Discussions A

As to Fanny Fern’s grammar, rhetoric, and punctuation, they are beneath criticism. It is all very well for her to say, those who wish commas, semi- colons and periods, must look for them in the printer’s case, or that she who Snds ideas must not be expected to Snd rhetoric or grammar; for our part, we should be gratiSed if we had even found any ideas!

We regret to be obliged to speak thus of a lady’s book: it gives us plea sure, when we can do so conscientiously, to pat lady writers on the head; but we owe a duty to the public which will not permit us to recommend to their favorable notice an aspirant who has been unwomanly enough so boldly to contest every inch of ground in order to reach them— an aspirant at once so high- stepping and so ignorant, so plausible, yet so pernicious. We have a con- servative horror of this pop- gun, torpedo female; we predict for Fanny Fern’s “Leaves” only a ^eeting autumnal ^utter.

1857

A Law More Nice Than Just1

Here I have been sitting twiddling the morning paper between my Sngers this half hour, re^ecting upon the following paragraph in it: “Emma Wilson was arrested yesterday for wearing man’s apparel.” Now, why this should be an actionable offense is past my Snding out, or where’s the harm in it, I am as much at a loss to see. Think of the old maids (and weep) who have to stay at home eve ning after eve ning, when, if they provided themselves with a coat, pants and hat, they might go abroad, instead of sitting there with their noses ^attened against the window- pane, looking vainly for “the Coming Man.”2 Think of the married women who stay at home after their day’s toil is done, waiting wearily for their thoughtless, truant husbands, when they might be taking the much needed in de pen dent walk in trowsers, which custom forbids to petticoats. And this, I fancy, may be the secret of this famous law— who knows? It wouldn’t be pleasant for some of them to be surprised by a touch on the shoulder from some dapper young fellow, whose familiar treble voice belied his corduroys. That’s it, now. What a fool I was not to think of it— not to remember that men who make the laws, make them to meet all these little emergencies.

Everybody knows what an everlasting drizzle of rain we have had lately, but nobody but a woman, and a woman who lives on fresh air and out- door exer- cise, knows the thraldom of taking her daily walk through a three weeks’ rain, with skirts to hold up, and umbrella to hold down, and puddles to skip over, and gutters to walk round, and all the time in a fright lest, in an unguarded moment, her calves should become visible to some one of those rainy- day phi- lanthropists who are interested in the public study of female anatomy.

One eve ning, after a long rainy day of scribbling, when my nerves were in double- twisted knots, and I felt as if myriads of little ants were leisurely trav- eling over me, and all for want of the walk which is my daily salvation, I stood at the window, looking at the slanting, per sis tent rain, and took my resolve. “I’ll do it,” said I, audibly, planting my slipper upon the carpet. “Do what?”

1. First printed in the New York Ledger on July 10, 1858, the source of the text. “Nice”: fastidious.

2. A suitor with good prospects for Snancial or professional advancement.

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asked Mr. Fern, looking up from a big book. “Put on a suit of your clothes and take a tramp with you,” was the answer. “You dare not,” was the rejoinder; “you are a little coward, only saucy on paper.” It was the work of a moment, with such a challenge, to ^y up stairs and overhaul my phi los o pher’s ward- robe. Of course we had fun. Tailors must be a stingy set, I remarked, to be so sparing of their cloth, as I struggled into a pair of their handiwork, undeterred by the vociferous laughter of the wretch who had solemnly vowed to “cherish me” through all my tribulations. “Upon my word, everything seems to be nar- row where it ought to be broad, and the waist of this coat might be made for a hogshead;3 and, ugh! this shirt- collar is cutting my ears off, and you have not a decent cravat in the whole lot, and your vests are frights, and what am I to do with my hair?” Still no reply from Mr. Fern, who lay on the ^oor, faintly ejacu- lating, between his Sts of laughter, “Oh, my! by Jove!— oh! by Jupiter!”

Was that to hinder me? Of course not. Strings and pins, woman’s never- failing resort, soon brought broadcloth and kerseymere4 to terms. I parted my hair on one side, rolled it under, and then secured it with hair- pins; chose the best Stting coat, and cap- ping the climax with one of those soft, cosy hats, looked in the glass, where I beheld the very fac- simile of a certain musical gentleman, whose photograph hangs this minute in Brady’s5 entry.

Well, Mr. Fern seized his hat, and out we went together. “Fanny,” said he, “you must not take my arm; you are a fellow.” “True,” said I, “I forgot; and you must not help me over the puddles, as you did just now, and do, for mercy’s sake, stop laughing. There, there goes your hat— I mean my hat; confound the wind! and down comes my hair; lucky ’tis dark, isn’t it? But oh, the deli- cious freedom of that walk, after we were well started! No skirts to hold up, or to draggle their wet folds against my ankles; no sti^ing vail ^apping in my face, and blinding my eyes; no umbrella to turn inside out, but instead, the cool rain driving slap into my face, and the resurrectionized blood coursing through my veins, and tingling in my cheeks. To be sure, Mr. Fern occasion- ally loitered behind, and leaned up against the side of a house to enjoy a little private “guffaw,” and I could now and then hear a gasping “Oh, Fanny!” “oh, my!” but none of these things moved me, and if I don’t have a nicely- Stting suit of my own to wear rainy eve nings, it is because— well, there are difScul- ties in the way. Who’s the best tailor?

Now, if any male or female Miss Nancy6 who reads this feels shocked, let ’em! Any woman who likes, may stay at home during a three weeks’ rain, till her skin looks like parchment, and her eyes like those of a dead Ssh, or she may go out and get a consumption dragging round wet petticoats; I won’t— I positively declare I won’t. I shall begin eve nings when that suit is made, and take private walking lessons with Mr. Fern, and they who choose may crook their backs at home for fashion, and then send for the doctor to straighten them; I prefer to patronize my shoe- maker and tailor. I’ve as good a right to preserve the healthy body God gave me, as if I were not a woman.

1858

3. Large cask. 4. Woolen cloth used in men’s apparel. 5. Mathew B. Brady (1823– 1896), pioneering photographer, had a studio in lower Manhattan at Broadway and Fulton. The “musical gentleman”

may have been the great Italian baritone Giorgio Ronconi (1810– 1890); several weeks before Fern published this article, New Yorkers lamented his departure for Eu rope. 6. A prude.

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