FACT AND FICTION.

Everybody knows that life in a large town can never be seen from the door-plate point of view. Half an hour’s study of the back windows and yards of dwelling houses reveals more to the studious eye than a twelvemonth’s front view of them. It is all the difference between the gaslight splendour of the ball-room belle and the next morning’s wrapper of disenchantment. It is all the difference between the faultless polish of the man of society among his male and female satellites, and his slip-shod, overbearing gruffness to the wife and children of his own fireside. No one need be told that a handsome frontage does not of necessity preclude the near proximity of a small dwelling-house, warehouse, or shop. Therefore the prospect from back windows is apt to be as carried as striking; and where the inmates of this neighbourhood disposed to philosophise and return the compliment of inspection, they might not so often envy the inmates of big houses, who sit well dressed under their draped front windows, giving no more idea of their inward life, than does a skeleton of the flesh-and-blood man or woman, intensely alive to the very finger-tips.

Take a back-window view of life, my discontented friends, and see how the law of compensation equalises things. Pale cheeks lean there on Listless palms, till pride present them shining for a front-window view. True, you see the carriage standing at yonder front door, but you know nothing of the humiliating expedients talked over by the couple at that back window to enable them to retain it, when prudence loudly urges economy to these slaves of social position. You see the carriage standing at another door with its sleek horses and coachman, and you wish you were the owner of it. Do you? Look there! The door of the house opens, and out creeps an old man, supported between two servants, his limbs distorted by some terrible disease, while you stand there, with a strong, healthy body, repining that you have not the wealth which he would gladly exchange for yours. In another well-appointed establishment a headstrong girl is missing, who has taken her happiness from parental hands and rashly passed it over into unscrupulous keeping. Silver and gold cannot take that ache from parental hearts too surely foreboding her wretched future. Next door another living sorrow is mourned; for the only son, in whom so many hopes were centered, struggles feebly in the whirlpool of dissipation, lost at life’s very threshold. Ah, it is well sometime to take these back-window views of life. Hearts, like houses, keep their rubbish in the rear.

FANNY FERN.

HOW IT HAPPENS.

One fruitful source of discontent, and one great bar to the enjoyment in this world, is the practice of comparing one’s life with the life of others; utterly ignoring the fact that every person has an inner as well as an outer life; or, in the old-fashioned words of the Bible, “that every heart knoweth its own bitterness.” How often is the remark made by superficial observers, “how happy such and such persons must be! If I were only they!” when, ten to one, these very persons, oblivious of their wealth and position, are weary and heartsore, with the din and battle of life. The longer one lives, the more one is impressed with the fallibility of all judgment in this respect. That the face is calm, and the brow placid, is no sign that there is inward peace. There are reticent natures, whose most painful thoughts and feelings are never communicated; sensitive natures, which, shrinking from misapprehension, and fastidious in the quality of sympathy, shut, and bolt, and bar the window of their souls, lest some biting sting come through it. And such are often they whom lookers-on envy for their “happiness.” What revelations would there be, were the masks removed from human hearts and faces! – were the soft and oily spoken brought face to face with their own surreptitious malice and mischief-making! – were a man’s “best friend” shown up to him in his true colours, stripped of his hypocritical, self-seeking disguises! – were those persons who, “What faults soever they may have, think themselves at least thoroughly disinterested,” made to see the tangled web of motive which envelopes every action! Alas! how would human being start away from each other, and how many fair superstructures of human faith would topple to the ground” Blessed are they who can believe, even in the face of the direst evidence, that which they wish to believe; who, like some flowers, enjoy the fresh dew and brightness of morning, and softly close their eyes to the chill of the coming night.

FANNY FERN.

This article, by Fanny Fern, is about the tragic over indulgence of mothers towards their daughters, protecting them and not preparing them for life.

The Tragedy of Indulgence

To an executive person it is a great misery to stand by and w…….
bungle over that which it is so easy for himself to do.  Accustomed…..
people are to compress the greatest possible amount of labour ….
space of time, the slow process of initiatory instruction is truly vexing…
even when the possible good results to the learner are considered ….
demands of each clamorous hour and minute leave small margins for……

This is the reason why so many excellent, thorough, old-fashioned, motherly housekeepers allow their daughters, willing enough, we grant, to be thus reprieved, to grow up ignorant of those things which no woman can safely afford to neglect, especially in a country where wealth changes hands with so little warning. It is so much easier to take hold and do a thing in ten of fifteen minutes, than to explain to the pretty but useless Anna-Maria that it would be wise for her to roll up her sleeves and descend to the kitchen, to get some idea of the process by which wholesome dinners and manufactured against the evil day of Betty’s defection when she is the distressed mistress of a house of her own. The feat, at last accomplished, of luring the unwilling damsel below stairs, how much easier to mix flout and butter deftly yourself, trusting that the damsel’s observant eyes will be on you - instead of being blankly fixed upon the window-pane – than to put these ingredients into her own hands, and stand by, while she does everything the wrong-est possible way, as no doubt you did yourself when you took your first lesson in culinary matters.

But this latter fact is not apt to be remembered by these capable but blameable mothers, who, after two or three up-hill attempts to initiate Anna-Maria into these mysteries, slide back into the old proverbial groove, “it you want a thing done well, do it yourself,” and quiet present and future responsibility with the thought that, “after all, she is but a child, and there’s time enough yet.” Meanwhile, Anna-Maria is dawdling away the most precious hours of her existence in castle-building and flirting; and some fine day she stands twiddling the rings of her fingers before her astonished mother, as she tells the time-old story of the lover who has some to woo; and then follows a short courtship and a speedy marriage, and this salve to the mother’s uneasy conscience, that “experience is the best teacher, after all,” and that no doubt Anna-Maria will manage somehow, as other married girls have done.

“Somehow!” Alas! But what a time to be learning A. B. C. when one is put at the head of a class to fill the responsible office of teacher! “Somehow!” But who shall promise that “love,” though “blind,” shall never open its eyes to misrule and discomfort? “Somehow!” But when inevitable sickness comes, and cares multiply with crushing weight upon feebleness and discouragement – what then? Ah! mothers – what then? Will it not be small comfort that she idly folded her hands and “enjoyed her girlhood,” and that you soothed yourself with the vision of her fresh prettiness, and murmured “cares will come soon enough.” Ah! you did not see then in the future the prematurely broken down, fretful woman, who should then, in her glorious prime, full of vigour, be dispensing and accepting happiness, instead of gazing upon every little face sadly, as if it were a pity it had ever looked into hers; as it motherhood and wifehood were the evening instead of the rosy down of her life-dreams!

Granted she may have “money and servants,” what security has inefficiency and discouragement that the former will never take wings, and that the other will not constantly impose upon the inexperienced mistress the convenient manufactured fibs, for their ease and her own hourly discomfort, which she has not knowledge enough to dispute, although she may feel somehow that “things are going altogether wrong.”

As I took round upon these feeble girl-wives, growing prematurely old under the burdens of their household; becoming love-loss and repining, because sick and discouraged, and often un-sympathised with, for what, after all, is not so much their fault, I feel only the tenderest pity and compassion for their unfortunate and irretrievable condition. I say “irretrievable,” because how are things to be remedied when ill health is the only foundation for a new superstructure? To mothers who read this, I would way, at any cost of time or patience to yourselves, give your daughters that educational home-training which shall prepare them to meet the necessary cares and burdens, which – however favourably situated – they may not hope to escape. Thrust them not out unarmed to fight the battle of life, trusting that “somehow” accident or chance will rectify your own criminal short comings.

FANNY FERN.

Fanny Fern visits an American Lunatic Asylum

My verdict after visiting a Lunatic Asylum is, that there are quite as many people outside, who should be in, as those already there. In other words, that almost every body has some crazy streak that should serve as a passport quite as well as any doctor’s affidavit. But, waiving this point, which, of course, the craziest head at large will be the first to deny, what an immense improvement has modern humanity effected in the treatment of these unfortunates! What an advance upon the diabolical cruelty of blows, and stripes, and iron cages, and nothing to do, and no room to do it in! Now, we have the elegant, spacious, well-ventilated and attractive building, surrounded with scenes of natural grandeur and beauty, and furnished with the most ample amusements and occupations for the diversion of these poor victims of one goading, haunting idea. One draws a long breath of relief to see them, under the eye of a watchful superintendent, raking hay in the sweet, fresh meadows, or walking about in a beautiful garden, or sitting by a pleasant window, through which comes the scent of flowers and the song of birds. One cannot but believe in tranquillising effects of these pleasant sights and sounds.

How affecting, too, is the child-like confidence with which they approach a perfect stranger, to tell the sorrow that is eating their lives away! “Poor Laura’s dead!” said one of them to me, in mournful tones. “Poor Laura’s dead!” she repeated, without awaiting an answer, looking sorrowfully in my face. Another sat at the window of a handsome room, watching with a smiling countenance the gravel-walk that led to the building. As I entered, she said, “I don’t know when he will come; if it is not this winter, it will be next summer; he said he would come and take me away, and I am going to sit here and wait for him;” and she turned again to the window and looked far off into the bright sunshine, and folded her hands in her lap in cheerful expectancy.

As the key was turned in one of the wards a woman rushed to the door, and said fiercely to the doctor, “Let me out, I say!” He calmly barred the entrance with his arm, and laying one hand soothingly on her shoulder, replied, “By and by-wait a little-won’t you?” Her countenance grew placid; and she replied, coaxingly, “Well, let me have one little peep out there then.” – “Yes,” said he, “you may go so far,” pointing to a designated limit, but not accompanying her. She walked out delightedly, took a survey of the hall, and promptly returning, said, “I wanted my father, but I see he is not there.” It seemed so humane to satisfy the poor creature, even though one know she might be a prey so some other fantasy the next minute.

It is a very curious sight, these lunatics – men and women, preparing food in the perfectly-arranged kitchen. One’s first thought, to be sure, is some possibly noxious ingredient that might be cunningly mixed in the viands; but further observation showed the impossibility of this under the rigid surveillance exercised. As to the pies, and meats, and vegetables, in process of preparation, they looked sufficiently tempting to those who had earned a good appetite like ourselves, by a walk across the fields. The poor French man was sane as a cook; his monomania was far out of his profession; it was poetry, and his epic had turned his brain. Some lunatic-women who were employed in the laundry, eyed me as I stood watching them, and, glancing at the embroidery on the hem of my skirt, a little the worse for the wet and dust of the road, exclaimed, “Oh, fie! A soiled skirt!” In fact, I almost began to doubt whether our guide was not humbugging us as to the real state of these people’s intellects; particularly as some of them employed in the grounds, as we went out, took off their hats, and smiled and bowed to us in the most approved manner.

“More women than men, in the Institution;” so I was told in answer to my query, on this point. I didn’t wonder at it. I know that in proportion as physical education becomes a religion with mothers, this will not be so. I know it will not be so, when growing girls are not confined in school for hours, and then debarred from exercise by a pile of school books to pore over every available minute, at home, until they go to school again the next morning. I know it will not be so, when that millennium comes fro women, which is not going to come like a letter through the post, but through mental enlightenment of the masses, and consequently exertion of their own; when woman freely owns to her true position; she the pound of silver, man the pound of gold. Then, the number of female patients in these institutions will bear some proportion to those whose active masculine employments help them to bear the daily frets and vexations, under which the delicate female organisation sinks utterly. I might add, that the millennium of which I speak will be wonderfully hastened when the general man is awake to the fact, that some women, at least, may be soul-hungry, though provided with the recognised feminine bill of fare – a huge broach, and something to eat.

FANNY FERN

MEN AND WOMEN.

How delicious is the blunt, honest frankness of men toward each other, in their everyday intercourse, in contrast with the polite little subterfuges, which form the basis of women-friendships! When one man goes to make a man-call on another, he talks when he pleases, and don’t talk when he don’t please. He is free to take a nap, or to take a book; and his host is as free, when he has had enough of him, or has any call away, to put on his hat, and to out to attend to it; nor does the caller feel himself aggrieved. Now a woman’s nose, under similar circumstances, would be up in the air for a month, with the “slight!” her female friend had put upon her. The more a woman don’t want her friend to stay, the more she is bound to urge her to do it; and to ask her why she hadn’t called before; and to wish that she might never go away, and all that sort o’ thing. What she remarks to her husband in private about it afterwards is a thing you and I have nothing to do with.

When two men meet, after a long absence, ten to one the first salutation is, “Old boy, how ugly you’ve grown!” In the female department we reverse this. “I never saw you look prettier,” being the preface to the aside – (what a fright she has become!) Then – (“blest be the tie that binds”) – mark one man meet another in the street – perhaps to light his cigar at that other’s nose, and pass on – without knowing the important fact, whether he lives in “a mansion” or not. How instructive the free-and-easy-and-audacious manner in which, after this ceremony, they go their several ways to the tombstones, without a spoken word! See them in the streets, my sisters, exchanging passing remarks on any object of momentary street-interest, looking over one another’s shoulders at each other’s “extras,” all the same as it the same hatter had capped their climaxes, or as if they had been introduced in an orthodox Grundy fashion!

See them, again, walk boldly up to a looking-glass, in a show window, and honestly stare at their ridiculous solemn selves; whereas, you women, pretend to be examining something else when you are bent on a like errand, intend on smoothing your ruffled feathers.

The other day, in an omnibus, a gentleman “nudged” another gentleman to hand down his fare. Now the nudged creature was out of sorts – wanted his dinner or something – and so sat like an image, without responding; another nudge – with no better success – not a muscle of the nudged man’s face moved. At last, with heightened colour, the gentleman handed it to the conductor himself, to the inconvenience of several ladies; but he didn’t talk to his next elbow-neighbour about “some people being so disagreeable,” or call him a “nasty thing;” or try to look him into eternal annihilation for what was really an ungracious action. He only rubbed his left ear a little, and put his mind on something else, and he looked very well, too, while he was doing it.

If a woman is visiting another at her house, and the latter goes upstairs for anything, her female guest trots right after her, like a little hunting dog. If she go to the closet to get her boots, the shadow follows; she must be present when they are laced on; and discusses rights and lefts, and hosiery, &c. When her hostess goes to the glass to arrange her hair, or put on her bonnet, the shadow follows, leaning both hands on the toilet table to witness the operation. Without this bandbox-freemason confidence, you see at once that female friendship could not be that sacred intermingling of congenial natures that it is. Your friend would weep, sirs, and ask you “what she had done to be treated so?”

A mouse and a woman! I know one of the latter, who always gets up on a table if she sees either coming. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu said a very witty thing once. I am afraid that not even her discovery of inoculation will cancel the sin of it. It was this: “The only comfort I ever had in being a woman is, that I can never marry one.”

The moral of all this is, that women need reforming in their intercourse with one another. There should be less kissing among them, and more sincerity; less “palaver,” and more reticence. But if you think I am going to tell them this in person, you must need suppose that I have already arranged my sublunary affairs in case of accident. This, not being the case, I decline the office, except so far as I can fill it at a safe distance on paper.

Fanny Fern