And here, by the rood, comes Fanny Fern! Fanny is a woman. For that she is not to blame; though since she first found it out, she has never ceased to deplore it. She might be prettier; she might be younger. She might be older; she might be uglier. She might be better; she might be worse. She has been both over-praised and over-abused, and those who have abused her worst, have imitated and copied her most.
One thing may be said in favor of Fanny: she was NOT, thank Providence, born in the beautiful, backbiting, sanctimonious, slandering, clean, contumelious, pharisaical, phiddle-de-dee, peck-measure city—of Boston!
Look!
Which? How? Where?
Why there; don’t you see? there’s Potiphar Curtis.
Potiphar Curtis! Ye gods, what a name! Pity my ignorance, reader, I had not then heard of the great “Howadji”—the only Potiphar I knew of being that much-abused ancient who—but never mind him; suffice it to say, I had not heard of “Howadji;” and while I stood transfixed with his ridiculous cognomen, his coat tails, like his namesake’s rival’s, were disappearing in the distance. So I can not describe him for you; but I give you my word, should I ever see him, to do him justice to the tips of his boots, which, I understand, are of immaculate polish. I have read his “Papers” though, and to speak in the style of the patronizing critics who review lady-books, they are very well—for a man.
I was sauntering along one sunny day last week, when I saw before me a young girl, hooped, flounced, fringed, laced, bugled, and ribboned, regardless of cost. Her mantilla, whether of the “Eugenie” or “Victoria” pattern I am too ignorant to inform you, was of black, and had more trimming than I could have believed the most ingenious of dressmakers could pile on one mantilla, though backed by every dry goods merchant in New York. Venus! what a figure it was hung on! Short, flat-chested, narrow-shouldered, angular, and stick-like! her bonnet was a marvel of Lilliputianism, lightness, and lilacs. Raphael! what a face was under it! Watery, yellow, black eyes, a sallow, unwholesome skin, and—Bardolph! what a nose! Imagine a spotted “Seckle pear”—imagine a gnarled bulb-root—imagine a vanquished prize-fighter’s proboscis, and you have it! That such a female, with such repulsive features, living in a Christian country, where there were looking-glasses, should strain back from the roots what little hair she had, as if her face were beautiful in its outline—it was incredible.
Who, or what, was she? One of those poor, bedizened unfortunates who hang out signal “Barkis” flags? The poor thing had no capital, even for that miserable market; nobody would have bid for her, but a pawnbroker.
While I speculated and wondered, she slowly lifted her kidded forefinger. I was all eyes and ears! A footman in livery sprang forward, and obsequiously let down the steps of a superb carriage, in waiting, on whose panels was emblazoned a coat-of-arms. The bundle of millinery—the stick-like figure inside the hoops—the gay little bonnet, and the Bardolphian nose, took possession of it. The liveried footman mounted behind, the liveried coachman cracked his whip on the box, the sleek, shiny horses arched their necks, the silver-mounted harness glistened in the sunlight, and the vision was gone. F-a-n-n-y F-e-r-n! is there no limit to your ignorance? You had been commiserating—actually commiserating—one of the élite of New York!