Throughout the whole course of Fanny's writings we are presented with frequent and most pleasing pictures of her own self. Not only does she figure as the graceful heroine of "Ruth Hall," but all her sketches have a connection more or less remote with the events of her own life. The following sketch, as we are assured, is a description of the death of her husband, though it contains one of the customary portraitures of Fanny herself.

"The Young Wife's Affliction.—A delightful summer we passed, to be sure, at the —— Hotel, in the quiet village of S——. A collection of prettier women, or more gentlemanly, agreeable men, were never thrown together by the necessity of seeking country quarters in the dog-days. Fashion, by common consent, was laid upon the shelf, and comfort and smiling faces were the natural result. Husbands took the cars in the morning for the city, rejoicing in linen coats and pants, and loose neck-ties; their wives, equally independent till their return, in flowing muslin wrappers, not too dainty for the wear and tear of little climbing feet, fresh from the meadow or wildwood.

"There were no separate 'cliques' or 'sets;' nobody knew, or inquired, or cared, whether your great grandfather had his horse shod, or shoed horses for other people. The ladies were not afraid of smutting their fingers, or their reputation, if they washed their own children's faces; and didn't consider it necessary to fasten the door, and close the blinds, when they replaced a missing button on their husband's waistband, or mended a ragged frock.

"Plenty of fruit, plenty of fresh, sweet air, plenty of children, and plenty of room for them to play in. A short nap in the afternoon, a little additional care in arranging tumbled ringlets, and in girding a fresh robe round the waist, and they were all seated in the cool of the evening on the long piazza, smiling, happy, and expectant, as the car bell announced the return of their liege lords from the dusty, heated city. It was delightful to see their business faces brighten up, as each fair wife came forward and relieved them from the little parcels and newspapers they carried in their hands, and smiled a welcome, sweet as the cool, fresh air that fanned their heated foreheads. A cold bath, a clean dickey, and they were presentable at the supper table, where merry jokes flew round, and city news was discussed between the fragrant cups of tea, and each man fell in love with his pretty wife over again, (or his neighbor's, if he liked!)

"It was one harmonious, happy family! Mrs. —— and her husband were the prime ministers of fun and frolic in the establishment. It was she who concocted all the games, and charades, and riddles, that sent our merry shouts ringing far and wide, as we sat in the evening on the long moonlit piazza. It was she who planned the picnics and sails, and drives in the old hay-cart; the berry parties, and romps on the green; and the little cosy suppers in the back parlor just before bed time (that nobody but herself could have coaxed out of the fussy old landlord.) It was she who salted our coffee and sugared our toast; it was she who made puns for us, and wrote verses; it was she who sewed up pockets in overcoats, or stole cigars, or dipped the ends in water; it was she who nursed all the sick children in the house; it was she who cut out frocks, and pinafores, and caps, for unskilful mothers; it was she who was here and there, and every where, the embodiment of mischief, and fun, and kindness; and as she flew past her handsome husband, (with her finger on her lip,) bent upon some new prank, he would look after her with a proud, happy smile, more eloquent than words.

"He was the handsomest man I ever saw—tall, commanding and elegant, with dark blue eyes, a profusion of curling black hair, glittering white teeth, and a form like Apollo's. Mary was so proud of him! She would always watch his eye when she meditated any little piece of roguery, and it was discontinued or perfected as she read its language. He was just the man to appreciate her—to understand her sensitive, enthusiastic nature; to know when to check, when to encourage; and it needed but a word, a look; for her whole soul went out to him.

"And so the bright summer days sped fleetly on; and now autumn had come, with its gorgeous beauty, and no one had courage to speak of breaking up our happy circle; but ah! there came one, with stealthy steps, who had no such scruples!

"The merry shout of the children is hushed in the wide halls; anxious faces are grouped on the piazza; for in a darkened room above, lies Mary's princely husband, delirious with fever! The smile has fled her lip, the rose her cheek; her eye is humid with tears that never fall; day and night without sleep or food, she keeps untiring vigil; while (unconscious of her presence,) in tones that pierce her heart, he calls unceasingly for 'my wife!' She puts back the tangled masses of dark hair from his heated forehead; she passes her little hand coaxingly over it; she hears not the advice of the physician, 'to procure a nurse.' She fears not to be alone with him when he is raving. She tells no one that on her delicate breast she bears the impress of an (almost) deadly blow from the hand that was never before raised but to bless her. And now the physician, who has come once, twice, thrice a day from the city, tells the anxious groups in the hall that his patient must die; not one dare break the news to the wretched Mary! There is little need! She has gazed in their faces with a keen, agonized earnestness; she has asked no questions, but she knows it all; and her heart is dying within her! No entreaty, no persuasion can draw her from the bedside.

"The old doctor, with tearful eyes, passes his arm round her trembling form, and says, 'My child, you cannot meet the next hour—leave him with me.'

"A mournful shake of the head is his only answer, as she takes her seat again by her husband, and presses her forehead low, upon that clammy hand; praying God that she may die with him.

"An hour of TIME—an ETERNITY of agony has passed! A fainting, unresisting form is borne from that chamber of Death.

"Beautiful as a piece of rare sculpture, lies the husband!—no trace of pain on lip or brow; the long, heavy lashes lie upon the marble cheek; the raven locks, damp with the dew of death, cluster profusely round the noble forehead; those chiseled lips are gloriously beautiful in their repose! Tears fall like rain from kindly eyes; servants pass to and fro, respectfully, with measured tread; kind hands are busy with vain attempts to restore animation to the fainting wife. Oh that bitter, BITTER waking! (for she does wake. God pity her!)

"Her hand is passed slowly across her forehead; she remembers! she is a widow!! She looks about the room—there is his hat, his coat, his cane; and now, indeed, she throws herself, with a burst of passionate grief, into the arms of the old physician, who says, betwixt a tear and a smile, 'Now God be praised—SHE WEEPS!'

"And so with the falling leaves of Autumn, 'the Great Reaper' gathered in our noble friend. Why should I dwell on the agony of the gentle wife? or tell of her return to her desolate home in the city; of the disposal of the rare pictures and statuary collected to grace its walls by the refined taste of its proprietor; of the NECESSARY disposal of every article of luxury; of her removal to plain lodgings, where curious people speculated upon her history, and marked her moistened eyes; of the long, interminable, wretched days; of the wakeful nights, when she lay with her cheek pressed against the sweet, fatherless child of her love; of her untiring efforts to seek an honorable, independent support? It is but an every-day history, but (God knows) its crushing weight of agony is none the less keenly felt by the sufferer!"