Fern Fanny
Caper-Sauce: A Volume of Chit-Chat about Men, Women, and Things.
Then, too, we had music, heart music, from our German friend; whose artistic fingers often, also, gave harmonious expressions upon the piano to our sunrise thoughts, before we had left our rooms. Happy they, whose full souls can lighten their secret burdens by the low musical plaint, understood only by those who have themselves loved and suffered! Of how many tried and aching hearts has music been the eloquent voice? The ruffled brow grows smooth beneath its influence; the angry feeling, calm as a wayward child, at a mother's loving kiss. Joy, like a white-robed angel, glides softly in, and on the billows of earthly sorrow she lays her gentle finger, whispering, "Peace, be still!"
A Sham Exposed. – A great deal is said about young men "who are not able to marry on account of the extravagance of women," when these very young men often spend as much on their own superfluities, if not on their vices, as would support a reasonable wife. But the laugh comes in here – that such young men don't really want a reasonable wife! They pass by the industrious, self-denying young girl, who pluckily resolves not to let an already overtasked father or brother support her, and pay court to some be-flounced and be-jewelled pink-and-white doll, and then whine that they "can't get married to her, because she is so extravagant." That's the whole truth about it; and when young men face and acknowledge it in a manly manner, it will be soon enough to listen to them on the "marriage" question.
THE TRIP TO BROMPTON
"What a splendid day to go to Brompton!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, looking out of the open window and breathing in the fresh air as only a man can who has been pent up in a counting-room till his head feels as though it had a full-sized windmill going inside. "Come, wife, pick up your traps, and let's be off; the train starts in an hour, and there is a return-train at nine this evening; just the time to come back." Mrs. Smith looked lovingly at her baby, for weary as she was, it was a trial to leave it behind. Who knew what perfidious pin might torture it, or how hard it might sneeze without even a sympathizing "coo" to reassure its startled timidity. Who knew but its milk might choke it, or a window be left open that should be shut; or shut that should be opened. Who knew but some passing fish-horn, or shad distributor, might scare it into fits, with unearthly and prolonged whooping. Who knew that it might not pull the sheet over its face in its sleep and smother itself, or be laid too near the edge of the bed, and roll off. In short, come to think of it, Mrs. Smith felt that she had better stay and attend to these little matters. But an executive hand thrust her bonnet on her head, and parasol in hand, she found herself on the way to the depot.
It was pleasant, after one did finally emerge from that smothering depot. The smell of fresh earth and fresh-springing grass, and the birds' song, and the vivid green of the trees, were all delicious. Mrs. Smith felt as if she had but half existed for months, something as a buried toad might, who had lain all winter under a big cold stone, and crept out some fine morning to try his hopping powers in the June sunshine. She took no heed of the oranges "five for a shillin" thrust in her face, nor of that dreariest of all things, "a comic newspaper;" nor packages of "refined candies," or "fig paste," or "Indian moccasins," or any of the modern inventions to disturb the serenity of quiet, reflective travellers. She looked steadily out of the window at the glimpses of wood, and water, and blue sky to be seen therefrom; nor noticed the flirtation on a side-seat between a young school-girl and her juvenile beau; nor the fine bonnet that a lady in front thought it good taste to be travelling in. It was all one to her, while that sweet, soft wind soothed her heated temples, and she was borne along without any effort of her own so deliciously. But all pleasures must have an end, more's the pity; so had this. "Brompton Station," bawled the conductor, breaking the spell; and with a conjugal reminding nudge of Mr. Smith's elbow, Mrs. Smith found her feet, and alighted. "It was just a mile," so the depot-master said, to the house where they were looking for "Summer board." "Only a mile – let's walk, then," said Mrs. Smith; "what a nice road, and what big trees; and how sweet the air is." But alas! Mrs. Smith was mortal, and she had before starting disdained dinner. Her exclamations of delight began to grow fainter as they proceeded, and in half an hour, a seat on the top of a stone wall was a consummation devoutly to be wished. Perched there, with dangling gaiter-boots, Mrs. Smith faintly inquired of a cow-boy, "how far to Brompton?" "A mile, mum." "But they told us that at the station, and we've been a mile," she gasped. "It's a good piece yet," he replied, with a scratch of the head. "Do you think that man yonder would take me up in his cart?" whispered Mrs. Smith confidentially to her husband. "Perhaps so," he replied; "but there's no seat in it, and you'd be horribly jolted." "So I should – dear me – I shall know what 'a mile' is, next time," replied Mrs. Smith, as she rolled like a bag of wool from the fence to the ground, and settling her bonnet, started again on her travels. "Isn't that a splendid view, May?" asked Mr. Smith. "I suppose so," replied his wife. "Oh, John, I'm awful hungry; and I cannot go any farther; and I won't," said she, sitting down on a big, flat stone. People don't always know what they will do; as Mrs. Smith said this she sprang to her feet, and went down the road with the velocity of a steam-engine. The innocent cow, who was the unconscious propelling cause, looked as much astonished as Mr. Smith; but it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the farm-house, thanks to that cow, was finally reached. A cup of tea, and some "domestic bread," set all right with Mrs. Smith. What was "a mile" now? She climbed fences, just as if she had no baby at home; she pulled roses, and lilacs, and grasses, and peeped into pig-sties, and ferreted little kittens out of the barn, and, in short, one would scarcely have recognized her as the forlorn lady in the dangling gaiter-boots perched on a wayside wall. And so the afternoon wore away, and thoughts of "baby" began to clamor. Just then appeared Mr. Smith, with a serious face. "What is it?" asked his wife, with that conjugal free-masonry which beats "Lodges" all hollow. "There's no train back to-night. May, I made a mistake, and read the time-table wrong; I'm sorry; but it was nine A.M., instead of nine P.M.; so we shall have to stay till morning." "John," said Mrs. Smith, solemnly, "is there a freight train that goes down any time during the night?" "I don't know; I can ask," said her husband; "but you can't go on a freight-train – it is so high, that you can't step in or out, even if the conductor will take you; and then there will be cattle aboard, perhaps, and you'll be cooped in a close, little pen, full of tobacco-smoke; – just think! tobacco-smoke!" said Mr. Smith. "You know you never can stand that, May." "Just ask if that cattle-train is really going, and when," replied his wife, with a far-off look in her eyes, as if she could see her wailing baby in the distance. "Well, it may go at one at night, and it may go at two; it stops to take in milk for the city at the different stations, and it is often an hour behind time."
An hour after this conversation, Mrs. Smith found herself reclining on the sofa, in the parlor of the small country tavern, opposite the depot, which latter was closed for the night, waiting the arrival of the "cattle-train," while Mr. Smith consoled himself with a cigar on the piazza. She was roused from a light nap by a tap on the window; a marital nose was flattened against the window-pane, through which the information was conveyed her that she was locked in for the night and he was locked out.
Mrs. Smith flattened her nose against the window-pane and inquired, "What was to be done?" "Open the window, of course." "I can't – I don't understand it. I can't see how it goes. The thing is nailed down. It won't stir an inch." "Pshaw! press your finger on that little knob, you goose." And the goose did it; and directly a pair of gaiter-boots were seen going through the window. That was nice; but the chill river-fog soon began to penetrate cloak and dress, and slight shivers ensued: and the bouquet of roses and lilacs was thrown away in disgust, for both hands were needed to fold her drapery more closely round. The sad-voiced "whip-poor-will" began his midnight serenade; and puffing bull-frogs joined in the chorus, and watch-dogs barked, and little chickens peeped, and roosters mistook the moonlight for broad day, and gave shrill, premature crows – and still the cattle-train came not; and Mrs. Smith sat crouched on a wheelbarrow-looking affair, used for trundling trunks at the depot, thinking of "baby." Whoo – puff – puff – whoo! "There it is; ask no questions, May, but run ahead, and get in somehow." It was "somehow." May never knew how – for John and the conductor managed it between them, much to the detriment of skirts and frills, and May found herself in company with a kerosene lamp and a greasy cushion; and through the partition friendly cows were greeting her; and the air was odorous with tobacco-smoke; and the cars bumped and jolted and thumped as if they were bewitched; and there was nothing to hold on to, or to lean against; and sometimes her bonnet touched the wall, and sometimes unexpectedly, she had no chair under her; and so, at two in the morning, this pleasure-seeking couple were landed about three miles from their city residence, and not in the vicinity of a livery stable, and caught by mere good luck an infrequent street car; and, reaching home, counted the baby's toes and fingers and found them all right; and over their early coffee laughed at the "trip to Brompton."
LAKE GEORGE REVISITED
Lake George has haunted me since I saw it. I thought to abide at peace in mine easy-chair this summer, but Lake George was not visible from my windows; and how could I let the summer days shine on its beauty and I not by to see? and then that glorious Hudson! for a sight of which I am always longing. There was no help for it; I went through the packing purgatory, and set sail. Commend me to steamboat travel over and above all the cars that ever screeched under and above ground; but, alas! steamboats have a drawback which cars have not. You get a comfortable seat on deck, on the shady side; in a chair with a back to it. You say this is pleasant, as you fold your hands – Ugh! So does a man, or a group of them near you, who have just lighted their cigars, or worse, their pipes. Puff – puff – puff; straight into your face; right and left; fore and aft. Is this the "fresh air" for which you were travelling? You reluctantly change your place. You even take a seat in the sun, to rid yourself of the smoke. Puff – puff; another smoker sits, or stands, near you; you turn disgusted away, only to encounter another group, who evidently regard the beautiful Hudson only in the light of an enormous spittoon.
Now I protest against this lack of decency and chivalry. If no other woman dare brave these gentlemen, (?) I will, though I know well what anathemas I shall incur. I call, moreover, upon all decent steamboat-captains to provide a den for these tobacco-absorbing, tobacco-emitting gentry, in some part of the boat where women are not. If they must smoke, which point I neither deny nor admit, do not suffer them to expel ladies, to whom they are so profuse in – fine speeches – to the stifling air of the ladies' cabin, to avoid it. This at least seems but reasonable and fair. The only place where one is really in no danger of this nuisance at present is in church; though I am expecting every Sunday to see boots on the tops of pews, and lighted cigars behind them. Oh, I know very well that some ladies pretend to "like it," because they had rather endure it than resign the attentions of a gentleman who don't know any better than to ask them "if it is disagreeable." Of course, it is disagreeable, for women are clean creatures; and if they tell you it is not, know that they tell you a good-natured but most unmitigated fib; and you should be ashamed of availing yourself of it to make yourselves such nuisances.
That lovely midnight glide up the Hudson! Lying dreamily on one's pillow; just asleep enough to know nothing disagreeable, and awake enough to see with half-closed eyes through your little window the white sails, and green shores, and listen to the plashing water. Daylight and Albany, with its noisy pier, seem an impertinence. "Breakfast?" ah, yes – we are human, and love coffee; but the melancholy figures and faces, as we emerge from our state-room! Rosy mouths agape; bright eyes half-veiled with heavy lids; cloaks and mantles tossed on with more haste than taste; hair tumbled, bonnets awry. Pull down your veils, ladies, and prepare yourselves for a general dislocation of every bone in your body, as you thunder up to the hotel in that omnibus, which is bound back again in exactly three seconds, for another hapless cargo.
Your "unprotected female" is to be met everywhere. Is my countenance so benevolent that she should have singled me out, as I waited at the hotel for my breakfast? There she was – with spectacles on nose, carpet-bag in hand; alert – nervous – distracted.
"Was I travelling North or South?"
Was it for want of coffee, or geography, that I curtly replied: "I haven't the least idea, Ma'am."
"Was I alone, dear?"
"Husband, Ma'am."
"Where's the – House, dear?"
"This is it, Ma'am."
"Lord bless me – I thought it was the Depot!"
There may be individuals existing who have not ridden in that stage-coach from "Moreau Station" to Lake George. If so, let him or her, particularly her, bear in mind, in selecting her attitude on sitting down, that it is final and irrevocable, spite of cramps, for thirteen good miles of sunny, sandy, up-and-down-hill, bumping, thumping travel. However, there's fun even in that. Jolts bring out jokes. After punching daylight through the ribs of one's neighbor, one don't wait for an "introduction." Your Cologne bottle becomes common property, also your fan. If there is an unlucky wight on top, whose overhanging boots betoken a due respect for the eighth commandment, of course he can have the refusal of your sun umbrella to keep his brains from frying, particularly as you don't know what to do with it inside. Yes – on the whole, it is fun; but it isn't fun to arrive at a hotel faint, dusty, hungry, and hear, "We are running over, but we can feed you here, if you'll lodge in the village." May do for men, groan out the green veils; try at another house. Ah, now it is our turn; installed by some hocus-pocus in two rooms commanding a magnificent view of the lake, we can afford to pity hungry wretches who can't get in. Now we breathe! Our feet and arms – yes, they are all right, for we just tried them. Now we toss off our bonnet, and gaze at those huge mountains and their dark shadows on the lake; now we see the little row-boats glide along, to the musical, sparkling dip of the oar; now we hear the merry laughs of the rowers, or perhaps a snatch of a song in a woman's voice. Now the clear, fresh breeze sweeps over the hills, and ruffles the lake, bringing us spicy odors. Oh, but this is delicious. Dress? What, here? No, indeed; enough of that in New York. Who wants to see dresses may look in our trunks. That hill is to be climbed, that shore to be reached, that boat to be sailed in, and how is that to be done if one "dresses"? We are for a tramp, a sail, a drive – anything but dressing.
Lake George by moonlight, at midnight! oh, you should see it, with its shining, quivering path of light, as if for angel footsteps. I know not whether another world is fairer than this; but I do know that there are no sighs, no weary outstretching of the hands for help, no smothered cry of despair.
Self-Help. – We pity those who do not and never have "labored." Ennui and satiety sooner or later are sure to be their portion. Like the child who is in possession of every new toy, and who has snapped and broken them all, they stand looking about for something —anything new and amusing; and like this child, they often stoop to the mud and the gutter for it. It is an understood principle of human nature, that people never value that which is easily obtained. Bread which has been purchased with unearned money has never the flavor and sweetness of that which is won by the sweat of one's own brow.
COOKERY AND TAILORING
When male writers have nothing else to say they fall "afoul" of all women for not being adepts in cookery. Now, one might just as well insist that every man should know how to make his own trousers, as that every woman should be a cook.
Suppose reverses should come, and the man who don't know how should not be able to employ a tailor, where would he be then, not understanding how to make his own trousers? And suppose reverses should not come, how much wiser and better for him to know practically all about tailoring, so that he might with knowledge be able to direct his tailor? At present he thoughtlessly steps in and recklessly orders them. How does he know whether the amount of cloth used is necessary, or the contrary? How does he know that he isn't swindled fearfully on buttons, lappets, and facings, and even the padding inserted to make his rickety figure bewitching? I grieve when I think of this, and then of his asking his wife afterward, "what she did with the twenty-five cents he gave her yesterday to go shopping with." He ought to be master of tailoring in all its branches, before he links his destiny with a woman, or else he ought to wear a cloak, which, morally speaking, is his normal condition.
He may reply that he don't like tailoring; that he has no gift for tailoring; that studying it ever so long he should only make a bad tailor, to spoil the making of a good lawyer or doctor. That's nothing to the purpose. I insist that he shall learn tailoring; not only that, but I insist that he shall like it too. His lawyering and doctoring can come in afterward wheresoever the gods will, in the chinks of his time, but breeches and coats he shall know how to make, or every editor in the land shall be down on him whenever they are hard up for an editorial, if, without this important branch of knowledge, he presumes to address a political meeting. For not understanding breeches, how the mischief can he understand politics, or be prepared to speak about them?
He may tell me that he don't intend to "link his destiny with woman," but instead, to be a gay bachelor, and have a latch-key, and one towel a week at some boarding-house, and whistle "Hail Columbia" at midnight, at his own sweet will, with variations, without the fear of waking some wretched baby. That's nothing to do with it. I insist that even then, he, being obliged to wear breeches, should know how many yards of different width cloth it takes to make them. I insist that, without this knowledge, he is not even prepared to be a bachelor. Nobody can tell, in this world, when misfortune may overtake one. Cigars may become so dear, and his exchequer so low in consequence, that he may be obliged to alter his little plan, and link his destiny to some woman who will earn them for him. And suppose the twins should afterward interfere with her earnings, then think how glorious it would be to turn his knowledge of tailoring to account on this conjugal rainy day, and not only make his own breeches, but those of the twins, who would undoubtedly be boys, because men like boys, and therefore ought to have them.
Now, having freed my mind on this point, I proceed to say that the brightest and most gifted women I have known have perfectly understood cookery, and have written some of their best things over the cooking-stove, while they kept two "pots boiling." Furthermore, that the more brains a woman has, the less she will "look down upon," or "despise," a knowledge so important as that of cookery. But because she knows how, and because she does it, it need not of necessity follow that she "hankers after it." And when she does it, she should have the credit of doing it; and if her husband be a literary man, he should know and acknowledge – which is the thing he don't always do – that though she resolutely performs her duty without shirking, while he quietly scribbles, a sigh occasionally goes up chimney with the smoke, at the thoughts which fly up with it, that she may never catch again, either for fame or money. I say, when gobbling down the food she prepares, or oversees the preparing, in these days of incompetent servants, he should sometimes recognize this.
Then I would call attention to the fact that married men should everywhere, and in all classes, remember, that it is very discouraging for any wife and housekeeper, when, for the same efficient labor which she expends under her own roof, she could earn for herself at least a competence, to be obliged to go as a beggar to her husband for the money which is justly her due. Perhaps, if husbands were more just and generous with regard to this matter, women might take their pleasure in "cookery," which every man seems to think is her only "through ticket" to Paradise, and to their affections, viâ their stomachs.
Take a Vacation. – It need not of necessity be an expensive one. Go away, if only for a week, and shake off the drudgery of routine. Some people are of the opinion that upon their return they will find work all the more difficult. It is not so. The vacation judiciously spent, and according to one's means, will give increased strength for the performance of the duties awaiting us. Let those who cannot do this, take now and then a car-ride into the country, for a day of fresh air. A sight of the green grass and clover-blossoms will do them good. Continuous, unremitting labor is not good either for man or beast.
