Fern Leaves from Fanny's Port-folio.. Fern Fanny

The most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a faux pas on broadcloth.”

      “Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:”

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

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

      “That’s the way it’s done, Mrs. Stubbs. That last notice paid his six months’ hotel bill at the St. Lucifer, including wine, cigars, and other little editorial perquisites. Do you want to know,” said Stubbs, (resuming the paper,) “how he gets his carriages repaired and his horses shod for nothing in the village where his country seat is located? This, now, is a regular stroke of genius. He does it by two words. In an account of his visit to the Sybil’s Cave, in which he says, ‘My Friend, the blacksmith, and I soon found the spot,’ &c., (bah!) Then here is something that will interest you, my dear, on the other page of the Gazette. Mr. Simpkins has used up the dictionary in a half-column announcement of Miss Taffety (the milliner’s) ‘magnificent opening at – street.’ (Of course she made his wife a present of a new Paris bonnet.”)

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

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

      WHO WOULD BE THE LAST MAN?

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

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

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

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

      “ONLY A COUSIN.”

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

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

      Well, you “sit down,” (just as close as you like, too!) tell her all the down-town male gossip; consult her confidentially about trimming your whiskers; and desire her candid, unbiased opinion about the propriety and feasibility, with the help of some Macassar, of coaxing out a moustache! Then you make a foray into her work-basket, tangling spools most unmercifully, and reading over all the choice bits of poetry that women are so fond of clipping from the newspapers. Then you both go into the china closet, and she gets you a tempting little luncheon; and you grow suddenly merry, and have a contest which shall make the worst pun; you earn for yourself a boxed ear, and are obliged, in self-defence, to imprison the offending hand; your aunt comes in; let her come! are not you and Kitty cousins?

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

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

      You are in a very bad humor; cigars are no sedative – newspapers either. You crowd your beaver down over your eyes and start for your office. On the way you meet Kitty! Hebe! how bright and fresh she looks! and what an unmitigated brute you’ve been to treat her so! Take care! she knows what you are thinking about! Women are omniscient in such matters! So she peeps archly from beneath those long eyelashes, and says, extending the tip of her little gloved hand – “Want to make up, Harry?”

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

      THE CALM OF DEATH

      “The moon looks calmly down when man is dying,

      The earth still holds her sway;

      Flowers breathe their perfume, and the wind keeps sighing;

      Naught seems to pause or stay.”

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

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

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

      Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy