Mr. Farrington, a merchant of Boston--a man of energy and upright character--made an offer of his hand. He had himself enjoyed matrimonial experience--was himself a parent--and was well qualified to sympathize with the young widow. They sought mutual consolation in marriage. But scarce was the honeymoon over, when that mutual consolation was followed by mutual surprise. Fanny learned to her sorrow that all husbands are not equally fond and indulgent; and the bridegroom discovered that Mrs. F. No. 2 wasn't the exact counterpart of Mrs. F. No. 1. The contrast was, in fact, so vast and amazing, that it seemed to require solitude and quiet, to consider it in all its bearings. Accordingly, Mr. Farrington resorted to travel and a change of scene; journeyed westward; and has not since been seen on the down-east slope of the continent. The slender tie of affection between the happy pair, thus long drawn out, like a thread of India rubber, finally snapped.
At the time of his departure, Fanny was boarding with her children at the Marlboro' Hotel in Boston. Soon after, however, she removed to quiet but pleasant lodgings in another quarter of the city.
Mr. Farrington took up his abode in Chicago, and soon after Fanny was connubially advertised in the columns of the Boston Daily Bee. Then, from the auction mart of a western court, Mr. F. gave out three warnings; cried--"Going!--going!!--gone!!!" and legally knocked down his wife with the hammer of divorce.
Once more separated from her husband, the dashing Fanny wore no mourning weeds. Her lively circle of acquaintances found her fireside no less attractive than formerly. Once more a widow she had learned to wear gracefully her honors.
Fanny Fern's writings are expressive of her character. But, if possible, she is twice as original, spicy, and entertaining, in her person as in her sketches. To understand her perfectly, one should see her and talk with her; and to see her and talk with her to advantage, one should meet her on terms of chatty familiarity in her own private apartments.
Fanny's home in Boston is well remembered by her favored acquaintances. Introduced into her unique parlor, the visitor found himself surrounded by pleasing evidences of luxury and taste, characterizing its occupant as a woman of elegant leisure. A subdued, monastic light, pervading the apartment, never failed to add its charm to the visit. Convenient shutters, and heavy folds of curtains robbed the saucy daylight of its too garish beams, and by night, in the still and quiet hours, a rich shade surrounded the glowing globe of the astral, tempering its lustre to a soft, mellow effulgence.