Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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NO FICTION.
The last ray of sunlight faded from Helen Gray's attic window, as she folded the coarse garment upon which she had toiled, unceasingly, since daylight. Leaning her head wearily upon the window sill, her eyes rested upon the large house opposite. A servant had just drawn aside the rich curtains at the bidding of his mistress. With what a queenly grace the Lady Emma reclined upon that blue satin fauteuil! How softly the light fell upon braided hair, fair brow, and soft, dark eyes! Passing well those rare gems became her slender fingers! Helen's eyes noted it all, even to the rich vases, and glittering harp, and sweet pictures. "Beauty and wealth, and wedded love!" she sighed, as she closed the casement,--that must be happiness.
Helen rose the next morning, restless and miserable; her little room seemed to have contracted and grown darker; her work looked coarser and more repulsive. She looked at her hands, they were slender and delicate,--like Lady Emma's;--her brown hair was parted over as fair a brow; the coarse robe which necessity compelled her to wear covered limbs as round and symmetrical.
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"O! why not some of the pain to her, and some of the joy to me?" she murmured, as rebellious tears forced themselves through her slender lashes.
Short-sighted Lily!
It is midnight. The Lady Emma sits alone in her room, with unbanded hair, ungirdled robe, and swollen eyelids. Costly gems and rich robes lie there unheeded; her small foot is half-buried in the thick, rich carpet. Everywhere the eye sees luxury, and in the midst a broken-heart! She has lived to see him who stood by her side at God's altar, and who promised there to "protect and cherish her," persecute her with the malice of a fiend. In no point of a wife's duty has she failed toward him; but when she is present he is overlooked; he cannot forgive her mental superiority. Money, that he thought would buy him respect and deference, has but made more glaring his mental deficiencies, and careless in his revenge that the slanders he sets in circulation, will, if believed, dishonor as well the circulator as his victim, he stops short of no underhand baseness to accomplish his purpose.
He would rob her, if he could, of what is dearer to a woman than life itself,--her good name. He would make it--by an unseen agency--a gibe, a sneer, a taunt, wherever her feet shall pass. For this purpose, her escritoire has been rifled in her absence,--private letters unsuccessfully perused, while, before God, he knows her to be spotlessly innocent. Harsh words drive
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the color from her lips, as he enters the house; the rough grasp of the delicate arm, contempt in the presence of servants, and the accursed sneer in the presence of a boon companion, giving encouragement to bandy the sacred name of wife with treacherous lips, have all been added. What human ear is a safe receptacle for such fireside treachery? And this is the Lady Emma's happiness!
O, dry those envious tears, sweet Lily! and know that it is the lofty oak, in its beauty and glory, that is riven by the lightning stroke; while the humble violet breathes out its little day of sweetness in unmolested peace.
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INCIDENT AT MOUNT AUBURN.
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INCIDENT AT MOUNT AUBURN.
A mother had laid her darling in the earth. Many mothers have done this; it is an everyday occurrence. Myriads of little sculptured forms have been thus laid to rest, with blinding tears,--like little Mary.
Friends and acquaintances accompany them to "the narrow door," and there they leave them. Not so the mother! Ah! there is an empty crib in the nursery; there is an untenanted chair at the table; there are little frocks hanging up in the wardrobe; there are half-worn shoes about, with the impress of a chubby little foot; there is a little, useless straw hat in the entry, there are toys that have borne its wearer happy company; there are little sisters left,--and they are loved. But, O, not like the dead! It was the first-born, and every mother who reads this will understand the height and breadth, and length and depth of that word. In all the wide earth there is no spot so dear to her as the little mound that covers her child, and she weeps and shudders when the cold wind sweeps past as night, and would fain warm its chilled limbs in the familiar resting-place. She knows the casket is rifled of the gem, but
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the eye of faith is blind with tears, and she would make her home at its grave, and would not, if she could, divest herself of the idea that such companionship would make that "long, last sleep" more peaceful.
So felt my bereaved friend, Emma ----, and the watchful love of her husband provided her a temporary home near the grave of little Mary. The rough gardener would draw his hand across his eyes, as he passed her every morning, at early dawn, sitting by that little headstone, crowning her child with the flowers she loved best; while the uplifted finger and softened tread of the stranger testified his mute sympathy.
One evening she expressed a desire to go in after the "gates were closed." She was so restlessly miserable that it seemed a cruelty to deny her, and we effected an entrance through a broken palisade. Amid that silent company we were alone! The stars shone on as brightly as when the rayless eyes beneath had looked lovingly and hopefully upon their radiance. The timid little birds fluttered under the leaves as we passed. The perfume of a thousand flowers was borne past us on the night breeze. In that spiritual atmosphere earth seemed to dwindle, and the spirit, like a caged bird, beat against the bars of its prison-house, and longed to try its pinions in a freer air. There was an unearthly expression on Emma's face which recalled me to myself. I gently drew her away from the grave, but no persua-
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sion could induce her to leave the cemetery. Her cheek was as pale as a snow-wreath, but we wandered on--on--till, reaching a low seat, beneath the trees, she wearily leaned her head upon my shoulder, and we sat silently down.
Listen! Distinctly, a sweet, childish voice rings out upon the still air: "Mother! mother!" Emma started to her feet,--clasping me tightly,--with lips apart, and eyes fixed in the direction of the sound. Neither spoke; and, though I am no believer in the supernatural, my limbs tottered under me. With trembling finger, Emma silently pointed in an opposite direction. It was no illusion! There was a little figure, in white, gleaming through the darkness, with outstretched arms, and snowy robe, and flowing hair! "Mother! mother!" As it approached nearer, Emma fell heavily to the ground.
It was long before she recovered from the shock; and yet, dear reader, the solution of the mystery is simple. Her youngest child, escaping from its bed, and the charge of a careless nurse, had started, with childhood's fearless confidence, to seek us in the dim labyrinthine paths of the cemetery.
Ah, little Minnie! After all, it was "an angel" that we saw, "robed in white," with that shining hair and seraph face!
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A SUNDAY MORNING SOLILOQUY.
I wonder if one could n't stay at home from church to-day? I've a threatening of a headache,--it's uncomfortably hot,--it's a trouble to dress. It would be so much more comfortable to sit here in this cool room, with closed blinds, en dishabille, than to encounter this hot, August sun, and sit down among a handful of people, and listen, perchance, to some inanimate preacher, who would drawl out the hymns very much as an ignorant nursery-maid might repeat melodies to a sleepy child.
Now, here's a nice book to read,--newspapers, too; and there's that seductive little rocking chair. O, I'll stay at home! No I won't; it's a bad habit. I always feel happier if I go to church. I always come home, wishing I was more of a saint and less of a sinner. The little trifles and vexations of everyday life dwindle when viewed from Mount Calvary. One thinks tearfully of the hasty word, when its meek Sufferer is mentioned! Ah! we have need of all these helps to arrest the tide of worldliness which rushes over our spirits through the week. The stupidest preacher utters some truths. If
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the messenger have a stammering tongue, I'll think more of his errand and the Master who sent him.
If there are but a handful of people, the more need I should not stay away. Yes, I'll go, and I'll go to the poor man's church, where the pale cheek of labor is not flushed with embarrassment as the robe of plenty sweeps past; where, side by side, as they should, kneel mistress and maid, in God's presence, of one clay. The prayer-book, which has been handled by the statesman, passed through the toil-hardened hands of his servant. Thank God, one day in the week he can realize his soul is of as much value as his master's! How soothing is that solemn chant! How impressive the words of "Life!" How blessed is the influence of the Sabbath!
And so, with chastened spirits, we return home; and the little creature who holds my hand, says, naively,--"Aunty, I liked that sermon; it seemed just like a hymn!" An older head might less graphically have described the poet preacher's discourse.
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LITTLE ALLIE.
The day was gloomy and chill. At the freshly-opened grave stood a little, delicate girl of five years, the only mourner for the silent heart beneath. Friendless, hopeless, homeless, she had wept till she had no more tears to shed, and now she stood, with her scanty clothing fluttering in the chill wind, pressing her little hands tightly over her heart, as if to still its beating.
"It's no use fretting," said the rough man, as he stamped the last shovelful of earth over all the child had left to love. "Fretting won't bring dead folks to life. Pity you had n't got no ship's cousins somewheres, to take you. It's a tough world, this ere, I tell ye. I don't see how ye're going to weather it. Guess I'll take ye round to Miss Fetherbee's; she's got a power of children, and wants a hand to help her; so come along. If you cry enough to float the ark, it won't do you no good." Allie obeyed him mechanically, turning her head every few minutes to take another look where her mother lay buried.
The morning sun shone in upon an underground kitchen in the crowded city. Mrs. Fetherbee, attired in a gay-
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colored calico dress, with any quantity of tinsel jewelry, sat sewing some showy cotton lace on a cheap pocket-handkerchief. A boy of five years was disputing with a little girl of three, about an apple;--from big words they had come to hard blows; and peace was finally declared, at the price of an orange apiece and a stick of candy,--each combatant "putting in" for the biggest.
Poor Allie, with pale cheeks and swollen eyelids, was staggering up and down the floor, under the weight of a mammoth baby, who was amusing himself, by pulling out at intervals little handfuls of her hair.
"Quiet that child, can't ye?" said Mrs. Fetherbee, in no very gentle tone. "I don't wonder the darling is cross to see such a solemn face. You must get a little life into you somehow, or you won't earn the salt to your porridge, here. There, I declare, you've half put his eyes out with those long curls, dangling round. Come here, and have 'em cut off; they don't look proper for a charity child;" and she glanced at the short, stubby crops on the heads of the little Fetherbees.
Allie's lip quivered, as she said, "Mother used to love to brush them smooth every morning. She said they were like little dead sister's;--please don't!" said she, beseechingly.
"But I tell you I do please to cut 'em off; so there's an end of that!" said she, as the severed ringlets fell in
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a shining heap on the kitchen floor. "And do, for creation's sake, stop talking about 'dead' folks;--and now eat your breakfast, if you want it. I forgot you had n't had any. There's some of the children's left; if you're hungry, it will go down; and if you ain't, you can go without."
Poor Allie! The daintiest morsel would n't have "gone down." Her eyes filled with tears that would n't be forced back, and she sobbed out, "I must cry, if you beat me for it, my heart pains me so bad."
"H-i-t-y, T-i-t-y! What's all this?" said a broad-faced, rosy milkman, as he set his shining can down on the kitchen table. "What's all this, Miss Fetherbee? I'd as lief eat pins and needles as hear a child cry. Who is she?" pointing at Allie, "and what's the matter of her?"
"Why, the long and the short of it is, she's a poor pauper that we've taken in out of charity, and she's crying at her good luck,--that's all," said the lady, with a vexed toss of her head. "That's the way benevolence is always rewarded. Nothing on earth to do here, but tend the baby, and amuse the children, and run to the door, and wash the dishes, and dust the furniture, and tidy the kitchen, and go of a few errands. Ungrateful little baggage!"
Jemmy's heart was as big as his farm, and that covered considerable ground. Glancing pitifully at the lit-
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tle weeper, he said, skilfully, "That child's going to be sick, Miss Fetherbee, and then what are you going to do with her? Besides, she's too young to be of much use to you. You'd better let me take her."
"Well, I should n't wonder if you was half right," said the frightened woman. "She's been trouble enough, already. I'll give her a 'quit-claim.'"
"Will you go with me, little maid?" said Jemmy, with a bright, good-natured smile.
"If you please," said Allie, laying her little hand confidingly in his rough palm.
"Sit up closer," said Jemmy, as he put one arm round her, to steady her fragile figure, as they rattled over the stony pavement. "We shall soon be out of this smoky old city. Consarn it!--I always feel as if I was poisoned every time I come into town. And then we'll see what sweet hay-fields, and new milk, and clover blossoms, and kind hearts, will do for you, you poor little plucked chicken! Where did you come from when you came to live with that old Jezebel?"
"From my mother's grave!" said Allie.
"Poor thing!--poor thing!" said Jemmy, wiping away a tear with his coat-sleeve. "Well, never mind. I wish I had n't asked you. I'm always running my head agin' a beam. Do you like to feed chickens, hey? Did you ever milk a cow, or ride on top a hay-cart, or go a berrying? Do you love bouncing red apples, and
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peaches as big as your fist? It shall go hard if you don't have 'em all. What's come of your hair, child? Have you had your head shaved?"
"Mrs. Fetherbee cut if off," said Allie.
"The old vixen! I wish I'd come in a little quicker. Was it your curls them young 'uns was playing with? Well, never mind," said he, looking admiringly at the sweet face before him; "you don't need 'em; and they might get you to looking in the glass oftener than was good for you."
"Well, here we are, I declare;--and there stands my old woman in the door-way, shading her eyes from the sun. I guess she wonders where I raised you!"
"Look here, Betsey; do you see this child? The earth is fresh on her mother's grave! She has neither kith nor kin. I've brought her from that old skinflint of a Fetherbee's, and here she is. If you like her, it's well and good; and if you don't, she'll stay here just the same. But I know you will!" said he, coaxingly, as he passed his brawny arm round her capacious waist. "And now get her something that will bring the color to her cheeks; for, mind you, I'll have no white slaves on my farm!"
How sweetly Allie's little, tired limbs rested in the fragrant lavendered sheets! A tear lingered on her cheek but its birth was not of sorrow. Jemmy pointed it out
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to his wife, as they stood looking at her before retiring to rest.
"Never forget it, Betsey!" said he. "Harsh words ain't for the motherless. May God forget me, if she ever hears one from my lips!"
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THE FLIRT;
OR, THE UNFAITHFUL LOVER.
Kate Stanley was a brilliant, sparkling brunette. Woe to the rash youth who exposed his heart to her fascinations! If he were not annihilated by the witching glance of her bright eye, he would be sure to be caught by the dancing dimple that played "hide-and-seek" so roguishly in her rosy cheek, or the little, rounded waist that supported her faultless bust, or the tiny feet that crept, mice-like, in and out from under the sweeping folds of her silken robe.
I am sorry to say Miss Kitty was an arrant coquette. She angled for hearts with the skill of a practiced sportsman, and was never satisfied till she saw them quivering and bleeding at her feet; then, they might flounce and flutter, and twist and writhe at their leisure,--it was no further concern of hers. She was off for a new subject.
One fine morning she sat listlessly in her boudoir, tapping one little foot upon the floor, and sighing for a new sensation, when a note was handed her. It ran thus:
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"Dear Kitty:--Our little cottage home is looking lovely, this 'leafy June.' Are you not weary of city life? Come and spend a month with us, and refresh heart and body. You will find nothing artificial here, save yourself!
"Yours,
"Nelly."
Just the thing," said Kitty. "But the girl must be crazy, or intolerably vain, to bring me into such close contact with her handsome lover. I might as well try to stop breathing as to stop flirting; and the country, of all places, for a flirtation! The girl must be non compos. However, it's her own affair, not mine;" and she glanced triumphantly at her beautiful face, and threaded her jewelled fingers through her long ringlets, and conquered him--in imagination!
"When do you expect your friend?" said a laughing young girl to Nelly. "From the descriptions I have had of her, your bringing her here will be something akin to the introduction of Satan into Paradise. You would not find me guilty of such a folly, were I engaged to your handsome Fitz. Now you know, Nelly dear, that although you are fascinating and intellectual, you have no pretensions to beauty, and there are few men who prize a gem, unless it is handsomely set, however great its value. Now be warned in time, and send him off on a
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pilgrimage, till her visit is over. I won't bet on his constancy!"
"On the contrary," said Nelly, as she rose slowly from the little couch where she was reclining, and her small figure grew erect, and her large eyes lustrous, "I would marry no man who could not pass through such an ordeal and remain true to me. I am, as you see, hopelessly plain and ungraceful; yet, from my earliest childhood, I have been a passionate worshipper of beauty. I never expect to win love; I never expected to marry; and when Fitz, with all his glorious beauty, sued for my hand, I could not convince myself that it was not all a bewildering dream. It was such a temptation to a heart so isolated as mine; and eloquently it pleaded for itself! When I drank in the music of his voice, I said, 'Surely I must be lovely in his eyes; else why has he sought me?' Then, in my solitary moments, I said, sadly, 'There are none to dispute the prize with me here. He is deceiving himself. He has mistaken his own heart.' Then, again, I would ask myself, 'Can nothing but beauty win a noble heart? Are all my intellectual gifts valueless?' And still, Fitz, unable to understand my contradictory moods, passionately urged his suit. It needed not that waste of eloquence; my heart was already captive. And now, by the intensity of that happiness of which I know myself to be capable, I will prove him. Kate's beauty,--Kate's witchery, shall be the test! If
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his heart remains loyal to me, I am his. If not,"--and her cheek grew pale, and large tears gathered slowly in her eyes,--"I have saved myself a deeper misery!"
Fitz Allan had "travelled;" and that is generally understood to mean to go abroad and remain a period of time long enough to grow a fierce beard, and fiercer moustache, and cultivate a thorough contempt for everything in your own country. This was not true of Fitz Allan. It had only bound him the more closely to home and friends. His splendid person and cultivated manners had been a letter of recommendation to him in cultivated society. He was no fop, and yet he was fully aware of these personal advantages. What handsome man is not? He had trophies of all kinds, to attest his skilful generalship; such as dainty satin slippers, tiny kid gloves, faded roses, ringlets of all colors, ebony, flaxen and auburn, and bijouterie without limit.
Happy Fitz! What spell bound him to the plain, but lovable Nelly? A nature essentially feminine; a refined, cultivated taste; a warm, passionate heart. Did he remember, when he listened to that most musical of musical voices, and sat hour after hour, magnetized by its rare witchery, as it glanced gracefully and skilfully from one topic to another, that its possessor had not the grace and beauty of a Hebe or a Venus?
It was a bright, moonlight evening. Fitz and Nelly were seated in the little rustic parlor, opening upon the
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piazza. The moon shone full upon Kate, as she stood in the low doorway. Her simple white dress was confined at the waist by a plain silken cord. Her fair white shoulders rose gracefully from the snowy robe. Her white arms, as they were crossed upon her breast, or raised above her head to catch playfully the long tendrils of the woodbine, as the wind swept them past her forehead, gleamed fair in the moonlight; and each and all had their bewildering charm. She seated herself upon the low doorstep. Song after song was borne upon the air. Her eyes now flashing with the enthusiasm of an improvisatrice; then, soft, and lustrous, and liquid, and--dangerous! Nelly's heart beat quick; a deep crimson spot glowed upon her cheek, and, for once, she was beautiful.
Kate, apparently, took but little notice of the lovers; but not an expression that flitted across the fine face of Fitz Allan passed unnoticed by her. And she said, proudly, to herself, "I have conquered him!"
And so the bright summer month passed by, and they rambled through the cool woods, and rose through the winding paths, and sang to the quiet stars in the dim, dewy evening.
* * * * * *
"Fie, Mr. Fitz Allen! What would Nelly say, to see you kneeling here at my feet? You forget," said the gay beauty, mockingly curling her rosy lip, "that you
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are an affianced lover, when you address such flattering language to me!"
"I only know that you are beautiful as a dream!" said the bewildered Fitz, as he passionately kissed the jewelled hand that lay unresistingly in his own.
That night, Fitz might be seen pacing his room with rapid strides, crushing in his hands a delicate note, from Nelly, containing these words:
The brook sees but one moon.'
"Farewell!
"Nelly."
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FERN GLEN.
"I love God, and every little child."--Richter
A very nice old gentleman is Uncle Peter! Who minds if he does live in a rickety old house? Who ever stops to think that the cut of his coat may have been borrowed from Noah's tailor? Who cares if he does cook his own food, and do his own waiting and tending? What if he does turn his head the other way when he sees a bonnet, with a woman under it? There is a tender place somewhere in his heart, or he would not be afraid of them! Well, never mind that. Where do the kites, and bats, and balls, and bows, and arrows, and sleds, all come from, for half the urchins in the village, if not from Uncle Peter? Are not those capacious pockets of his filled with nuts and checkerberries, and apples, and maple sugar, till the seams burst? Has he not been driving round all this blessed morning, to hunt up everything in the shape of a child, to take tea with him this afternoon?
A handsome old man is Uncle Peter! They say he has been "crossed in love." Pity it did not happen oftener,
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then, I say, if it would make other people like him! There he stands, in the midst of his lilacs and laburnums, as simple, and child-like, and young at heart, as if the snows of age had not long since crowned his head. The birds peep curiously out from the tiny house he has leased to them, and Uncle Peter taxes them only for--songs.
There they come--the children--head-over-heels! No fear of scowls, or frowns, or boxed ears, or birchen rod, at Fern Glen. On they come!--a merry troop, with shining cheeks, bright eyes, and clean pinafores. Rosy Tom, laughing Ellen, timid Fanny, pensive Laura, queenly Kate, modest Mary, romping Ruth,--ay, Uncle Peter! "May you play with the hay? To be sure, you little monkey;--did n't I have it cut on purpose?" Is n't that a pretty sight, now? See that little curly head emerging from the hay-heap! With what a pretty grace she shakes out those long ringlets, and smooths her tumbled dress with those little, fat hands. Now she is in Uncle Peter's arms, as much at home as if she had been cradled there all her life. 'T is spring and autumn! The little, rosy lips are held temptingly up for a kiss. Uncle Peter's eyes moisten. There is a stone in yonder churchyard, that covers the heart the child has lain beneath. The blue eyes, that look so lovingly in his, have borrowed their hue from those now so dark and rayless. The mother smiles again upon the solitary man.
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He holds little Nelly closer to his heart;--the wide earth contains nothing for him so precious as the love of that sweet child. Uncle Peter thanks God there is no trace, on lip, or cheek, or brow, of him who won the mother's love but to break her heart. But no more reveries, if you please, Uncle Peter! Curious eyes have been peeping through that vine-clad bower, at the "good things" spread upon that rustic table. Strawberries, red and tempting as childhood's lip; cakes, that only Uncle Peter could conjure up; sugar-plums and candy, from Betty Prim's thread-and-needle store; sweet milk from steady old Brindle; crispy little crackers for cunning little mouths, and a bunch of wood violets for each little plate.
And now the dimpled hands are reverently folded, and laughing eyes grow serious, for good old Uncle Peter cannot forget to thank "Our Father" for daily bread and for the sweet solace of childhood's love. And soon the table is cleared, as if scoured by a party of squirrels; and what cannot be eaten is stowed away in little pockets, for future use. They all gather round Uncle Peter, and every story he tells is "prime," and better than the one that went before. There are no captious critics in his audience, you may be sure! Little Nelly is nestled in his arms; the dimple in her rosy cheek has ceased to play; the long lashes lay wearily over the violet eyes, and the silver locks of age mingle lovingly with childhood's sunny
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ringlets, as her little head droops on his shoulder. The rest of the merry troop all say, "Good night, good night;" still there sit Uncle Peter and Nelly. The old crone who has charge of her, cares little how long she stays at Fern Glen; and the wretched father, in his recklessness, willingly forgets the angel whose pure presence is a living rebuke to his vices; so Uncle Peter watches the flush deepen on that little cheek, and thinks, dreamily, of the past, and wishes he might never part with his little treasure.
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Beautiful as the poet's vision was Nelly on her eighteenth birthday. Peter's wish had been granted,--the treasure was his. The death of the father had left her to the only heart which loved her, and for years she has been the sunshine of Fern Glen. It was she who placed the arm-chair under the old elm, when the sun was declining. It was her round arm which supported the trembling limbs of the aged man to his accustomed resting-place. It was she who smoothed the silver locks on his aged temples. It was her voice, whose sweet carol woke him to the enjoyment of another happy day. It was her hand which held the cooling draught to his lips; and there was not a moment when his eye did not linger with a blessing upon the light figure that flitted like an angel visitant before him.
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"And so you will leave your old uncle, and marry this fine gentleman?" said old Peter, as he pushed back the clustering hair from her blushing face.
"Never, never, dear uncle!" said the young girl, as she laid her rosy cheek caressingly to his withered face. "Naught but death shall part thee and me!"
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In one corner of Fitz Roy's travelling carriage Uncle Peter was snugly ensconced with his staff and his snuff-box,--the simple villagers crowding round, to take a last look of him and "The Rose of Fern Glen;" and many a little brimless hat went up in the air, as a farewell salute to "dear old Uncle Peter, God bless him!"