Peeps from under a parasol
New York Ledger
March 29
April 12, 19, 1856
March 29
April 12, 19, 1856
People describe me, without saying "by your leave;" a little thought has just occurred to me that two can play at that game! I don't go about with my eyes shut — no tailor can "take a measure" quicker than I, as I pass along.
There is Richard Grant White; now don't he look like a greyhound on two legs? I never see him, but I feel like challenging him to his speed in running a race; (in which by the way, he would be sure to come off second best.)
There are Drs. Chapin, and Bethune; whose well-to-do appearance in this world, quite neutralises their Sunday exhortations to "set one's affections on a better." There's Greeley—but why describe the town pump? he has been handle-d enough, to keep him from Rust-ing. There's that Epicurean Rip-lie, critic of the New York Tribune; if I have spelt his name wrong, it was because I was thinking of the unmitigated fibs he has told in his book reviews! There's Col. Fuller, editor of the New York Evening Mirror, handsome, witty and saucy. There's Mr. Young, editor of The Albion, who looks too much like a gentleman, to have abused in so wholesale a manner, the lady writers of America. There's Lieut. Gov. Raymond, editor of the New York Times, who always reminds me of what the Scotch parson said to his wife, whom he noticed asleep in church: "Jennie! Jennie! you have no beauty, as all the congregation may see, and if you have no grace, I have made but a poor bargain of it!" There's Richard Storrs Willis, or, Storrs Richard Willis, or, Willis Richard Storrs, (it is a way that family have to keep changing their names) editor of the Musical World; not a bad paper either; Richard has a fine profile, a trim, tight figure, always unexceptionally arrayed; and has a gravity of mien most edifying to one who has eat bread and molasses out of the same plate with him.
Behind that beard coming down the street in that night-gown overcoat, is Mr. Charles A. Dana, of the New York Tribune, who is ready to say, "Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace," when he shall have made the New York Tribune like unto the London Times. Charles should remember, that the motto of the London Times is Fair Play—not the appearance of fair play. There's Bayard Taylor--"the Oriental Bayard." Now I don't suppose Bayard is to blame for being a pretty man, or for looking so nice and bandbox-y. But if some public benefactor would tumble his hair and shirt collar, and tie his cravat in a loose sailor knot; and if Bayard himself would open that little three-cent-piece mouth of his a l-i-t-t-l-e wider when he lectures, it would take a load off my mind! I write this, in full view of his interest in the Almighty Tribune, and also set up before him, certain "Leaves" for a target, by way of reprisal.
Then there is Henry Ward Beecher; who is getting what country people call "peart," on his increasing popularity, and who seems now-a-days more anxious to startle, and astonish, than to edify, and spiritualise: He—Henry Ward, says, that "eating is vulgar." It is just possible that it may be, but I have never thought so, except when I have seen the male and female members of the Beecher family, D.D's—and authoress—munching oranges, apples, and peanuts, in the street.
Yes, Henry Ward is getting spoiled; ah! many a man who steers his bark safely on a stormy sea, rides into any port but Heaven, on the wave of popular favor...
And there is Mr. James Parton, author of the Life of Horace Greely, whom I occasionally meet; Jim is five feet ten inches, and modest,—wears his hair long, and don't believe in a devil—has written more good anonymous articles, now floating unbaptized through newspaperdom, (on both sides of the water) than any other man, save himself, would suffer to go unclaimed. Jim believes in Carlyle and lager bier—can write book better than he can tie a cravat; though since his late marriage I am pleased to observe a wonderful improvement in this respect. It is my belief, that Jim is destined by steady progress, to eclipse many a man who has shot up like a rocket, and who will fizzle out and come down a stick...
And here comes Barnum; poor Barnum! late so giant and rosy. Kick not the prostrate lion, ye crowing changelings; you may yet feel his paws in your faces; Mammon grant it! not for the love I bear to "wooly horses," but for the hate I bear to pharisaical summer friends...
And here come Lester and Laura Keene (not together! Thespis forbid!) I must like Laura's energy and determination, and I do wonder at the weight of business those fair and fragile shoulders bear; I must honor any woman who snaps her finger at repeated discouragements to gain an honest livelihood; yes, long-visaged, saucer-eyed Pharasee, even though she be "an actress." I hear whispers against the pretty Laura. Of course -- who that is successful -- who that is attractive escapes them? When a man is defamed, a fist, a pistol, or the law rights him: a woman thus situated, if silent, is guilty; if rasped to a public vindication of her rights, is bold, revengeful and unwomanly. So "get thee behind me, defaming limb of Satan!" for the indomitable Laura shall, in my eyes, be worthy of honor, until proven otherwise.
And there's Jordan; a hero for a boarding-school Miss. If I might be allowed to name a fault, it is his excessive modesty.
And Lester --- but his fine person needs to eulogium of mine; I have sometimes thought he himself was not unconscious of it! And Wallack, with his lovely grandchild by the hand; (autumn and Spring) --- you will see no picture in the artist's studio more touching and sweet.
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 -- 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 cannot 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.
And speaking of books, here comes Walt Whitman, author of Leaves of Grass, which by the way, I have not yet read. His shirt collar is turned off from his muscular throat, and his shoulders are thrown back as if even in that fine chest of his, his lungs had not sufficient play-rom. Mark his voice! rich -- deep -- and clear, as a clarion note. In the most crowded thoroughfare, one would turn instinctively on hearing it, to seek out its owner. Such a voice is a gift as rare as it is priceless. A fig for phrenology! Let me but hear the voice of a man or a woman and I will tell you the stuff its owners are made of. One of the first things I noticed in New York was the sharp, shrill, squeaking, unrefined, vixenish, uneducated voices of its women. How inevitably such disenchanting discord, breaks the spell of beauty!
Fair New Yorkers keep your mouths shut, if you would conquer.
By what magnetism has our mention of voices conjured up the form of Dr. LOWELL MASON? And yet, there he is, as majestic as Old Hundred --- as popular -- and apparently as indestructible by Time. I would like to see a pupil of his who does not love him. I defy anyone to look at this noble, patriarchal chorister (as he leads the Congregational Singing on the Sabbath, in Dr. Alexander's church) with an unmoistened eye. How fitting his position -- and oh! how befitting God's temple, the praises of "all the people"....
Ah --- here is Dr. Skinner! no misnomer that: but what a logician --- what an operator! Not an unmeaning sentence -- not a superfluous word -- not an unpolished period escapes him. In these days of superficial, botched, evangelical apprentice-work, it is a treat to welcome a master-workman. Thank Providence, all the talent is not on the side of Beelzebub!
Vinegar cruets and vestry-meetings! here come a group of Bostonians! Mark their puckered, spick-and-span self-complaisance! Mark that scornful gathering up of their skirts as they sidle away from the gorgeous Magdalen who, God pity and help her, may repent in her robes of unwomanly shame, but they in their "mint and anise," white-washed garments -- never!
I close with a little quotation, not that it has anything to do with my subject, but that it is merely a poetical finish to my article. Some people have a weakness for poetry; I have, it is from the pen of the can't-hating HOOD.
There is Richard Grant White; now don't he look like a greyhound on two legs? I never see him, but I feel like challenging him to his speed in running a race; (in which by the way, he would be sure to come off second best.)
There are Drs. Chapin, and Bethune; whose well-to-do appearance in this world, quite neutralises their Sunday exhortations to "set one's affections on a better." There's Greeley—but why describe the town pump? he has been handle-d enough, to keep him from Rust-ing. There's that Epicurean Rip-lie, critic of the New York Tribune; if I have spelt his name wrong, it was because I was thinking of the unmitigated fibs he has told in his book reviews! There's Col. Fuller, editor of the New York Evening Mirror, handsome, witty and saucy. There's Mr. Young, editor of The Albion, who looks too much like a gentleman, to have abused in so wholesale a manner, the lady writers of America. There's Lieut. Gov. Raymond, editor of the New York Times, who always reminds me of what the Scotch parson said to his wife, whom he noticed asleep in church: "Jennie! Jennie! you have no beauty, as all the congregation may see, and if you have no grace, I have made but a poor bargain of it!" There's Richard Storrs Willis, or, Storrs Richard Willis, or, Willis Richard Storrs, (it is a way that family have to keep changing their names) editor of the Musical World; not a bad paper either; Richard has a fine profile, a trim, tight figure, always unexceptionally arrayed; and has a gravity of mien most edifying to one who has eat bread and molasses out of the same plate with him.
Behind that beard coming down the street in that night-gown overcoat, is Mr. Charles A. Dana, of the New York Tribune, who is ready to say, "Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace," when he shall have made the New York Tribune like unto the London Times. Charles should remember, that the motto of the London Times is Fair Play—not the appearance of fair play. There's Bayard Taylor--"the Oriental Bayard." Now I don't suppose Bayard is to blame for being a pretty man, or for looking so nice and bandbox-y. But if some public benefactor would tumble his hair and shirt collar, and tie his cravat in a loose sailor knot; and if Bayard himself would open that little three-cent-piece mouth of his a l-i-t-t-l-e wider when he lectures, it would take a load off my mind! I write this, in full view of his interest in the Almighty Tribune, and also set up before him, certain "Leaves" for a target, by way of reprisal.
Then there is Henry Ward Beecher; who is getting what country people call "peart," on his increasing popularity, and who seems now-a-days more anxious to startle, and astonish, than to edify, and spiritualise: He—Henry Ward, says, that "eating is vulgar." It is just possible that it may be, but I have never thought so, except when I have seen the male and female members of the Beecher family, D.D's—and authoress—munching oranges, apples, and peanuts, in the street.
Yes, Henry Ward is getting spoiled; ah! many a man who steers his bark safely on a stormy sea, rides into any port but Heaven, on the wave of popular favor...
And there is Mr. James Parton, author of the Life of Horace Greely, whom I occasionally meet; Jim is five feet ten inches, and modest,—wears his hair long, and don't believe in a devil—has written more good anonymous articles, now floating unbaptized through newspaperdom, (on both sides of the water) than any other man, save himself, would suffer to go unclaimed. Jim believes in Carlyle and lager bier—can write book better than he can tie a cravat; though since his late marriage I am pleased to observe a wonderful improvement in this respect. It is my belief, that Jim is destined by steady progress, to eclipse many a man who has shot up like a rocket, and who will fizzle out and come down a stick...
And here comes Barnum; poor Barnum! late so giant and rosy. Kick not the prostrate lion, ye crowing changelings; you may yet feel his paws in your faces; Mammon grant it! not for the love I bear to "wooly horses," but for the hate I bear to pharisaical summer friends...
And here come Lester and Laura Keene (not together! Thespis forbid!) I must like Laura's energy and determination, and I do wonder at the weight of business those fair and fragile shoulders bear; I must honor any woman who snaps her finger at repeated discouragements to gain an honest livelihood; yes, long-visaged, saucer-eyed Pharasee, even though she be "an actress." I hear whispers against the pretty Laura. Of course -- who that is successful -- who that is attractive escapes them? When a man is defamed, a fist, a pistol, or the law rights him: a woman thus situated, if silent, is guilty; if rasped to a public vindication of her rights, is bold, revengeful and unwomanly. So "get thee behind me, defaming limb of Satan!" for the indomitable Laura shall, in my eyes, be worthy of honor, until proven otherwise.
And there's Jordan; a hero for a boarding-school Miss. If I might be allowed to name a fault, it is his excessive modesty.
And Lester --- but his fine person needs to eulogium of mine; I have sometimes thought he himself was not unconscious of it! And Wallack, with his lovely grandchild by the hand; (autumn and Spring) --- you will see no picture in the artist's studio more touching and sweet.
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 -- 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 cannot 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.
And speaking of books, here comes Walt Whitman, author of Leaves of Grass, which by the way, I have not yet read. His shirt collar is turned off from his muscular throat, and his shoulders are thrown back as if even in that fine chest of his, his lungs had not sufficient play-rom. Mark his voice! rich -- deep -- and clear, as a clarion note. In the most crowded thoroughfare, one would turn instinctively on hearing it, to seek out its owner. Such a voice is a gift as rare as it is priceless. A fig for phrenology! Let me but hear the voice of a man or a woman and I will tell you the stuff its owners are made of. One of the first things I noticed in New York was the sharp, shrill, squeaking, unrefined, vixenish, uneducated voices of its women. How inevitably such disenchanting discord, breaks the spell of beauty!
Fair New Yorkers keep your mouths shut, if you would conquer.
By what magnetism has our mention of voices conjured up the form of Dr. LOWELL MASON? And yet, there he is, as majestic as Old Hundred --- as popular -- and apparently as indestructible by Time. I would like to see a pupil of his who does not love him. I defy anyone to look at this noble, patriarchal chorister (as he leads the Congregational Singing on the Sabbath, in Dr. Alexander's church) with an unmoistened eye. How fitting his position -- and oh! how befitting God's temple, the praises of "all the people"....
Ah --- here is Dr. Skinner! no misnomer that: but what a logician --- what an operator! Not an unmeaning sentence -- not a superfluous word -- not an unpolished period escapes him. In these days of superficial, botched, evangelical apprentice-work, it is a treat to welcome a master-workman. Thank Providence, all the talent is not on the side of Beelzebub!
Vinegar cruets and vestry-meetings! here come a group of Bostonians! Mark their puckered, spick-and-span self-complaisance! Mark that scornful gathering up of their skirts as they sidle away from the gorgeous Magdalen who, God pity and help her, may repent in her robes of unwomanly shame, but they in their "mint and anise," white-washed garments -- never!
I close with a little quotation, not that it has anything to do with my subject, but that it is merely a poetical finish to my article. Some people have a weakness for poetry; I have, it is from the pen of the can't-hating HOOD.
"A pride there is of rank -- a pride of birth,
A pride of learning and a pride of purse,
A London pride -- in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse.
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected saint.
To picture that cold pride, so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock, in a poultry yard;
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and planted stiff.
In all his pomp and pageantry, as if
He felt 'the eye of Europe' on his tail!"
A pride of learning and a pride of purse,
A London pride -- in short, there be on earth
A host of prides, some better and some worse.
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,
The proudest swells a self-elected saint.
To picture that cold pride, so harsh and hard,
Fancy a peacock, in a poultry yard;
Behold him in conceited circles sail,
Strutting and dancing, and planted stiff.
In all his pomp and pageantry, as if
He felt 'the eye of Europe' on his tail!"
Fanny Fern
To cite this project: Fanny Fern, "Peeps From Under a Parasol," Fanny Fern Archive, Ed. Haley Jones (2020) http://fannyfernarchive.org.
