полная версия

Fern Fanny
Folly as It Flies; Hit at by Fanny Fern

That's the way I'd do. Never a "lord" or "lady," or a "palace," or a "picture gallery," should figure in my note-book. "Old masters" and young masters would be all the same to me. When my book was finished, if nobody else wanted to read it, I'd sit down and read it myself. Of course you know such a method pre-supposes a little capital to start with, at the present price of paper; but really, I put it to you, wouldn't that be the only honest and racy way to write a book?

Don't be alarmed – there's no chance of my doing it. I dream of it, though, sometimes – this deliciousness of "speaking right out in meetin'" without fear of the bugbear of excommunication. And speaking of "meetin,'" that's what I have been coming at. The "Fulton-street daily prayer-meeting." It is one of the most wonderful sights in New York. In the busiest hour of the day, in its busiest business street, noisy with machinery of all kinds, even the earth under your feet sending out puffs of steam at every other step, to remind you of its underground labor, is a little plain room, with a reading-desk and a few benches, with hymn-books scattered about. Take a seat, and watch the worshippers as they collect. Men, with only a sprinkling of bonnets here and there. Business men, evidently; some with good coats, some with bad; porters, hand-cartmen, policemen, ministers; the young man of eighteen or twenty, the portly man of forty, and the bent form, whitening head, and faltering step of age. For one hour they want to ignore, and get out of, that maelstrom-whirl, into a spiritual atmosphere. They feel that they have souls as well as bodies to care for, and they don't want to forget it. How lonely soever yonder man, in that great rough coat, may be, in this great, strange city, to which he has just come, here is sympathy, here is companionship, here are, in the best sense, "brethren." Never mind creeds; that is not what they assemble to discuss. But has that man a burden, a grief or a sorrow, which is intensified tenfold by want of sympathy? Nobody knows his name; nobody is curious to know. He has sent a little slip of paper up to the desk, and he wants them all to pity and pray for him. It may be the man on this seat, or that yonder – nobody knows. Yes – "pray" for him. Perhaps you are smiling. You "don't believe in prayer." Oh, wait till some strand of earthly hope is parting, before you are quite sure of that. Was there ever an hour of peril or human agony through which he or she who "did not believe in prayer," was passing, that the lips did not involuntarily frame the short prayer, "Oh, God?"

Well, they "pray" for him. He feels stronger and better as he listens. He has found friends, even here in this great whirling city, who are sorry for him; of whose circle he can make one, whenever he chooses; and to whom he can more fully introduce himself, if he cares to be better known.

I say it is a good and a noble thing. It warmed and gladdened my heart to see it. And all the more, that at every step, on leaving, I saw the "traps" of the Evil One, sprung for that man's return footsteps.

One of the pleasantest features of this "one-hour meeting" to me was the hymns. I don't know or care whether they were "sung in tune." It wasn't hired singing, thank God! It came straight from orthodox lungs, with a will and a spirit. Those old "come-to-Jesus" hymns! I tell you I long for them sometimes with a homesick longing, like that of the exiled Swiss for his favorite mountain song. You may pick up the hymn-books containing them, and with your critical forefinger point to "hell" and "an angry God," and all that. It makes no difference to me. Don't I take pleasure in looking at your face, though your nose isn't quite straight, and your eyes are not perfect, and your shoulders are not shaped to my mind. I don't mind that, so that there's a heart-tone in your voice, a love-look in your eye, when I'm heart-sore – don't you see?

Oh! I liked that meeting. I'm going again. It was so homely, and hearty, and Christian. One man said, "them souls." Do you think I flounced out of the meeting for that? I liked it. One poor foreigner couldn't pronounce straight, for the life of him. So much the better. His stammering tongue will be all right some day. I haven't the least idea who all those people were, singing and praying there; but I never can tell you how I liked it. That "Come to Jesus" was sung with a heart-ring that I haven't stopped hearing, yet, though I have slept on it once or twice. You may say "priestcraft!" "early education!" and all that. There are husks with the wheat, I know; but for all that – I tell you there is wheat!

With submission, to the authorities it seems to me that the Sunday Schools of to-day are somewhat perverted from the original intention of their founders. As I understand it, their object was to collect the children of poor, ignorant parents for Biblical instruction. I look out of my window, every Sunday morning, upon the spectacle of gaily attired little ladies and gentlemen, leaving their brown-stone fronts of handsome dwellings, and tripping lightly in dainty boots to the vestries of well-to-do churches. As I watch them, I wonder why their parents, educated, intelligent people, or at least with plenty of leisure, should shift upon the shoulders of Sunday-school teachers so responsible a duty? I say "duty," and it is a cold, hard word to use, in connection with a dear little child whose early lessons on religious subjects should be carefully and cautiously and judiciously unfolded. I cannot understand, and I say this without meaning any disrespect to the great army of well-meaning, good-hearted Sunday-school teachers all over the land, how these parents can reserve to themselves on Sunday morning only the dear pleasure of decking their little persons in gay Sunday attire, and never ask – never inquire – never think – what may be the answer given by a Sunday-school teacher, to the far reaching childish question, which may involve a lifetime of bewilderment, perplexity, and spiritual unrest, to the little creature, each shining fold of whose garment has been smoothed and patted into place by these "doting" parents; it may be treasonable to say so, but it seems to me an unnatural proceeding. Then again I think these children should not occupy the time and attention of teachers, while the poor, who are always with us, are totally uninstructed, far beyond all the humane attempts that have been made, and are daily making, to accomplish this purpose. Surely no teacher whose heart is in his or her work, would let the want of fine clothes stand in the way of such effort. Now when I see the children in a locality like the Five Points, or in the various mission schools established for the benefit of children, I say – Now that is "a Sunday-school" after the plan of the founders. These children, who have nothing inviting at their miserable homes on Sunday; whose weary parents have no heart or strength or knowledge for these things; gathered in here by kind men and women; to whom this weekly reunion is perhaps the only bright spot in their whole little horizon; who sing their little songs with real heart and feeling; who believe in their teachers, because they know they have come down to inodorous, disagreeable localities, and love them because their lives are not cast in pleasant places; these teachers who, if the children have had no dinner or breakfast, give them dinner or breakfast – why – that I call a practical Sunday School! It is a blessed thing; and no one can listen to the hearty singing of these little uncared-for waifs of the street, without a choking feeling in the throat, that, if voiced, would be, God bless these teachers? If they were taught nothing but those simple little songs, it were worth all the time, and money, and self-sacrifice involved in the teaching.

Those words ring in their ears during the week. They sing them on the door-steps of the miserable dwellings they call home; there is a "heaven" somewhere, they feel, where misery, and dirt, and degradation are unknown. The passer-by listens – some discouraged man, perhaps, whom the world has roughly used – some wretched woman who weeps, as she listens; and this little bit of Gospel, so unobtrusive, so accidental, so sweetly voiced, is like the seed the wind wafts to some far-off rock – when you look again, there is the full-blown flower; no one knew how it took root or whence it came, but, thank God, winds and storms have no power to dislodge it. My heart warms to such Sunday-schools; and, without any wish to disparage others, I cannot but think that, if the parents who are in condition to instruct their own children, would not delegate this duty, the hundreds of teachers by this means freed, might gather in the stray lambs, whose souls and bodies no man cares for.

The stranger in New York will not find that its population affect Evening Lectures as much as in smaller cities, and in rural districts, owing to the surfeit of all kinds of amusements there; but it is very curious to study an expectant audience in New York. Some sit resignedly upon their seats, comfortable or the reverse, as the case may be; thinking of nothing, or thinking of something, just as it happens, in a sort of amiable-chew-the-cud-stupor, oblivious of the slow-dragging moments. Others pull out watches for frequent consultation, shuffle feet, and take an affectionate and mournful and fond look at a furtive cigar, which can be of no possible present use. Others, with an enviable forethought, draw from the depths of coat-pockets the daily papers, and studiously apply themselves to the contents, to the manifest envy of that improvident class who are obliged to fall back upon the unsatisfactory employment of twiddling their fidgety thumbs. As for the ladies, bless 'em! they are never at a loss. Are there not gloves to pull off, to show a diamond ring to advantage, and glistening bracelets to settle, and the last finishing polish to put upon hair, already groomed to the satin smoothness of a respectable hair-sofa? This duty done, the first bonnet within range passes under the inspection of an inexorable martinet, viz: "Did she make it herself?" or, "Is it the approved work of a milliner?" "Does her hair curl naturally?" or, "Does she curl it?" "Is her collar real lace?" or, "Only imitation?" These professional detective-queries, so amusing to the general female mind, while away the time edifyingly, especially when there is a variety of heads within eye-range for minute inspection.

"What can she have to tell us that we did not know before?" I heard some one say, as we took our seats in the Lecture-room to hear a Female Lecturess. Have you always, thought I, heard new and original remarks from the male speakers, whose audiences yawned through fifty-cents-worth of bombast, and platitudes, and repetition, in this very place? And is it not worth while, sometimes, to look at a subject from an intelligent woman's stand-point? And granting she were wanting in every requisite that you consider essential in a public speaker, if she can draw an audience, why shouldn't she fill her pocket? Is it less commendable than marrying somebody – anybody – for the sake of being supported, and finding out too late, as many women do, that it is the toughest possible way of getting a living? As I view it, her life is not unpleasant. She takes long journeys alone, it is true – and very likely so she would have to do, if she took any, were she married. At least, she circulates about in the fresh air, among fresh people, makes many acquaintances, and, let us hope, some friends; instead of gnawing the bone of monotony all her colorless life. And what if a hiss should meet her sensitive ear from some adder in her audience? Does it sting more than would a brutal word at her own fireside, whither she was lured by promises of love until death?

If conservatism is shocked to hear a woman speak in public, let conservatism stay away; but let it be consistent, and not forget to frown on its own women, who elbow and push their way in a crowded assembly, and with sharp tongue and hurrying feet "grab" – yes, that's the word – the most eligible seat, or who push into public conveyances already filled to over-flowing, and, with brazen impudence, wonder aloud "if these are gentlemen," as they try to look them out of their seats. There be many ways a woman can "unsex" herself, beside lecturing in public.

Not that I see, either, how they can get up and do it. Somebody would have to put me on my defence; or somebody I loved dearly must be starving, and need the fee I should get, before I could muster the requisite courage? but none the less do I honor those who can do it. So many have acquitted themselves honorably in this field of labor, that this subject needs neither defender nor apologist; but still, much of the old spirit of opposition occasionally manifests itself, even now, in spiteful comments from lip and pen, particularly with regard to the more fortunate.

They can stand it! – with a good house over their independent heads, secured and paid for by their own honest industry. They can stand it! – with greenbacks and Treasury notes stowed away against a rainy day. They can stand it! – with any quantity of "admirers" who, not having pluck or skill enough to earn their own living, would gladly share what these enterprising women have accumulated. May a good Providence multiply female lecturers, female sculptors, female artists of every sort, female authors, female astronomers, female book-keepers, female – anything that is honest, save female sempstresses, with their pale faces, hollow eyes and empty pockets, and a City Hospital or Almshouse in prospective.

Certainly these earnest women lecturers are in pleasant contrast to many of the young men of the present day, to whom nothing is sacred, to whom everything in life is levelled to the same plane of indifference. Nothing is worth a struggle; nothing worth a sacrifice to them. Evils, they say, must come; and, folding their hands idly, they say – let them come. In their moral garden, weeds have equal chance with the flowers; and it is very easy to see which are in the ascendant. To be in the blighting proximity of such a person is to breathe the air of the bottomless pit. Every noble aspiration, every humane and philanthropic feeling, shrivels in such an atmosphere. What is it to them that the poor bondman points to his chains? What is it to them that the world groans with wrong that they can and should at least begin to redress. The mountain is steep, the top is hidden in clouds, and they have no eye to discern that they are even now parting that a glory may gild its summit. It is bad enough – humiliating enough – to hear the aged express such chilling sentiments. One can have a pitying patience with them; but when masculine youth and vigor, born to the glorious inheritance of 1864, tricks itself out in these old moth-eaten, time-worn garments, instead of buckling on sword and helmet for God and the right, it is the saddest, most disheartening sight that earth can show.

And speaking of young men, did you ever, when shopping in New York, notice the different varieties of clerks one sees. There is your zealous clerk, who thinks fuss is impressive. When you enter, he places one hand on the counter and turns a somerset over to the other side, with an astonishing agility equalled only at the circus; he twitches down the desired piece of goods from the shelf and slaps it down on the counter with a whirlwind velocity that would send your bonnet through the door into the street were it not fastened firmly on by the strings. You catch your breath and sneeze at the dust he has raised, and trust that this part of the performance is over. Not at all; he repeats it with another elevation of the piece of goods in the air, announcing the price per yard, just as its second flapping descent makes said announcement inaudible. You sneeze again as the dust fills your nostrils, and stoop to pick up your handkerchief which he has sent flying to the floor. By this time, if you can recollect what it is you came to buy, or how many yards of the same you desire, you have more self-possession and patience than I.

Then there is your stupid clerk, who thinks you mean blue when you say green; who thinks flannel and ribbon are one and the same article; who gives you short measure and short change if you buy, and impresses you with the idea that he "don't come home till morning." Then there is your impertinent clerk, who puts his face unnecessarily close to your bonnet; who assures you that every article he sells is "chaste," if you know what that means in such a connexion; who inquires, before you have even glanced at the fabric, "how many yards you said you would require?" who leans forward on both elbows and stares you in the face as if his very soul were exhaling. He's a study! Then there's your inattentive clerk, who makes you wait for an answer while he finishes some discussion with a brother clerk, or details to him some grievance he has suffered with the principal of the establishment, or narrates to him some personal affair, apart from business; meanwhile tossing for your inspection, as one would throw a bone to a troublesome dog, any piece of goods that comes handiest, to occupy your mind till he gets ready to attend you. Then there's your surly clerk, who acts as though he were afflicted with a perpetual cold in his head, that incapacitates him from giving any information you require, save by piecemeal, and at long intervals, but who has yet a marvellous quick ear to catch any conversation that may be going on between you and your companion; who, if the latter ventures to remark to you confidentially that she has seen the article under consideration at less cost, at such or such a place, volunteers the civil remark "that it must have been a beauty!" Then, there's your clerk with a high and mighty presence. What! ask him the price of a ribbon, or a yard of silk? Shade of Daniel Webster forbid! The idea is sacrilege. You pass to another counter as fast as possible, in search of some more ordinary mortal, capable of understanding petty human wants. Then, there's your dandy clerk. Isn't that cherry-colored neck-tie killing? And the sleeve-buttons on those wristbands? And the way that hair is brushed? And the seal-ring on that little finger? And the cut of that coat, particularly about the shoulders, and the lovely fit of the sleeves. Don't he consider himself an ornament to the shop?

Last, not least, there's your sensible, self-respecting, gentlemanly clerk – young or old, married or single, as the case may be – incapable alike of officiousness or inattention; who gives you time silently to look at that which you desire to see; who answers you civilly and respectfully when you speak to him; who counts your change carefully for you, and sends you off with the desire to make another purchase at that shop the very first opportunity.

As to the female clerks, my pen is fettered there; as I always make it a rule to stand by my own sex in any and every attempt to earn their own livelihood innocently and honestly, no matter how many blunders they make in doing it. Suffice it to say that there is quite as much variety in their deportment as in that of the males. I think if I were about to join them, I should be sadly puzzled whether to choose a male or female shop-proprietor. When a man is a brute, he is such a brute! And when one's bread and butter depends on him, heaven help the dependent. Now, one could call a woman-proprietor a "nasty thing," and then she'd say, "you are another," and there'd be an end of it. But a man-brute would "know the law," as he calls it; and swear that he'd "paid you your salary, and didn't owe you a cent;" and scare you, if you were not up to such rascality, with what he could say if you made him any trouble. Or, if you were young and pretty, you might have to choose between the endurance of his condescending attentions or the loss of your place. That much I can say on the subject. Also that I have seen some of the prettiest and most lady-like women I ever saw, employed as clerks in New York; also there are some so ill-mannered that they pretend not to hear what you inquire for, and keep you standing till they have taken a minute inventory of the dry-goods on your back. Then there are some who look so utterly weary and homesick and heartsick, that you long to say – "Poor thing! come cry it all out on my shoulder."

A MORNING AT STEWART'S

It is not often that I treat myself to a stroll into Stewart's great shop. Mortal woman cannot behold such perfection too often and live. It is like a view of the vast ocean, so humiliating and depressing by its immensity and sublimity that little atoms of humanity are glad to creep away from it, to some locally-big elevation of their own. Once in a while, when I feel strong enough to bear it, when the day is very bright, and the atmosphere propitious, I put on a bold face and plunge in with the throng. When I say "throng" I don't wish to be understood as meaning anything like a mob. It is a very curious circumstance that how objectionably soever "throngs" may behave elsewhere, even that most disorderly of all throngs, a woman-throng – yet at Stewart's so suggestive of order and system is the place, that immediately on entering, they involuntarily "fall into line," like proper little Sunday scholars in a procession, and never shuffle or elbow the least bit. Perhaps they are astonished into good behavior by the sight of those well-behaved statuesque clerks – I don't know. Perhaps with the artistic manner in which yonder silky-inky bearded Italian-looking, red-neck-tied gentleman, has arranged the different shades of silk on yonder counter; so that, as the light falls on it from the window, it looks like a splendid display of folded tulips and roses. Perhaps it is the imposing well-to-do portly individual who walks up and down between the rows of counters, snapping his eyes about, as if to say – "Ladies, if this don't suit you, what in heaven's name will?" Perhaps it is the eel-like manner in which little "Cash" winds in and out, with his neatly-tied parcels, and bank-bills and change. Perhaps it is the astounding sight of yonder fur-cape, as displayed to advantage on one of those revolving lay-figures. Perhaps it is the cloak room up-stairs, where the ladies sigh as they tumble over heaps of beautiful garments, unable to choose from such a superfluity. "How happy could I be with either, were the other dear charmer away!" Perhaps 'tis the thought of the money that must have been expended in this wonderful Juniper store, inside and out, first and last, and "if they only had it," how many diamonds, and laces, and silks it would buy, all at once; instead of taking it in disgraceful little installments from their stingy husbands, so that they positively blush when Stewart's factotum inquires, "Any thing more this morning, ma'am?" to be obliged to answer "No." I don't pretend to comprehend the talismanic spell; but I know that at other than Stewart's I see those very women, snub and brow-beat clerks, and put on astounding airs generally, as women will when let out on a shopping spree. – I see none of it there. Indeed, I sometimes think that if the great Stewart himself were bodily to order them out, they would neither mutter, nor peep mutinously; but turn about, like a flock of sheep, and obediently leap over the threshold. The amount of it is, Stewart is a sort of dry-goods "Rarey." Perhaps husbands wink at the thing and give the little dears coppers to spend there on purpose – I don't know.