The Congregational Journal, Concord, N. H., concludes a somewhat severe review, in the following emphatic manner:--
"The chapter wanting in the life of 'Ruth Hall,' perhaps could be furnished by Mr. Samuel P. Farrington, of Chicago, Ill., if he was her second husband till he obtained a divorce from her; and that such is the fact, who will deny? Who that knows will take the responsibility of denying that 'Ruth Hall' alias 'Fanny Fern,' is the daughter of Deacon Nathaniel Willis, of Boston, and that N. P. Willis is her brother? And who will deny that her first husband was a Mr. Eldredge, whose father was a physician, and is now dead? Is not the 'old Doctor' the father of 'Harry?' Is not 'Mr. Ellet' the father of 'Ruth,' and is not 'Hyacinth' her brother? are questions which she will not answer in the negative. We shall not ourselves attempt any description of this book, but having knowledge of some facts in the history of its author, and believing that the outlines above quoted are just, we have encumbered our columns with the matter. If by so doing, we shall be the means of increasing the readers of 'Ruth Hall,' the responsibility of reading such an abominable production will rest on themselves and not us."
I've been reading the Bible, to-day, and it strikes me that our foremothers were not very correct old ladies. Who flirted with the old serpent? How came Sampson's hair cut off and his peepers extinguished? Who perforated Jael's head with tenpenny nails? How came Jonah sent on a whale-ing voyage? Who helped Ananias tell fibs? Who put Job up to swearing? Who raised a perfect hurricane in good old Abram's house! Who danced John the Baptist's head off his shoulders, hey? I'd like to have you notice (that's all,) what a stock we all sprung from.
"If _they_ weren't tee-totally depraved, may I never find out which of 'em I descended from! They didn't seem to have the least consideration for future generations 'long since unborn.' Now I don't calculate, myself, to feel responsible for _their_ capers. I've read somewhere, in Byron, I believe, that every washtub must stand on its own pedestal! (or something like that.) I don't believe in saddling my shoulders with their old-fashioned transgressions.