"'Is this the heart that beat so tenderly for Sarah; yea, and for Anna afterwards, and then for Maria, and in the course of time for Margaret Jane!'"—True Flag.
As Cupid is your witness, the very same! Why not? No computing the times a masculine heart can be damaged, repaired, cracked, broken, mended, and be just as good as new! How often it can be tossed, like a shuttlecock, from one fair hand to another, and lose none of its freshness or intrinsic value. How fervently it can adore every daughter of Eve the sun shines upon! How instantaneous may be the transition from the dirge note of sorrow to 'Love's Quickstep!' How unnecessary it is, to be off with the old love, before it is on with the new.
"Oh! it is an exhaustless fountain, that heart! No bounds to its capacities! A widower, whose wives had been 'legion,' was once heard to say:—'The more I loved my Elenore, the more I loved my Mary; the more I loved my Mary, the more I loved my Anna;' &c. Imagination fails me to picture, at this rate of progression, the 'unwritten' felicity of the LAST feminine, on the marital list! Venus! the very thought paralyzes my pen!"
L.
AN HOUR WITH FANNY'S FATHER.
Since the previous pages were prepared, we have been favored with an interesting history of a recent interview with Fanny Fern's father, by a gentleman of Boston, upon whose statements implicit reliance may be placed.
As any facts relating to the venerable parent of so distinguished a woman as Fanny, must be of interest to the public, we have concluded to devote a chapter to a condensed account of the interview in question.
Deacon Willis was found at his office in School street, at an early hour on a winter morning, engaged in looking over some business matters with his book-keeper. The veteran publisher is described as a person rather below the medium stature; gray-haired and feeble; slightly bent with age and care; dressed in a sober suit of black, with white cravat, and spectacles.
The conversation turning upon "Ruth Hall," the old gentleman shook his head sadly. Had he read the book? Oh, no! he had not the heart to do that. He had understood that he was abused in it; but at his time of life, with the gates of eternity drawing so near, and the world receding so fast behind him, he felt no desire to know what an ungrateful child would say of him. As far as he could learn, the book had been read by none of his family: they passed it by, as children shun a reptile in their path. But he had seen notices of it in the newspapers, from which he had learned something concerning Fanny's treatment of her relatives. It was needless for him to say how unjust that treatment was. He had no defence to make. And as for retaliation—he was still her father; she was his child; he grieved not on his own account, but for her sake—not because evil was said of him in his old age, but because it was in her heart to say it: what retaliation then could he seek?
This last was not the first, nor by any means the greatest trial Fanny had caused her parents. From her girlhood, she had been a wild and troublesome child. A total disregard for the feelings of others, was a distinguishing characteristic of her disposition. Selfish and wilful, all attempts to control her, excited only passion and spite. No pains had been spared to soften and tame her. The most celebrated teachers were employed. Not only did Miss Catherine E. Beecher try her skill upon her, but schools at Pittsfield, Mass., at Londonderry, N. H., and at several other places, were patronized, one after the other, with quite indifferent success. At the termination of each fruitless effort to mould her character, Miss Fanny was returned, wild and wilful as ever, upon her parents' hands.