Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series two (Auburn & Buffalo: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1854)

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SUMMER FRIENDS.

"If every pain and care we feel
     Could burn upon our brow,
How many hearts would move to heal,
     That strive to crush us now."

Don't you believe it? They would run from you, as if you had the plague. "Write your brow" with anything else but your "troubles," if you do not wish to be left solus. You have no idea how "good people" will pity you when you tell your doleful ditty! They will "pray for you," give you advice by the bushel, "feel for you"--everywhere but in their pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to "trust in Providence;" to all of which you feel very much like replying as the old lady did when she found herself spinning down hill in a wagon, "I trusted in Providence till the tackling broke!"

Now, listen to me;--just go to work and hew out a path for yourself; get your head above water, and then snap your fingers in their pharisaical faces! Never ask a favor until you are drawing your last breath; and never forget one. "Write your troubles on your brow?" That man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I suppose he calls himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it's high time the city authorities took away his "license."

HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED:
OR,
WHAT PRINTER'S INK WILL DO.

"Is n't it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always be dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don't you and I, and all the world know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he never has a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Is n't it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?"

"Not at all--not at all--my dear," said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the ashes from his Havana; "to an editor all things are possible;" and he unfolded the damp sheets of the Family Gazette, of which Mr. Simpkins was editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:

"We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway. We pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness, beauty, and durability, to be unrivaled; it is aptly designated the 'Count D'Orsay hat.' The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the establishment, are unwearied in their endeavors to please the public. There is a je ne sais quoi about their hearts, which can be found nowhere else in the city."

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"Well, I don't see," said Mrs. Stubbs, "I--"

"Sh--! sh--! Mrs. Stubbs; don't interrupt the court--here's another."

"Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut & Co., Tailors, 59 Prince Albert street. There is science wagging in the very tails of Mr. Willcut's coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only tailor in the city, who is a thorough artist. His pantaloons are the knee-plus-ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made the anatomy of masculinity a study--hence the admirable result. The most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut's fine phrenological developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a faux pas on broadcloth.

"Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:

"The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider the number of acres it covers, the splendor of its marble exterior, the sumptuousness of its drawing rooms, or the more than Oriental luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in manners, and a Lucullis in taste; while those white-armed Houris, the female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium."

Mr. Stubbs lifted his spectacles to his forehead, crossed his legs, and nodded knowingly to Mrs. Stubbs.

"That's the way it's done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his six months' hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars, and other little editorial perquisites. Do you want to

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know," said Stubbs, (resuming the paper,) "how he gets his carriages repaired and his horses shod for nothing in the village where his country seat is locate? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil's Cave, in which he says, 'MY FRIEND, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,' &c., (bah!) Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the other page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner's) 'magnificent opening at ---- street.' (Of course she made his wife a present of a new Paris bonnet.")

"Well, I never--" said the simple Mrs. Stubbs. "Goodness knows, if I had known all this before, I would have married an editor myself. Stubbs, why don't you set up a newspaper?"

"M-r-s. S-t-u-b-b-s!" said her husband, in an oracular tone, "to conduct a newspaper requires a degree of tact, enterprise and ability to which Jotham Stubbs unfortunately is a stranger. The Family Gazette or its founder is by no means a fair sample of our honorable newspapers, and their upright, intelligent, and respected editors. Great Cæsar!--no!" said Stubbs, rising from his chair, and bringing his hand down emphatically on his corduroys, "no more than you are a fair sample of feminine beauty, Mrs. Stubbs!"

WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN?

"Fanny Fern says, 'If there were but one woman in the world, the men would have a terrible time.' Fanny is right; but we would ask her what kind of a time the women would have if there were but one man in existence?"

What kind of a time would they have? Why, of course no grass would grow under their slippers! The "Wars of the Roses," the battles of Waterloo and bunker Hill would be a farce to it. Black eyes would be the rage, and both caps and characters would be torn to tatters. I imagine it would not be much of a millennium, either, to the moving cause of the disturbance. He would be as crazy as a fly in a drum, or as dizzy as a bee in a ten-acre lot of honeysuckles, uncertain where to alight. He'd roll his bewildered eyes from one exquisite organization to another, and frantically and diplomatically exclaim--"How happy could I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away!"

"What kind of a time would the women have, were there only one man in the world?"

What kind of a time would they have? What is that to me? They might "take their own time," every "Miss Lucy" of them, for all I should care; and so might the said man himself; for with me, the limited supply would not increase the value of the article.

"ONLY A COUSIN."

How the rain patters against the windows of your office! How sombre, and gloomy, and cheerless, it looks there! Your little office-boy looks more like an imp of darkness than anything else, as he sits crouched in the corner, with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

You button your overcoat tight to your chin, (cut possible clients,) and run over to see your cousin Kitty. Ah! that is worth while! A bright, blazing fire; sofa wheeled up to it, and Kitty sitting there, looking so charming in her pretty neglige. She looks up sweetly and tranquilly, and says: "Now that's a good Harry; sit down by me, and be agreeable."

Well, you "sit down," (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all the down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming your whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the propriety and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of coaxing out a moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling spools most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice bits of poetry that women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then you both go into the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little luncheon; and you grow suddenly merry, and have a

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contest which shall make the worst pun; you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged, in self-defence, to imprison the offending hand; your aunt comes in; let her come! are not you and Kitty cousins?

There's a ring at the door, and Mr. Frank ---- is announced. You say, "Unmitigated puppy!" and begin a vehement discussion with your aunt, about anything that comes handy; but that don't prevent you from seeing and hearing all that goes on at the other side of the room. Your aunt is very oblivious, and would n't mind it if you occasionally lost the thread of your discourse. Kitty is the least bit of a coquette! and her conversation is very provocative, racy and sparkling; you privately determine to read her a lecture upon it, as soon as practicable.

It seems as though Mr. Frank ---- never would go. Upon his exit, Kitty informs you that she is going to Madame ----'s concert with him. You look serious, and tell her you "should be very sorry to see a cousin of yours enter a concert room with such a brainless fop." Kitty tosses her curls, pats you on the arm, and says, "Jealous, hey?" You turn on your heel, and, lighting a cigar, bid her "good-morning," and for a little eternity of a week you never go near her. Meantime, your gentlemen friends tell you how "divine" your little cousin looked at the concert.

You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative--newspapers either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute

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you've been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand--"Want to make up, Harry?"

There's no resisting! That smile leads you, like a will-o'-the-wisp, anywhere! So you wait upon her home; nobody comes in, not even your respected aunt; and you never call her "cousin," after that day; but no man living ever won such a darling little wife, as Kitty has promised to be to you, some bright morning.

THE CALM OF DEATH.

"The moon looks calmly down when a man is dying,
     The earth still holds her sway;
Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing;
     Naught seems of pause or stay."

Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast--they've no more work to do; close the weary eyes--they've no more tears to shed; part the damp locks--there's no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love's kind voice, and Calumny's stinging whisper.

Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come--all too late--then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze--no scorn curls the chiselled lip--no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-veined temples.

God forgive you! for your feet, too, must shrink appalled from death's cold river--your faltering tongue ask, "Can this be death?"--your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth--your clammy hand yield its last faint pressure--your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter.

Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless

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keeping! What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome from a sister's loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal bosom?

Silent all!

Oh, if these broken links were never gathered up! If beyond Death's swelling flood there were no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of piece! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise!

Alas for Love, if this be all,
And naught beyond--oh earth!

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"Don't be disagreeable, Smith, I'm just getting inspired!"

MRS. ADOLPHUS SMITH SPORTING THE "BLUE STOCKING."

Well, I think I'll finish that story for the editor of the "Dutchman." Let me see; where did I leave off? The setting sun was just gilding with his last ray--"Ma, I want some bread and molasses"--(yes, dear,) gilding with his last ray the church spire--"Wife, where's my Sunday pants?" (Under the bed, dear,) The church spire of Inverness, when a--"There's nothing under the bed, dear, but your lace cap"--(Perhaps they are in the coal hod in the closet,) when a horseman was seen approaching-- "Ma'am, the pertators is out; not one for dinner"--(Take some turnips,) approaching, covered with dust, and-"Wife! the baby has swallowed a button"--(Reverse him, dear--take him by the heels,) and waving in his hand a banner, on which was written--"Ma! I've torn my pantaloons"-- liberty or death! The inhabitants rushed en masse--"Wife! WILL you leave off scribbling? (Don't be disagreeable, Smith, I'm just getting inspired,) to the public square, where De Begnis, who had been secretly--"Butcher wants to see you, ma'am"--secretly informed of the traitors'--"Forgot which you said, ma'am, sausages or mutton chop"--movements, gave orders to fire; not less than twenty

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--"My gracious! Smith, you have n't been reversing that child all this time; he's as black as your coat; and that boy of YOURS has torn up the first sheet of my manuscript. There! it's no use for a married woman to cultivate her intellect.--Smith, hand me those twins.

CECILE VRAY.

"Died, in ----, Cecile, wife of Mortimer Vray, artist. This lady died in great destitution, among strangers, and was frequently heard to say, "'I wish I were dead!'"

A brief paragraph, to chronicle a broken heart! Poor Cecile! We little thought of this, when conning our French tasks, your long raven ringlets twining lovingly with mine; or, when released from school drudgery, we sauntered through the fragrant woods, weaving rosy dreams of a bright future, which neither you nor I were to see.

I feel again your warm breath upon my cheek--the clasp of your clinging arms about my neck; and the whispered "Don't forget me, Fanny," from that most musical of voices.

Time rolled on, and oceans rolled between: then came a rumor of an "artist lover"--then a "bridal"--now the sad sequel!

Poor Cecile! Those dark eyes restlessly and vainly looking for some familiar face on which to rest, ere they closed forever; that listening ear, tortured by strange footsteps--that fluttering sigh, breathed out on a strange bosom. Poor Cecile!

And he (shame to tell) who won that loving heart but to trample it under foot, basks under Italy's sunny skies, bound in flowery fetters, of a foreign syren's weaving[]

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God rest thee, Cecile! Death never chilled a warmer heart; earth never pillowed a lovelier head; Heaven ne'er welcomed a sweeter spirit.

On foreign shores, from broken dreams, a guilty man shall start, as thy last sad, plaintive wail rings in his tortured ear, "Would I were dead!"

SAM SMITH'S SOLILOQUY.

By the beard of the Prophet! what a thing it is to be a bachelor! I wonder when this table was dusted last! I wonder how long since that mattress was turned, or that carpet swept, or what was the primeval color of that ewer and washbasin.

Christopher Columbus! how the frost curtains the windows: how dirge-like the wind moans: how like a great, white pall the snow covers the ground. Five times I've rung that bell for coal, for this rickety old grate, but I might as well thump for admittance at the gate of Paradise.

And speaking of Paradise--Sam Smith, you must be married: you have n't a button to your shirt, nor a shirt to your buttons either.

Wonder if women are such obstinate little monkeys to manage? Wonder if they must be bribed with a new bonnet every day, to keep the peace? Wonder if you bring home a friend unexpectedly to dinner, if they always take to their bed with the sick headache? Wish there was any way of finding out, but by experience. Well, Sam, you are a Napoleonic looking fellow: if you can't manage a woman, who can?

How I shall pet the little clipper. I'll marry a blue-eyed

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woman: they are the most affectionate. She must not be too tall: a man's wife should n't look down upon him. She must not know too much: the Furies take your pert, catamount-y, scribbling women, with a repartee always rolled up under their tongues. She must n't be over seventeen: but how to find that out, Sam, is the question: it is about as easy as to make an editor tell you the truth about his subscription list. She must be handsome--no she must n't either. I should be as jealous as Blue Beard. All the corkscrew, pantalooned, perfumed popinjays would be ogling her. But then, again, there's three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and three times a day I must sit opposite that connubial face, at the table. What's to be done? Yes; she must be handsome: that is as certain as that Louis Napoleon has Jewish horror of Ham.

Wonder if wives are expensive articles? Wonder if their "little hands were ever made to scratch out husbands' eyes?" Wonder if Caudle lectures are "all in your eye," or--occasionally in your ear? Wonder if babies invariably prefer the night-time to cry?

To marry or not to marry, Sam? Whether 't is better to go buttonless, and to shiver, or marry and be always in hot water?

There's Tom Hillot. Tom's married. I was his groomsman. I would have given a small fortune to have been in his white satin vest--what with the music, and the roses, and the pretty little bridesmaid! Did n't the bride look bewitching, with the rose-flush on her cheek and the tear on her eyelash? And how provokingly happy Tom looked, when he whirled off

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with her in the carriage to their new home; and what a pretty little home it was, to be sure. It is just a year to-day since they were married. I dined there yesterday. It strikes me that Tom don't joke as much as he used in his bachelor days; and then he has a way, too, of leaving his sentences unfinished. And I noticed that his wife often touched his foot with her slipper under the table. What do you suppose she did that for? Just as I was buttoning up my coat to come away, I asked Tom if he would go to up Tammany Hall with me. He looked at his wife, and she said, "Oh--go by all means, Mr. Hillot;" when Tom immediately declined. I don't understand matrimonial tactics; but it seems to me he ought to have obliged her.

Do you know John Jones and his wife? (peculiar name that,--"Jones!") Well they are another happy couple. It is enough to make bachelor eyes turn green to see them. Mrs. Jones had been four times a widow, when she married John. She knows the value of husbands. She takes precious good care of John. Before he goes to the office in the morning, she pops her head out the window to see if the weathercock indicates a surtout, spencer, cloak, or Tom and Jerry; this point settled, she follows him to the door, and calls him back to close his thorax button "for fear of quinsy." Does a shower come up in the forenoon? She sends him clogs, India-rubbers, an extra flannel shirt, and an oilcloth overall, and prepares two quarts of boiling ginger tea to administer on his arrival, to prevent the damp from "striking in." If he helps himself to a second bit of turkey, she immediately removes it from his plate, and

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applying a pocket handkerchief to her eyes, asks him "if he has the heart to make her for the fifth time a widow?" You can see, with half an eye, that John must be the happiest dog alive. I'd like to see the miscreant who dares to say he is not!

Certainly--matrimony is an invention of--. Well, no matter who invented it. I'm going to try it. Where's my blue coat with the bright, brass buttons? The woman has yet to be born who can resist that; and my buff vest and neck-tie, too: may I be shot if I don't offer them both to the little Widow Pardiggle this very night. "Pardiggle!" Phoebus! what a name for such a rose-bud. I'll re-christen her by the euphonious name of Smith. She'll have me, of course. She wants a husband--I want a wife: there's one point already in which we perfectly agree. I hate preliminaries. I suppose it is unnecessary for me to begin with the amatory alphabet. With a widow, I suppose you can skip the rudiments. Say what you've got to say in a fraction of a second. Women grow as mischievous as Satan if they think you are afraid of them. Do I look as if I were afraid? Just examine the growth of my whiskers. The bearded Lady could n't hold a candle to them, (though I wonder she don't to her own.) Afraid? h-m-m! I feel as if I could conquer Asia. What the mischief ails this cravat? It must be the cold that makes my hand tremble so: there--that'll do: that's quite an inspiration. Brummel himself could n't go beyond that. Now for the widow; bless her little round face! I'm immensely obliged to old Pardiggle for giving her a quit claim. I'll make her as happy as a little

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robin. Do you think I'd bring a tear into her lovely blue eye? Do you think I'd sit after tea, with my back to her, and my feet upon the mantel, staring up chimney for three hours together? Do you think I'd leave her blessed little side, to dangle round oyster-saloons and theatres? Do I look like a man to let a woman flatten her pretty little nose against the window-pane night after night, trying to see me reel up street? No. Mr. and Mrs. Adam were not more beautified in their nuptial-bower, than I shall be with the Widow Pardiggle.

Refused by a widow! Who ever heard of such a thing? Well; there's one comfort: nobody'll ever believe it. She is not so very pretty after all: her eyes are too small, and her hands are rough and red-dy:--not so very ready either, confound the gipsy. What amazing pretty shoulders she has! Well, who cares?

Ten to one, she'd have set up that wretch of a Pardiggle for my model. Who wants to be Pardiggle 2nd? I am glad she did n't have me. I mean--I'm glad I did n't have her!

LOVE AND DUTY.

The moon looked down upon no fairer sight than Effie May, as she lay sleeping on her little couch, that fair summer night. So thought her mother, as she glided gently in, to give her a silent, good-night blessing. The bright flush of youth, and hope was on her cheek. Her long dark hair lay in masses about her neck and shoulders; a smile played upon the red lips, and the mother bent low to catch the indistinct murmur. She starts, at the whispered name, as if a serpent had stung her; and as the little snowy hand is tossed restlessly upon the coverlid, she sees, glittering in the moonbeams, on that childish finger, the golden signet of betrothal. Sleep sought in vain to woo the eyes of the mother that night. Reproachfully she asked herself, "How could i have been so blind? (but then Effie has seemed to me only a child!) But he! oh, no; the wine-cup will be my child's rival; it must not be." Effie was wilful, and Mrs. May knew she must be cautiously dealt with; but she knew, also, that no mother need despair, who possesses the affection of her child.

Effie's violet eyes opened to greet the first ray of the morning sun, as he peeped into her room. She stood at the little mirror, gathering up, with those small hands, the rich tresses

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so impatient of confinement. How could she fail to know that she was fair?--she read it in every face she met; but there was one (and she was hastening to meet him) whose eye had noted, with a lover's pride, every shining ringlet, and azure vein, and flitting blush; his words were soft and low, and skillfully chosen, and sweeter than music to her ear; and so she tied, with a careless grace, the little straw hat under her dimpled chin; and fresh, and sweet, and guileless, as the daisy that bent beneath her foot, she tripped lightly on to the old trysting place by the willows.

Stay! a hand is laid lightly upon her arm, and the pleading voice of a mother arrests that springing step.

"Effie dear, sit down with me on this old garden seat; give up your walk for this morning; I slept but indifferently last night, and morning finds me languid and depressed."

A shadow passed over Effie's face; the little cherry lips pouted, and a rebellious feeling was busy at her heart; but one look in her mother's pale face decided her, and, untying the strings of her hat, she leaned her head caressingly upon her mother's shoulder.

"You are ill, dear mother; you are troubled;" and she looked inquiringly up into her face.

"Listen to me, Effie, I have a story to tell you of myself: When I was about your age, I formed an acquaintance with a young man, by the name of Adolph. He had been but a short time in the village, but long enough to win the hearts of half the young girls, from their rustic admirers. Handsome, frank and social, he found himself everywhere a favorite. He would sit

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by me for hours, reading our favorite authors; and side by side, we rambled through all the lovely paths with which our village abounded. My parents knew nothing to his disadvantage, and were equally charmed as myself with his cultivated refinement of manner, and the indefinable interest with which he invested every topic, grave or gay, which it suited his mood to discuss. Before I knew it, my heart was no longer in my own keeping. One afternoon, he called to accompany me upon a little excursion, we had planned together. As he came up the gravel walk, I noticed that his fine hair was in disorder: a pang, keen as death, shot through my heart, when he approached me, with reeling, unsteady step, and stammering tongue. I could not speak. The chill of death gathered round my heart. I fainted. When I recovered, he was gone, and my mother's face was bending over me, moist with tears. Her woman's heart knew all that was passing in mine. She pressed her lips to my forehead, and only said, 'God strengthen you to choose the right, my child.'

"I could not look upon her sorrowful eyes, or the pleading face of my gray-haired father, and trust myself again to the witchery of that voice and smile. A letter came to me; I dared not read it. (Alas! my heart pleased too eloquently, even then, for his return.) I returned it unopened; my father and mother devoted themselves to lighten the load that lay upon my heart; but the perfume of a flower, a remembered strain of music, a struggling moonbeam, would bring back old memories, with a crushing bitterness that swept all before it for the moment. But my father's aged hand lingered on my head

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with a blessing, and my mother's voice had the sweetness of an angel's as it fell upon my ear!

"Time passed on, and I had conquered myself. Your father saw me, and proposed for my hand; my parents left me free to choose, and Effie dear are we not happy?"

"Oh, mother," said Effie, (then looking sorrowfully in her face,) "did you never see Adolph again?"

"Do you remember, my child, the summer evening we sat upon the piazza, when a dusty, travel-stained man came up the steps, and begged for 'a supper?' Do you recollect his bloated, disfigured face? Effie, that was Adolph!"

"Not that wreck of a man, mother?" said Effie, (covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut him out from her sight.)

"Yes; that was all that remained of that glorious intellect, and that form made after God's own image. I looked around upon my happy home, then upon your noble father--then--upon him, and," (taking Effie's little hand and pointing to the ring that encircled it,) "in your ear, my daughter, I now breathe my mother's prayer for me-- 'God help you to choose the right!"

The bright head of Effie sank upon her mother's breast, and with a gush of tears she drew the golden circlet from her finger, and placed it in her mother's hand.

"God bless you, my child," said the happy mother, as she led her back to their quiet home.

A FALSE PROVERB.

I wonder who but the "father of lies," originated this proverb, "Help yourself and then everybody else will help you." Is it not as true as the book of Job that it's just driving the nails into your own coffin, to let anybody know you want help? Is not a "seedy" hat, a threadbare coat, or patched dress, an effectual shower-bath on old friendships? Have not people a mortal horror of a sad face and a pitiful story? Don't they on hearing it, instinctively poke their purses into the farthest, most remote corner of their pockets? Don't they rap their warm garments round their well-fed persons, and advise you, in a saintly tone, "to trust in Providence?" Are they not always "engaged" ever after, when you call to see them? Are they not near-sighted when you meet them in the street?--and don't they turn short corners to get out of your way? "Help yourself,"--of course you will, (if you have any spirit;)--but when sickness comes, or dark days, and your wits and nerves are both exhausted, don't place any dependence on this lying proverb!--or you will find yourself decidedly humbugged. And then, when your heart is so soft that anybody could knock you down with a feather, get into the darkest hole you can find, and cry it out! Then crawl out, bathe your eyes till they shine

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again, and if you have one nice garment left, out with it, put it on! turn your shawl on the brightest side; put your best and pettiest foot foremost; tie on your go-to-meetin' bonnet, and smile under it, if it half kills you; and see how complaisant the world will be when--you ask nothing of it!

But if (as there are exceptions to all rules,) you should chance to stumble upon a true friend (when you can only render thanks as an equivalent for kindness) "make a note on't," as "Captain Cuttle" says, for it don't happen but once in a life-time!

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