The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 2

_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 auth.o.r.ess, 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 ident.i.ty 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 coa.r.s.e in fibre, but spicy, and acceptable. f.a.n.n.y wrote upon a big foolscap page, in a large, open, very masculine hand.

The ma.n.u.script 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 f.a.n.n.y's ma.n.u.scripts 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.

f.a.n.n.y'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 ma.n.u.scripts. 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 circ.u.mstance, 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.

_Jaunty Bonnet_, (in a low, half-whisper, under the veil)--Excuse me--I'm a little out of breath, running up stairs. I've brought Mr.

Snooks to introduce me.

Mr. Snooks turned out to be a Fern ma.n.u.script. The jaunty bonnet carried him in an elegant reticule, in close proximity to a coquettish hankerchief, redolent of perfume. The jaunty bonnet turned out to be--f.a.n.n.y herself! Mr. Snooks was for sale, and we bought him. Price, two dollars a column--cheap enough for Snooks. We afterwards dotted his _i's_, dressed him up a little, changed his name--Snooks was a bad name--and printed him.

This was our first interview with the witty and brilliant f.a.n.n.y.

Certainly, we did not judge that so gay and fashionable an attire had that morning issued from a dismal garret, in a dark and narrow lane--that those well-rounded proportions drew their sole subsistence from the "h.o.m.oeopathic broth" of n.i.g.g.ardly landladies. Indeed, no starving necessity had compelled her to resort to the pen. With a true woman's spirit, she believed she could do something for herself, and determined to try. We liked her articles--she liked our pay--so we engaged her as a regular contributor. We suggested that she should write stories, in addition to her sketches--by which arrangement she might easily earn fifteen dollars a week. She pleaded the necessity of finishing everything she undertook, at one sitting, and her inability to elaborate a long story. Still she desired more employment; at the same time, the too-frequent repet.i.tion of "f.a.n.n.y Fern" in our columns would injure both herself and us; so the matter was compromised by giving her a second _nom de plume_--that of "Olivia,"--which was attached to a number of her sketches.

Up to this period, Mrs. Farrington had no reputation whatever as a writer, and we purchased her articles for their intrinsic merits only, paying for them what they were actually worth to us. As her reputation increased, and her value as a contributor was heightened, her remuneration was augmented accordingly. Although we paid her five dollars a column,--the columns generally falling short one-third, at that,--we cheerfully gave her her own terms, until, when she demanded twelve dollars a column, we thought we would just take three or four days to scratch our editorial ear, and think about it. In this place, it may be proper to state that, at one time, without giving us any notice whatever, she broke her engagement, and entered into a contract with a New York publisher, by which she was to write exclusively for his paper for one year. The terms offered were liberal, and for her sake, we rejoiced at her good future. But munificent promises do not always lead to rich fulfilment; and it was not long before Mrs.

Farrington gladly returned to those in whose service she had always been promptly and handsomely paid.

f.a.n.n.y's style was novel and sparkling, if not very refined, and her fame sprang up almost in a night-time. Messrs. Derby & Miller, booksellers, of Auburn, N. Y., had the shrewdness to see that a volume of her sketches would be apt to make a stir in the market, and wrote to us for information touching her real name and address. We replied that we were not then at liberty to divulge the name, but that any communications directed to our care would reach her. A correspondence was at once opened, and Mrs. Farrington was offered four hundred dollars for sufficient material for a volume--or, if she preferred, ten cents a copy on every edition printed.

Now four hundred dollars cash, was tempting. It would purchase a rich dress, a dashing shawl, "several pairs of gaiter-boots," and numerous boxes of those sovereign preparations, noted for the qualities that "impart a natural beauty to the complexion." In accordance with our advice, however, (for we foresaw a large sale for the book,) she resolved to risk a little, in the hope that much might be gained, and accept the commission of ten cents a copy. The volume was easily thrown together, being compiled princ.i.p.ally from the files of the Olive Branch and the True Flag. It was stereotyped at the New-England Foundry, in this city, and all the proof-sheets pa.s.sed through our hands.

At this time, Mrs. Farrington and her youngest child, "little Ella,"

boarded with a respectable family, in the s.p.a.cious brick dwelling-house, No. 642 Washington-street; her eldest daughter residing with her grandfather Eldredge. f.a.n.n.y occupied an elegant suite of rooms on the second floor. The parlor was sumptuously furnished; chairs of solid mahogany, covered with velvet--with centre-table, sofa, carpet, &c., of corresponding richness. The numerous visitors had no reason to suspect that all these luxuries were only poverty in disguise. Nor would one readily imagine that the plump Ella and her blooming mother were accustomed to breakfast on shadowy dishes of hope, have the same served up, cold, for dinner, and then go supperless to bed. The landlady had an excellent reputation for liberality and kindness, and looked like anything but the cruel ogress represented in f.a.n.n.y's writings. The fact is--whatever may be said to the contrary by f.a.n.n.y and her especial sympathizers,--she was at this time living in a style of luxury and elegance which would have reflected no discredit upon any lady of fashion. There may be some good reason for concealing this suggestive fact, but we cannot discover any.

"Fern Leaves, from f.a.n.n.y's Portfolio"--the last part of the t.i.tle originated with ourselves, and was adopted by f.a.n.n.y--finally made its appearance. She was fortunate in her publishers. Never was book advertised so lavishly. No expense of time, money, or tact, was spared, to create a sensation and great sales. The result is known; f.a.n.n.y had occasion to thank us for our counsel; her commission amounted to several thousand dollars. Flushed with success, she moved from our sober, puritanic town, to the gay metropolis of New-York. But such reputations are short-lived. "Little Ferns" followed, and met with but a moderate sale. A second series of Leaves was then published--but "oh, what a falling off was there!" The demand for the book was quite limited.

IX.

f.a.n.n.y FERN IN CHURCH.

During f.a.n.n.y Fern's residence in Boston she was a regular attendant at the Park-street (Orthodox) church. Undoubtedly this circ.u.mstance arose from a strong sentiment of natural affection. Not being on particularly intimate terms with her family, it was without doubt a great pleasure to catch such stray glimpses of their well-known faces as might be obtained under the lofty dome of their favorite church.

It must have been by accident that she strayed away, one Sunday, from the well-beaten Calvinistic path into the new Music Hall, to listen to the eloquence of Theodore Parker. We regret, however, that she labored under a misconception with regard to the character of this church.

Meting out justice to all, we must admit that it is the most democratic place of the kind in Boston. Black and white, rich or poor, alike are welcome. The seats are free, in pursuance of the old adage, "first come, first served." Not here, as in too many of our churches, is the Christian gospel, "Son, give me thy heart," perverted by the man with the black velvet bag into "Son, give me thy cash!" The contribution box, that terror to church-goers, is very rarely encountered, the expenses being defrayed by voluntary yearly subscriptions. But f.a.n.n.y, regardless of these facts, must be held responsible for the sketch which follows:--

"Do you call _this_ a church? Well, I heard a prima dona here a few nights ago; and bright eyes sparkled, and waving ringlets kept time to moving fans; and opera-gla.s.ses and ogling, and fashion and folly reigned for the nonce triumphant. _I_ can't forget it; I can't get up any devotion _here_, under these latticed balconies, with their fashionable freight. Now if it was a good old country church, with a cracked bell and unhewn rafters, a pine pulpit, with the honest sun staring in through the windows, a pitch-pipe in the gallery, and a few hob-nailed rustics scattered round in the uncushioned seats, I should feel all right; but my soul is in fetters here; it won't soar--its wings are earth-clipped. Things are all too fine! n.o.body can come in at that door, whose hat and coat and bonnet are not fashionably cut.

The poor man (minus a Sunday suit) might lean on his staff in the porch, a long while, before he'd dare venture in, to pick up _his_ crumb of the Bread of Life. But, thank G.o.d, the unspoken prayer of penitence may wing its way to the Eternal Throne, though our mocking church-spires point only with _aristocratic fingers_ to the _rich man's heaven_.

"That hymn was beautifully read; there's poetry in the preacher's soul. Now he takes his seat by the reading-desk; now he crosses the platform, and offers his hymn-book to a female who has just entered.

What right has _he_ to know there was a woman in the house? Let the bonnets find their own hymns--'tisn't clerical!

"Well, I take a listening att.i.tude, and try to believe I am in church.

I hear a great many original, a great many _startling_ things said. I see the gauntlet thrown at the dear old orthodox Calvinistic sentiments which I nursed in, with my mother's milk, and which (please G.o.d) I'll cling to till I die. I see the polished blade of satire glittering in the air, followed by curious, eager, youthful eyes, which gladly see the searching 'Sword of the Spirit' parried. Meaning glances--smothered smiles, and approving nods, follow the witty clerical sally. The author pauses to mark the effect, and his face says--That stroke _tells_! and so it did, for 'the Athenians' are not all dead, who 'love to see and hear some new thing.' But he has another arrow in his quiver. How his features soften--his voice is low and thrilling, his imagery beautiful and touching. He speaks of human love; he touches skilfully a chord to which every heart vibrates; and stern manhood is struggling with his tears, ere his smiles are chased away.

"Oh, there's intellect there--there's poetry there--there's genius there; but I remember Gethsemane--I forget not Cavalry! I know the 'rocks were rent' and the 'heavens darkened,' and 'the stone rolled away;' and a cold chill strikes to my heart when I hear 'Jesus of Nazareth' lightly mentioned.

"Oh, what are intellect, and poetry, and genius, when with Jewish voice they cry, '_Away with_ HIM!'

"'With Mary,' let me 'bathe his feet with my tears, and wipe them with the hairs of my head.'

"And so, I 'went away sorrowful,' that this human teacher, with such great intellectual possessions, should yet 'lack the _one thing needful_.'"

X.

f.a.n.n.y FERN IN BROADWAY.

"Ha! there she comes, Ned!" says Mr. Augustus Smallcane, lounging on the arm of his friend.

"Mag-nif-i-cent!" drawls Mr. Tapwit, putting his gla.s.s in his eye.

"What a bust!"

"Isn't that a gait, Ned!"

"It's a-door-able!"

Mr. Tapwit chuckled, to let Mr. Smallcane see that a pun was intended.

Mr. Smallcane recognized it with an "O, don't now, Ned!"

"Won't we have a splendid sight at her?" exclaimed Mr. Tapwit. "Crowd this way. What a figure!"

"What a foot!" adds Smallcane.

And the gentlemen continue to stare and make remarks while the lady pa.s.ses.

Does she care? She looks as if she liked it! She is none of your feeble, timid, common-place women. She "goes in" for sensation and effect--which few know so well how to produce.

f.a.n.n.y Fern--there! we didn't mean to let the secret out; but it _is_ f.a.n.n.y we mean--is a full, commanding woman. She looks high, steps high, and carries her head high. She has light brown hair, florid complexion, and large, blue eyes. When she appears in company, her color verges upon the rosy. If you talk with her in broad daylight, she has a trick of dropping her veil, to prevent a too close scrutiny of her features. When her veil is up, you can see that she has a luscious cheek, large nose, slightly aquiline, mouth of character, if not of beauty, and a vigorous chin. f.a.n.n.y isn't handsome, and never was. But she has a splendid form, a charming foot and ankle, a fascinating expression, and the manners of a queen.

Dress and equipage are not the least part of f.a.n.n.y. She is as dependent upon these as a peac.o.c.k upon his tail. She wears black because it becomes her better than any other color. A widow of forty--fair--in mourning--how interesting! Her magnificent, sweeping flounces occupy the s.p.a.ce of any five ordinary, uninflated females.

She moves with a great rustle and swell, majestic.

She is preceded by her eldest daughter, already a young lady, as a sort of armor-bearer. Her youngest child, "Ella," follows sprucely at her heels, like a page. And so, up and down Broadway, sails f.a.n.n.y Fern, proud, haughty, ambitious, scorned by some, admired by many--loved by few.