VIII.
FANNY AND THE TRUE FLAG.
Scene, True Flag Office, Morning.—Industrious Editor at his desk.—Enter dapper young gentleman, bowing.—Editor, with a pen over each ear and one in his fingers, looks up, nodding politely.
Young Gent.—Are you in want of contributions to your paper?
Ed.—We are always glad to get good original articles, sir. Please take a seat.
Y. G.—Thank you, sir. (Sits down in a Flag-bottomed chair—we mean, a chair with a pile of True Flags in it.) I am not a writer myself, but I have a lady friend, who, although inexperienced, manifests a good deal of literary talent, and would like to try her hand at an article or two for your paper. She belongs to a distinguished literary family; her father is an editor, and she has a brother who is also an editor, and the author of several of the most popular books ever published in this country.
Ed.—Very well; we should be pleased to see a specimen of what she can do. (Y. G. withdraws.)
Such was substantially the manner in which the yet unknown authoress, destined soon to become so celebrated, was first introduced to our notice. We should not, however, fail to state, in this connection, that already Mr. Norris, of the Olive Branch, had communicated to a member of our firm the fact, that a sister of Mr. N. P. Willis had applied to him for employment, and that he had recommended the True Flag as an additional source of income. Therefore, without the calling of names, we were prepared to make a shrewd guess at the identity of the young gent's lady friend.
According to agreement, a couple of fragrant Ferns were plucked in due season, (no pun on the word due,) and sent to our office. We found the leaves a little coarse in fibre, but spicy, and acceptable. Fanny wrote upon a big foolscap page, in a large, open, very masculine hand. The manuscript was characteristic—decidedly Ferny—dashed all over with astonishing capitals and crazy italics—and stuck full with staggering exclamation points, as a pin-cushion with pins. In print, the italics were intended to resemble jolly words leaning over and tumbling down with laughter, and the interjections were supposed to be tottering under the two-fold weight of double-entendres and puns. At first sight, the writing looked as though it might have been paced off by trained canary-birds—driven first through puddles of ink, then marched into hieroglyphic drill on the sheet like a militia company on parade. All Fanny's manuscripts demanded a good deal of editorial care to prepare them for the press; her first productions, particularly, requiring as thorough weeding as so many beds of juvenile beets and carrots.
Fanny's price—we mean the price of her articles—was two dollars a column. This was readily acceded to; and the young gent received the money for her first contributions—eight dollars for four columns—the morning after their delivery into our hands. In this place, it would be inexcusable not to speak of another characteristic of the Fern manuscripts. When purchased, paid for, properly pruned and prepared for the printer's hands, they were invariably found to fall short of the stipulated amount of reading matter—one of her spread-eagle pages nestling very quietly and nicely into a few lines of print. So trifling a circumstance, however, was not, of course, to be considered, in dealing with a lady.
Another Scene. True Flag Office, ten o'clock, A. M. Editor at his desk, with pens as before, and an additional pencil in his hair.—Enter jaunty bonnet, with gay feathers, elegant veil, rich broadcloth cloak, and silk dress—rather magnificent, if not more so. Editor hastens to place a chair.