually yield; if some persons don't get advertising cheaper than others; if the Journal is really honest and impartial in its criticisms; who actually writes the leaders; who writes the "searching" articles on the rascality of the Aldermen; how many share-holders there are in the Journal, and who owns the most stock; what is the actual valuation of the establishment, and what percentage it pays, and who writes the musical criticisms; continuing this pumping process as long as it may prove agreeable--to you.
Ah! here comes a lot of proof. Pounce upon it, Mr. Leisure, and read it slowly; although you see the compositor waiting for the editor to correct it. Try your
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hand at making a few corrections yourself. You will, of course, scratch and blot the proof so as to render it illegible; but no matter; you can make that all square by throwing it down, at last, with the exclamation, "that you never could get the hang of correcting proof." And now, while the editor is restoring the defaced document, you should carefully examine the manuscript copy; as you may, perhaps, recognize the handwriting, and thus make another addition to your stock of useful information. Proofs of the telegraphic despatches and other postscript matter are now brought in; the paper is nearly ready to go to press, and these should be read and returned at once; but never mind; you must have the first look at them,--you are so anxious to know what has "turned up."
You can wind up by giving the editor some wholesome advice about the management of his paper. Tell him it lacks life and variety; that he harps too much on one string; that there is not back-bone enough in his articles; that his course lacks unity, and is not always in harmony with itself; that he should have more young blood in his editorial corps; that, if you had time, you would give him a lift yourself, by sending in a few spicy and nervous articles on miscellaneous topics. Take another cigar from his case; light it; throw the unextinguished match into a heap of papers; drag your hat across the editor's table, upsetting his ink stand and knocking
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over his wafer-box; carry off his scissors and penknife by mistake; leave the door swinging wide open as you pass out, and tell your friend, Tom Smith, on the next corner, that of all the bores you ever knew, the editor of the Journal is the greatest; that his paper can't live long, he is so stupid; that he has no appreciation of courteous attentions; for you have been in his sanctum nearly all day, doing your best to entertain him, but that he never looked pleased, or even once smiled, while you were there.
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OWLS KILL HUMMING-BIRDS.
"We are not to suppose that the oak wants stability because its light and changeable leaves dance to the music of the breeze;--nor are we to conclude that a man wants solidity and strength of mind because he may exhibit an occasional playfulness and levity."
No, indeed! So, if you have the bump of mirthfulness developed, don't marry a tombstone. You come skipping into the parlor, with your heart as light as a feather, and your brain full of merry fancies. There he sits! stupid--solemn--and forbidding.
You go up and lay your hand on his arm; he's magnetized about as much as if an omnibus-driver had punched him in the ribs for his fare; and looks in your face with the same expression he'd wear if contemplating his ledger.
You turn away and take up a newspaper. There's a witty paragraph; your first impulse is to read it aloud to him. No use! He would n't see through it till the middle of next week. Well, as a sort of escape-valve to your ennui, you sit down to the piano and dash off a waltz; he interrupts you with a request for a dirge.
Your little child comes in,--Heaven bless her!--and utters some one of those innocent pettinesses which are
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always dropping like pearls from children's mouths. You look to see him catch her up and give her a smothering kiss. Not he! He's too dignified!
Altogether, he's about as genial as the north side of a meeting-house. And so you go plodding through life with him to the dead-march of his own leaden thoughts. You revel in the sunbeams; he likes the shadows. You are on the hill-tops; he is in the plains. Had the world been made to his order, earth, sea, and sky would have been one universal pall--not a green thing in it except himself! No vine would "cling," no breeze "dally," no zephyr "woo." Flowers and children, women and squirrels, would never have existed. The sun would have been quenched out for being too mercurial, and we should have crept through life by the light of the pale, cold moon!
No--no--make no such shipwreck of yourself. Marry a man who is not too ascetic to enjoy a good, merry laugh. Owls kill humming-birds!
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"THE BEST OF MEN HAVE THEIR FAILINGS."
I wish I could ever take up a paper that endorsed my liberal sentiments. I've always warped to the opinion that good men were as safe as homoeopathic pills. You don't suppose they ever patronize false words or false weights, false measures or false yardsticks? You don't suppose they ever slander their neighbors after making a long-winded exhortation in a vestry meeting? You don't suppose they ever lift their beavers to a long purse, and turn their backs on a thread-bare coat? You don't suppose they ever bestow a charity to have it trumpeted in the newspapers? You don't suppose, when they trot devoutly to meeting twice a day on Sunday, that they overhaul their ledgers in the intermission? You don't suppose they ever put doubtful-looking bank bills in the contribution box? You don't suppose they ever pay their minister's salary in consumptive hens and damaged turkeys? I wish people were not so uncharitable and suspicious. It disgusts me with human nature.
Now, if I once hear a man make a prayer, that's enough said. After that, Gabriel could n't make me
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believe he was a sinner. If his face is of an orthodox length, and his creed is dyed in the wool, I consider him a prepared subject for the undertaker. If his toes are on an evangelical platform, I am morally certain his eyes never will [go on] a "fool's errand." If he has a proper reverence for a church steeple, I stake my life on it, his conduct will be perpendicular. I should be perfectly willing to pin my faith on his sleeve till the final consummation of all things. Yes, I've the most unswerving, indestructible, undying confidence in any man who owns a copy of Watts' Psalms and Hymns. Such a man never trips, or, if he does, you never catch him at it!