Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern

How delicious in these days of hot-house-childhood it is to find a little one who can relish puss in the corner. To find one who does not at six years of age turn up its little nose at everything but "round dances," and a supper of "pâté de foie gras" and champagne. What a sorrowful sight are those blasé languid little things who are incapable of a new sensation before they are out of short clothes – to whom already there is no childhood left – who have turned their backs on that path of flowers to which they can never return, through long years of satiety and weariness. What shall compensate them for the dear, fresh, innocent, simple delights, which to children, naturally and simply brought up, are so attractive? We are all making grave mistakes about children. Those who unfortunately live always in a great city, are mostly the sufferers. Life there is such a maelstrom, swallowing up every hour so much that is lovely and beautiful. Fathers, and mothers, delegating so much of the care and oversight of them to those, whose paid service yields neither sympathy nor appreciation to the victims under their charge. Toy shops are ransacked, and small fortunes expended, to supply this lamentable deficiency; till the weary little one at six or seven has exhausted the stock, and sighs for "something new;" like a flirt who has put her slipper on a thousand hearts, or a man of the world, reduced by too much money and leisure, and too little brains, to caress the head of his cane, long, weary hours, staring out of his club window. I think this is very pitiful, both for the child and the man. Indeed it is children so brought up, who make such men, and women of a corresponding type. Life seems fast losing its simplicity merely for want of the brave courage to defy fashion's encroachments. "What will they think?" is at the bottom of it. Who among us has pluck enough to snap our fingers at that question, and face the formidable – "Did you ever?" which treads upon the heels of independent thought and action, even in a right and obviously sensible direction. Nor is it a question of sex. I find as much of this spirit, or the want of it, in one sex as in the other, and the children are the victims.

Now children naturally hate fine clothes and the restrictions upon freedom and enjoyment that they impose. Children naturally prefer live animals, to the pink dogs, and blue sheep, and green cows, presented in a wooden "Noah's Ark." Children naturally prefer a garden and a shovel, to a stereotyped lounge, with a silent cross nurse, over city pavements. Children should be put to bed by loving hands, and their eyes closed with a kiss, as our cherished dead pass into the land of silence. Children should leap into loving arms when they again open their eyes with the baptism of the fresh morning light.

Children should be kept in ignorance of nearly all that is now as familiar to their ears as their own names. But, alas! we all know how different things really are, and the result – is the children of to-day – children, with rare and blessed exceptions, only in name. Oh! the perpetual "nurse;" the perpetual nursery! The sad sight of the spirit-weary little child checked in its most innocent and healthy impulses; called "naughty," for being buoyant and merry, till sullenness and defiant mischief are the result. Oh, mother in the parlor, take off that silk dress which little feet may not climb upon, and take a seat in your own nursery, and give that little one the love, without which its whole sweet nature shall be turned into bitterness. Oh, father, at the sound of whose footstep that child must always "hush up" or beat a hasty retreat to parts unknown – how much, how very much you lose, when never that little face grows brighter that "papa has come home;" when, with your hands thrust into your coat-pocket, you lounge along toward your door, and never invite with your love that dear blessed little nose, to flatten itself against the window-pane, watching for "my papa."

My papa! Good heavens! what is it to be Senator, Member of Congress, President, King, to that? "My papa!" Man! what can you be thinking of, that the sweet, trustful, blessed ownership in those two little words, fails to move every drop of your blood? And what can the wide earth, with all its cheating promises, give you, in compensation for that which your short-sighted folly throws away? Oh, sometimes, stop and think of that.

MOURNING

IT is very strange how differently people are affected by a great bereavement. One desires nothing so much as to flee as far as possible from any scene, or association, which shall recall the lost. Every relic he would banish forever from his presence. The spot where his dead was laid he would never revisit, and, if possible, never remember. When the anniversary of death occurs, no person should allude to it in his presence; he would himself prefer to glide obliviously over it. Another finds comfort and solace in the very opposite course. He desires nothing so much as that the little favorite home-surroundings of the dead should remain unchanged, as if the owner were still living. He would sit down among them, and recall by these silent mementoes every cherished look and tone; jealously recording every detail and circumstance, lest memory should prove unfaithful to her trust. Everything worn by the form now lifeless, would he have often before his eyes, touching their folds with caressing fingers. At the table and by the hearth, rising up and sitting down, going out and coming in, would he evoke the dear presence. He would pass through the streets where so often his dead have passed with him. The place of that friend's sepulture, is to him the place of all places where he would oftenest go. He plants there his favorite flowers, and woos for them the balmiest air and warmest sunshine. He reads over the name and date of birth and burial, each time as if they were not already indelibly engraven on his memory; and still, though months and years may have passed in this way, whenever he catches himself saying, "It was about the time when our John," or "our Mary, died," he will still shiver, as when the first time he had occasion to couple death with that household name.

Again: One person on the death of a friend, is punctiliously solicitous that no etiquette of mourning habiliments should be disregarded, to the remotest fraction of an inch as to quantity; and that the quality and fashioning of the same should be according to the strictest rules laid down by custom on such occasions; considering all variation from it, although demanded by health or comfort, as a disrespect to the dead.

Another is scarcely conscious that he wears these outward tokens; or, if so, knows little and cares less whether all the minutiæ of depth, width and blackness is punctiliously followed. Attention to these details seems to him a mockery, from which he turns impatiently away. The whole world seems to him already draped in sable; what matters, then, this intrusive pettiness? And that any one should measure the depth of his loss by the width of a hem or a veil, or the fashion of a hat, or the material of a garment, seems to him too monstrous an absurdity for credence. And when he hears the common expression that such a person is "in half mourning" it is so utterly repulsive to him, that he almost feels that he should honor the dead more by a total breach of the custom, than by its observance.

In truth, it may be a question whether a genuine grief can exist in the artificial atmosphere where these slavish mourning etiquettes are cultivated. The devil himself probably knew this; and contrived this ingenious way to turn the mass of mankind aside from sober reflection at a time when the march of life stands still.

When the bolt falls, which sooner or later strikes every man's house, how philosophically lookers-on reason about it. How practically unconscious are they, while gazing at the blood-besprinkled door-post of a neighbor, that the advancing finger of Destiny is already pointed at their own, as they plan for happy years to come the future of husband, wife, child, brother and sister, as if for them there was immunity from dissolution and disruption. No acceleration of pulse, no heart-quiver, when the funeral train passes by, or the sad face looks out from its frame of sable; for no sweet bright face is missing from their little band. No pained ear listens at their fireside for the light footfall that will never come. No street is avoided in their daily walks, which agonizingly suggests a floating form once watched and waited for there. Nor may the passing stranger, whose step and voice stir the troubled fountain of your tears, know by what personal magnetism he has evoked your dead, and chained you to linger, and look, and feed your excited fancy, till the impulse to throw yourself on that strange heart and weep, almost sweeps away cold propriety.

Ah! the difference, whether the hearse stands before one's own door, or one's neighbor's. And yet, how else could we all live on, playing at jack-straws, as we do, day after day, while a momentous future little by little unfolds itself? How else would one have courage to go on planting what another hand than his shall surely reap; and what pleasure would there be beneath the sun, if one sat crouching, and listening for the step of the executioner, or clasping wild arms of protection round the dear ones. Merciful indeed is it, that we can travel on in to-day's sunshine, trusting to our Guide to shelter us, when the storm shall gather and break over our heads.

TO YOUNG GIRLS

I WONDER how many girls tell their mothers everything? Not those "young ladies" who, going to and from school, smile, bow, and exchange notes and cartes de visite with young men, who are perfect strangers to them. I grant this may all be done thoughtlessly and innocently, for "fun," and without any wrong intention; but surely – surely – such young girls should be told that not in this spirit will it be received; and that to hold themselves in so cheap estimation, is certainly to invite insult, how disguised soever it may be in the form of compliment and flattery. Imagine a knot of young men making fun of you and your "picture;" speaking of you in a way that would make your cheeks burn with shame, could you hear it. All this, most credulous and romantic young ladies, they will do, although they gaze at your fresh young face admiringly, and send or give you charming verses and bouquets. No matter what "other girls do;" don't you do it. No matter how "ridiculous" it is that you have "never had an offer, although you were fifteen last spring;" there is time enough, and to spare, yet. Girls who, falling in love, insist on getting married when they are babies, will find that studying after marriage is tedious work. A premature, faded, vacant old age! – you surely cannot desire that. When is your mind to be informed, or to grow, if you place it in a hot-house, that only the flower of Love be forced into early bloom, to the dwarfing of every other faculty? And even should such a foolish school flirtation end in early marriage, how long, think you, before your husband would weary of a wife who only knew enough to talk about dress or dancing? How painful for you to be silent, through ignorance, should you chance to have intelligent guests at your house. How painful, when your only charm, youth and its prettiness, has faded, to find your husband gradually losing sight of you, as his mind expanded, and yours grew still narrower, with the inevitable cares, that only the brain of a sensible woman can keep from overwhelming her. How painful, as time passes on, and your children grow up about you, to hear them talk intelligently on subjects of which you scarcely know the names.

And this, remember, is taking the most favorable view of the result of school-girl flirtations. They may end far more disastrously, as many a foolish, wretched young girl could tell you.

But let us not talk of this. Your yearning for some one to love you, and you only, is natural and right; it is a great need of every woman's heart. But there is a time for everything; and it is wisdom before seeking this to wait. Your choice at fifteen would be very different from your choice at twenty. A man who would quite suit you then, would only disgust and weary you when you grew older. Till school-days are over, therefore, you can well afford to let love rest. Don't let the bloom and freshness of your heart be brushed off in silly flirtations. Study all you can and keep your health. Render yourself truly intelligent. And, above all, tell your mother everything. "Fun" in your dictionary would sometimes be indiscretion in hers. It will do you no harm to look and see. Never be ashamed to tell her, who should be your best friend and confidant, all you think and feel. She was once a girl herself; she had her dreams, and can understand it. Not having been always as wise as she is now, she can spare you many a pang of humiliation and regret if you will profit by her advice.

It is very sad that so many young girls will tell every person before "mother," that which is most important she should know. It is very sad that indifferent persons should know more about her own fair young daughter than she herself. Don't you think so? You find it quite easy to tell your mother that you want a new dress, or hat, or shawl; but you would be quite ashamed to say – Mother, I wish I had a lover. Why not? It is nothing at all to be ashamed of. It is a perfectly natural wish; and your mother was given you to tell you just that, and a great many other things, which would convince you, if you would listen to her, that it was best for you not to hurry into life's cares and responsibilities till your soul and body were fitted to carry you patiently, and hopefully through them.

Another thing I want to speak to you about: It is very common, at the present day, for young ladies to accept presents from gentlemen not related to them, or likely to become so – in fact, mere acquaintances. It was not so in my day; and with no partiality for old customs, merely because they are old customs, I confess an admiration for that feminine delicacy which shrinks from accepting favors from chance acquaintances of the day or hour. That all young men have not the true feelings of gentlemen, our young ladies need not be told; nor, that those most lavish with their presents, are often as little able to afford it, as they are able to refrain from boasting that these presents have been accepted when among their young male companions. The cheek of many an innocent but unguarded young girl, would crimson with mortification could she hear the remarks often made on this subject among young men. Don't do it, girls; don't accept any presents from a gentleman unless he is an accepted suitor, a relative, or some old, well-known friend of the family, who has proved his claim to be good for such a proof of your faith in him. This may be "old-fashioned" advice, and yet – you may live to thank me for it.

There is one point, my dears, upon which I pine for information. Many an anxious hour have I pondered on it. I never studied medicine, else I might not now be in the dark. I find no precedent for it in young people of past ages. It was not so with me, or any of my young female companions, most of whom, by the way, were boys. I cannot conjecture what sort of parents, the curiously-constituted young person to whom I refer, must have had. What time she cut her first tooth, or whether she cut it at all. Not to harass you with farther conjecture, I will come at once to the point. I allude to "the fair young creature of some seventeen summers," of whom we so often read. In mercy tell me, – does she – like the bear – suck her claws in some dark retreat in winter; or, having "no winter in her year," is her lamp of life suddenly and mercilessly blown out, not to be rekindled till it comes time for another of her "summers." I beg the philanthropist – I entreat the humanitarian, to make some inquiry into the circumstances of this abridged young creature, so long defrauded by unprincipled story and novel writers, of her inalienable woman's rights to winter in our midst.

Do you ever go home pondering over chance conversation heard in the street? "Don't you wish something would happen?" I heard a young girl say, yawning to her companion, as I passed her. My dear, thought I, rather bless Providence when nothing happens. However, she had many years yet to see, before she could take that adult view of things; the bread and butter period was beginning to get insipid, that was all; that passed, she fancied all would be blue sky and roses beyond. What "happens" to one's neighbor is too apt to be no concern of ours, 'tis true; but one must walk with closed eyes through the streets of a great city not to see constant "happenings." Yonder poor woman, followed by a shouting crew of boys, and struggling in the grasp of a policeman, her lips white with fear, what can have happened to her? And so surely as that knot of crape flutters from yonder door, there has "happened" in, over that threshold, a strange, unbidden guest, who would take no denial. And there is a true woman, her eyes bent earthward with unmerited shame, guiding home the staggering steps of him on whom she should have leaned. And farther on, a house-painter sits swinging aloft, brush in hand, humming daily at his work; a treacherous step, and he lies a mangled heap upon the pavement. Ah, who has the courage to tell the busy little wife at home what has "happened" to him? And yonder is a tearful mother kissing her soldier lad; you and she both know what has and may "happen" there, and as you look, your heart joins hers in that sorrowful blessing. And at yonder pier they are busy over a "body." That is all they know of him whose blue lips keep their own secret well. And peering through the bars of that locked cart, jolting over the stones, are eyes that looked innocently into the faces of fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, before this "happened." And so, thinking of all these things as I listened to that young girl, I said, Blessed is that day, when nothing "happens."

Often I get letters from young girls who are perfect strangers to me. The other day, one wrote me saying, "Fanny, suppose you give us a chapter on working all one's life, just for the sake of working; working all the time, just to keep soul and body together; without one friend; one sympathizing word; – honest hard work, I mean, and no thanks." This was my reply to her: perhaps some of you may feel like asking the same question, so you can consider it written also to you.

Well, my dear child, there are thousands who are compelled to do this, as there are thousands more who will do it, in time to come. This view of the case may not make you more contented with your lot, but I think our sufferings are sometimes intensified by imagining that nobody in the world ever had to endure the peculiar hardships which afflict our individual selves. You must remember that to this initiatory school of self-conquest the world owes many of its best and most gifted children. To learn to wait, to be willing to endure, is indeed the hardest of all earthly lessons. To wait athirst for sympathy; to wait for the tardy lifting of the iron hand of toil, which seems crushing out everything but the grinding care for daily bread is hard. I say seems crushing, for often it is only seeming. The seed that seems buried is only for a time hidden; some day when we least expect it, it gives to our gladdened sight verdure, blossom and fruitage. Persistent discontent is the rust of the soul. They have half won the battle who can work while they wait. Having measured one's capacities; having satisfied oneself that at present nothing better can be achieved; it is wise to do cheerfully with our might what our hands find to do, though with listening ear for the day of future deliverance. And it will surely come to such, though not, perhaps, just in the manner, or at the moment, their shortsightedness had marked out. A bird that ceaselessly beats its delicate wings against the bars of its cage must soon lie helpless. Better to nibble and sing, keeping a bright eye for a chance opening of the door out into the green fields and blue sky beyond. But this achieved, remember that the sky will not always be blue, nor the wind gentle; then, when the storm comes, comes again a struggle to get above the clouds, into another atmosphere.

Like the child who essays to walk – many a fall, many a bump, many a disappointment in grasping far-off objects that seemed near, or finding their shining but dimness when gained, must be ours; till, like it, we come, gladly, at last, weary with effort, to rest peacefully on the bosom of Love. So – when to Him who appointeth our lot, we can say trustingly, "Do what seemeth good in Thy sight;" – so, when the mad beating of our wings against the bars of a present necessity shall cease, and the lesson of self-conquest shall be achieved, then – is freedom and victory in sight!

A LITTLE TALK WITH "THE OTHER SEX."

TOM Jones would like to be married. Tom does not quite relish the idea of a connubial idiot; and yet, for many reasons unnecessary to state, he does not desire a wife who knows much. He would like one who will be always on tiptoe to await his coming, and yet be perfectly satisfied, and good-humored, if after all her preparations, culinary and otherwise, he may conclude at all times, or at any time, to prefer other society to hers. He also desires his wife to be possessed of principle enough for both, because in his own case, principle would interfere with many of his little arrangements. He would like her always to be very nicely dressed, although his own boots and coats are innocent of a brush from year's end to year's end. He wishes her to speak low, and not speak much; because he has a great deal to say himself, and when he has roared it out, like the liberal, great Dr. Johnson, "he wishes the subject ended!" Tom wishes his wife possessed of military instincts, so that she may discipline her household; after that is done, he wishes to turn the key on these military instincts, lest they might be of use in some emergency necessary to her personal happiness. Tom wants a wife who loves more than she reasons, because he intends himself to pursue quite a contrary policy. Tom would like a wife who adjusts everything with a smile; although he may use his boots for other purposes than that of locomotion. She must have a pretty face, an easy temper, and an intellect the size of which would allow him to consider his own colossal. Any young lady very weak in the head, and strong in the nerves, and quite destitute of any disgusting little selfishnesses, may consider herself eligible, provided she has money; none others need apply.

Since the world began, there probably never was a marriage of which somebody did not "disapprove." That somebody, and everybody, including relatives, have a perfect right to an opinion on such a subject, nobody doubts. But how far you prove your greater love for "Tom," by whispering round "confidentially" your foreordained determination not to believe that "that woman" can ever make him happy, is a question. Poor fellow! and she of all people in the world; the very last woman you would have selected; which of course is sure to get to Tom's wife's ears, and produce a fine foundation for belief in the reality of your regard for him, and your good nature generally.

Now as there were seldom, or never, two parties bound together in any relation of life, whether as business partners, pastor and people, teacher and pupil, master and subordinate, mistress and maid, who always moved along with perfect unanimity, it is hardly to be expected that the marriage of "Tom" and his wife will effect a total revolution for the better in human nature, any more than did your own marriage. Perhaps even Tom and his wife, though loving each other very much, may have a difference of opinion on some subject; but what is that to you? They don't need your guardianship or supervision in the matter. It is very curious that those persons who clamor most loudly when "Tom" marries without their consent and approbation, are, ten to one, those who have themselves married clandestinely, or otherwise offended against the rigid rule which they would apply in his particular case.