You find that's a smile which you took for a sneer;
One half of him contradicts t'other; his wont
Is to say very sharp things and do very blunt;
His manner's as hard as his feelings are tender,
And a _sortie_ he'll make when he means to surrender;
He's in joke half the time when he seems to be sternest,
When he seems to be joking be sure he's in earnest;
He has common sense in a way that's uncommon,
Hates humbug and cant, loves his friends like a woman,
Builds his dislikes of cards and his friendships of oak,
Loves a prejudice better than aught but a joke;
Is half upright Quaker, half downright Come-Outer,
Loves Freedom too well to go stark mad about her;
Quite artless himself, is a lover of Art,
Shuts you out of his secrets and into his heart,
And though not a poet, yet all must admire
In his letters of Pinto his skill on the liar."
XXXIII
[Sidenote: Theodore Tilton]
When I first knew Theodore Tilton as my editor-in-chief, on the
_Union_, he was in his thirty-fifth year. His extraordinary gifts as an
effective writer and speaker had won for him, even at that early age, a
country-wide reputation. He was a recognized force in the thought and
life of the time, and he had full possession of the tools he needed for
his work. The _Independent_ exercised an influence upon the thought and
life of the American people such as no periodical publication of its
class exercises in this later time of cheap paper, cheap illustrations,
and multitudinous magazines. Its circulation of more than three hundred
thousand exceeded that of all the other publications of its class
combined, and, more important still, it was spread all over the country,
from Maine to California. The utterances of the _Independent_ were
determinative of popular thought and conviction in an extraordinary
degree.
Theodore Tilton had absolute control of that great engine of influence,
with an editorial staff of unusually able men for his assistants, and
with a corps of contributors that included practically all the most
desirable men and women writers of the time.
In addition to all this, it was the golden age of the lecture system,
and next to Mr. Beecher, Tilton was perhaps the most widely popular of
the lecturers.
In the midst of such a career, and possessed of such influence over the
minds of men, at the age of thirty-five, it is no wonder that he had a
good conceit of himself, and it was to his credit that he manifested
that conceit only in inoffensive ways. He was never arrogant, dogmatic,
or overbearing in conversation. His courtesy was unfailing, except in
strenuous personal controversy, and even there his manner was polite
almost to deference, however deadly the thrusts of his sarcastic wit
might be. He fought with a rapier always, never with a bludgeon. His
refinement of mind determined that.
It was an era of "gush," of phrase making, of superlatives, and in
such arts Tilton was peculiarly gifted. In his thinking he was bold
to the limit of audacity, and his aptness in clothing his thought in
captivating forms of speech added greatly to its effectiveness and his
influence.
Radicalism was rampant at that time when the passions aroused by the
recent Civil War had not yet begun to cool, and Tilton was a radical
of radicals. So extreme was he in his views that during and after the
orgies of the Commune and the petroleuses in Paris, he openly espoused
their cause, justified their resistance to everything like orderly
government, and glorified those of them who suffered death for their
crimes, as martyrs to human liberty.
He and I were talking of these things one day, when something that was
said prompted me to ask him his views of the great French revolution at
the end of the eighteenth century. He quickly replied:
"It was a notable movement in behalf of human liberty; it was overborne
by military force at last only because the French people were unworthy
of it. Robespierre was an irresolute weakling who didn't cut off heads
enough."
[Sidenote: Tilton's Characteristics]
Added to his other gifts, Tilton had an impressive and attractive
personality. Tall, well formed, graceful in every motion, he had a head
and face so handsome and so unlike the common as to make him a man to be
looked at more than once in every company. His manner accorded with his
appearance and emphasized it. It was a gracious combination of deference
for others with an exalted self-esteem. There was a certain joyousness
in it that was very winning, combined with an insistent but unobtrusive
self-assertion which impressed without offending.
His wit was always at his command, for offense or for defense, or for
mere entertainment. I remember that in my first association with him I
had a sort of fear at each moment that he would knock me down the next
with an epigram. I have seen him do that repeatedly with men with whom
he was at the time in deadly controversy, but in my own case the fear of
it was soon banished by the uniform kindliness with which he treated me,
and the personal affection with which he seemed to regard me.
I have often wondered over his attitude toward me. I was an ex-rebel
soldier, and in 1870 he was still mercilessly at war with Southern
men and Southern ideas. My opinions on many subjects were the exact
opposite of his own, and I was young enough then to be insistent in the
expression of my opinions, especially in conversation with one to whom
I knew my views to be _Anathema Maranatha_.
Yet from the first hour of our meeting Theodore Tilton was always
courteous and genial toward me, and after our acquaintance had ripened
a bit, he became cordial and even enthusiastic in his friendship.
It was his habit to rise very early, drink a small cup of coffee and,
without other breakfast, walk down to the office of the _Union_. There
he wrote his editorials, marked out the day's work for his subordinates,
and received such callers as might come, after which he would walk
home and take his breakfast at noon. His afternoons were spent in
the doing of another day's work in the _Independent_ office. After our
acquaintance ripened into friendship, he used to insist upon my going
with him to his midday breakfast, whenever my own work in any wise
permitted. As I also was apt to be early at the office, I was usually
able to accept his breakfast invitations, so that we had an hour's
uninterrupted intercourse almost every day. And unlike other editorial
chiefs with whom I have had intimate social relations in their own
homes, Mr. Tilton never thrust editorial or other business matters
into the conversation on these occasions. Indeed, he did not permit
the smallest reference to such subjects. If by accident such things
obtruded, he put them aside as impertinent to the time and place. It
was not that he thought less or cared less for matters of such import
than other great editors do, but rather that he had a well-ordered mind
that instinctively shrank from confusion. When engaged with editorial
problems, he gave his whole attention to their careful consideration
and wise solution. When engaged in social intercourse he put all else
utterly out of his mind.
I cannot help thinking that his method as to that was a wiser one
than that of some others I have known, who carried the problems and
perplexities of their editorial work with them into their parlors, to
their dinner tables, and even to bed. Certainly it was a method more
agreeable to his associates and guests.
XXXIV
[Sidenote: The Swarm of Gadflies]
At that time Tilton was "swimming on a sea of glory." His popularity
was at its height, with an apparently assured prospect of lasting
fame to follow. His work so far had necessarily been of an ephemeral
sort--dealing with passing subjects in a passing way--but he had all the
while been planning work of a more permanent character, and diligently
preparing himself for its doing. One day, in more confidential mood than
usual, he spoke to me of this and briefly outlined a part at least of
what he had planned to do. But there was a note of the past tense in
what he said, as if the hope and purpose he had cherished were passing
away. It was the first intimation I had of the fact that those troubles
were upon him which later made an end of his career and sent him into a
saddened exile which endured till the end of his ruined life.
At that time I knew nothing and he told me nothing of the nature of
his great trouble, and I regarded his despondency as nothing more than
weariness over the petty annoyances inflicted upon him by some who were
jealous of his success and popularity.
With some of these things I was familiar. His growing liberality of
thought in religious matters, and the absence of asceticism from his
life, had brought a swarm of gadflies round his head, whose stings
annoyed him, even if they inflicted no serious hurt. He was constantly
quizzed and criticised, orally, by personal letter, and in print,
as to his beliefs, his conduct, his tastes, his habits, and even his
employment of terms, quite as if he had been a woman or a clergyman
responsible to his critics and subject to their censure. He maintained
an appearance of good temper under all this carping--most of which was
clearly inspired by "envy, malice, and all uncharitableness"--but, as
I had reason to know, it stung him sorely. He said to me one day:
"It isn't the criticism that annoys me so much as the fact that I am
supposed to be answerable in such small ways to the bellowings of Tray,
Blanche, and Sweetheart. I seem not to be regarded as a free man, as
other men are."
I reminded him that something of that kind was the penalty that genius
and popularity were usually required to pay for their privileges. I
illustrated my thought by adding:
"If Byron had not waked up one morning and found himself famous, he
would never have been hounded out of his native land by what Macaulay
calls British morality in one of its periodic spasms of virtue, and
if Poe had never written 'The Raven,' 'The Bells,' and 'Annabel Lee,'
nobody would ever have bothered to inquire about his drinking habits."
I strongly urged him to ignore the criticism which was only encouraged
by his replies to it. But in that he was not amenable to counsel, partly
because his over-sensitive nature was more severely stung by such
criticism than that of a better balanced man would have been, but still
more, I think, because his passion for epigrammatic reply could not
resist the temptation of opportunity which these things presented. Often
his replies were effective for the moment, by reason of their wit or
their sparkling audacity, but incidentally they enlarged the circle of
persons offended.
Thus on one occasion, when he was challenged in print by an adversary,
to say that he did not drink wine, he replied in print:
"Mr. Tilton does drink wine upon sacramental and other proper
occasions."
His readers smiled at the smartness of the utterance, but many of the
more sensitive among them were deeply aggrieved by what they regarded
as its well-nigh blasphemous character.
[Sidenote: The Fulton Controversy]
I was myself present at one of his most perplexing conferences
concerning these matters, not as a participant in the discussion, but
as a friendly witness.
The quarrel--for it had developed into the proportions of a quarrel--was
with the Rev. Dr. Fulton, who at that time occupied a large place in
public attention--as a preacher of great eloquence, his friends said, as
a reckless sensationalist and self-advertiser, his enemies contended.
He had accused Tilton of drinking wine, and had publicly criticised him
for it, with great severity. Tilton had replied in an equally public
way, with the statement that on a certain occasion which he named, he
and Dr. Fulton had walked up street together after a public meeting;
that at Dr. Fulton's suggestion they had gone into a saloon where
between them they had drunk a considerable number of glasses of beer (he
gave the number, but I forget what it was), adding: "Of which I did not
drink the major part."
Dr. Fulton was furiously angry, of course, and demanded an interview.
Tilton calmly invited him to call at his editorial room in the _Union_
office. He came at the appointed time, bringing with him the Rev. Dr.
Armitage and two other persons of prominence. I do not now remember who
they were. Tilton at once sent me a message asking me to come to his
room. When I entered he introduced me to his visitors and then said:
"Mr. Eggleston, Dr. Fulton has called to discuss with me certain
matters of personal import. The discussion may result in some issues of
veracity--discussions with Dr. Fulton often do. It is in view of that
possibility, I suppose," smiling and bowing to Dr. Fulton, who sat stiff
in his chair making no response by word or act, "that Dr. Fulton has
brought with him Dr. Armitage and these other gentlemen, as witnesses
to whatever may be said between us. I have the profoundest respect,
and even reverence for those gentlemen, but it seems to me proper that
I should have at least one witness of my own selection present also.
I have therefore sent for you."
Instantly Dr. Fulton was on his feet protesting. In a loud voice and
with excited gesticulations, he declared that he would not be drawn
into a trap--that he would abandon the purpose of his visit rather than
discuss the matters at issue with one of Tilton's reporters present to
misrepresent and ridicule him in print.
Tilton, who never lost his self-possession, waited calmly till the
protest was fully made. Then he said:
"I have no reporter present. Mr. Eggleston was promoted a week ago to
the editorial writing staff of the paper. He will report nothing. You,
Dr. Fulton, have brought with you three friends who are of your own
selection, to hear the discussion between us. I claim the right to have
one friend of my own present also. It is solely in that capacity that I
have asked Mr. Eggleston to be present."
"But I will not discuss confidential matters in the presence of any
newspaper man," protested Dr. Fulton.
"Then in my turn," said Tilton, "I must decline to discuss the questions
between us, in the presence of any clergyman."
At that point Dr. Armitage and his companions remonstrated with Dr.
Fulton, declaring his position to be unreasonable and unfair, and
telling him that if he persisted in it, they would at once withdraw.
Fulton yielded, and after an hour's angry sparring on his part and
placidly self-possessed sword play of intellect on Tilton's side, Dr.
Fulton submitted a proposal of arbitration, to which Tilton assented,
with one qualification, namely, that if the finding of the arbitrators
was to be published, in print, from the pulpit, or otherwise, he,
Tilton, should be privileged to publish also a verbatim report of the
_testimony_ upon which it was founded.
Dr. Fulton rejected this absolutely, on the ground that he did not want
his name to figure in "a newspaper sensation."
Still cool, self-possessed, and sarcastic, Tilton asked:
"Do I correctly understand you to mean, Dr. Fulton, that you shrink from
sensationalism?"
"Yes, sir, that is exactly what I mean."
"Quite a new attitude of mind to you, isn't it, Doctor? I fear it will
rob your preaching of much of its 'drawing' quality."
Dr. Fulton's advisers urged him to assent to Tilton's proposal as an
entirely reasonable one, but he persistently refused, and the conference
ended with nothing accomplished.
I know nothing to this day of the merits of the controversy. I have
given this account of the meeting called to settle it solely because it
serves the purpose of illustrating the methods of the two men.
XXXV
[Sidenote: Later Acquaintance with Tilton]
About a year later, or a little less, my editorial connection with the
_Union_ ceased, and with it my official association with Mr. Tilton. But
he and I lived not far apart in Brooklyn and from then until the great
trouble broke--two or three years--I saw much of him, at his home and
mine, on the street, and at many places in New York. With the first open
manifestation of the great trouble he began consulting with me about it.
I gave him a deal of good advice in response to his eager demands for
counsel. He seemed to appreciate and value it, but as he never acted
upon it in the smallest degree, I gradually ceased to give it even when
requested.
I have every reason to believe that in the course of these consultations
I learned, from him and from all the others directly connected with the
terrible affair, the inner and true story of the events that culminated
in the great and widely demoralizing scandal. It is a story that has
never been told. At the time of the trial both sides were careful to
prevent its revelation, and there were certainly most imperative reasons
why they should.
I have no purpose to tell that story in these pages. I mention it only
because otherwise the abrupt termination of my reminiscences of Mr.
Tilton at this point might seem to lack explanation.
XXXVI
When I joined the staff of the _Union_, in the summer of 1870, I had
had no newspaper experience whatever. I had written for newspapers
occasionally, but only as an amateur. I had published one or two small
things in magazines, but I knew absolutely nothing of professional
newspaper work. Mr. Tilton and his managing editor, Kenward Philp, were
good enough to find in my earliest work as a reporter some capacity for
lucid expression, and a simple and direct narrative habit which pleased
them, so that in spite of my inexperience they were disposed to give me
a share in the best assignments. I may say incidentally that among the
reporters I was very generally pitied as a poor fellow foredoomed to
failure as a newspaper man for the reason that I was what we call
educated. At that time, though not for long afterwards, education and
a tolerable regularity of life were regarded as serious handicaps in
the newsrooms of most newspapers.
[Sidenote: My First Libel Suit]
Among my earliest assignments was one which brought me my first
experience of newspaper libel suits, designed not for prosecution but as
a means of intimidating the newspaper concerned. The extent to which the
news of the suit appalled me was a measure of my inexperience, and the
way in which it was met was a lesson to me that has served me well upon
many later occasions of the kind.
A man whom I will call Amour, as the use of his real name might give
pain to innocent persons even after the lapse of forty years, was
express agent at a railway station in the outskirts of Brooklyn. His
reputation was high in the community and in the church as a man of
exemplary conduct and a public-spirited citizen, notably active in all
endeavors for the betterment of life.
It was a matter of sensational, popular interest, therefore, when his
wife instituted divorce proceedings, alleging the most scandalous
conduct on his part.
The _Union_ was alert to make the most of such things and Kenward Philp
set me to explore this case and exploit it. He told me frankly that he
did so because he thought I could "write it up" in an effective way, but
he thought it necessary to caution my inexperience that I must confine
my report rigidly to the matter in hand, and not concern myself with
side issues of any kind.
In the course of my inquiry, I learned much about Amour that was far
more important than the divorce complications. Two or three business
men of high repute in Brooklyn told me without reserve that he had
abstracted money from express packages addressed to them and passing
through his hands. When detected by them he had made good the losses,
and in answer to his pleadings in behalf of his wife and children, they
had kept silence. But now that he had himself brought ruin and disgrace
upon his family they had no further reason for reserve. I secured
written and signed statements of the facts from each of them, with
permission to publish if need be. But all this was aside from the
divorce matter I had been set to investigate, and, mindful of the
instructions given me, I made no mention of it in the article.
When I reached the office on the morning after that article was
published, I met Kenward Philp at the entrance door of the building,
manifestly waiting for me in some anxiety. Almost forgetting to say
"good-morning," he eagerly asked:
"Are you sure of your facts in that Amour story--can they be proved?"
"Yes, absolutely," I replied. "But why do you ask?"
"Oh, only because Amour has served papers on us in a libel suit for
fifty thousand dollars damages."
My heart sank at this, as it had never done before, and has never done
since. I regarded it as certain that my career in the new profession I
had adopted was hopelessly ended at its very beginning, and I thought,
heart-heavily, of the wife and baby for whom I saw no way to provide.
"Why, yes," I falteringly repeated, "every statement I made can be
supported by unimpeachable testimony. But, believe me, Mr. Philp, I am
sorry I have got the paper into trouble."
"Oh, that's nothing," he replied, "so long as you're sure of your facts.
One libel suit more or less is a matter of no moment."
Then, by way of emphasizing the unworthiness of the man I had "libeled"
I briefly outlined the worse things I had learned about him. Philp
fairly shouted with delight:
"Keno!" he exclaimed. "Hurry upstairs and _libel him some more_! Make it
strong. Skin him and dress the wound with _aqua fortis_--I say--and rub
it in!"
I obeyed with a will, and the next morning Amour was missing, and the
express company was sending descriptions of him to the police of every
city in the country. It is a fixed rule with the great express companies
to prosecute relentlessly every agent of their own who tampers with
express packages. It is a thing necessary to their own protection. So
ended my first libel suit.
XXXVII
[Sidenote: Later Libel Suit Observations]
During the many years that I passed in active newspaper work after
that time, observation and experience taught me much, with regard to
newspaper libel suits, which is not generally known. It may be of
interest to suggest some things on the subject here.
I have never known anybody to get rich by suing newspapers for libel.
The nearest approach to that result that has come within my knowledge
was when Kenward Philp got a verdict for five thousand dollars damages
against a newspaper that had accused him of complicity in the forging of
the celebrated Morey letter which was used to General Garfield's hurt in
his campaign for the Presidency. There have been larger verdicts secured
in a few other cases, but I suspect that none of them seemed so much
like enrichment to those who secured them, as that one did to Philp.
It was not Mr. Philp's habit to have a considerable sum of money in
possession at any time. His temperament strongly militated against that,
and I think all men who knew him well will agree with me in doubting
that he ever had one-half or one-fourth the sum this verdict brought
him, in his possession at any one time in his life, except upon that
occasion.
In suing newspapers for libel it is the custom of suitors to name large
sums as the measure of the damages claimed, but this is a thing inspired
mainly by vanity and a spirit of ostentation. It emphasizes the value of
the reputation alleged to have been damaged; it is in itself a boastful
threat of the punishment the suitor means to inflict, and is akin to
the vaporings with which men of rougher ways talk of the fights they
contemplate. It is an assurance to the friends of the suitor of his
determined purpose to secure adequate redress and of his confidence in
his ability to do so. Finally, it is a "don't-tread-on-me" warning to
everybody concerned.
Inspired by such motives men often sue for fifty thousand dollars for
damages done to a fifty-cent reputation. It costs no more to institute
a suit for fifty thousand dollars than to bring one for one or two
thousand.
In many cases libel suits are instituted without the smallest intention
of bringing them to trial. They are "bluffs," pure and simple. They are
meant to intimidate, and sometimes they accomplish that purpose, but not
often.
I remember one case with which I had personally to deal. I was in charge
of the editorial page of the New York _World_ at the time, and with a
secure body of facts behind me I wrote a severe editorial concerning the
malefactions of one John Y. McKane, a Coney Island political boss. I
specifically charged him with the crimes he had committed, cataloguing
them and calling each of them by its right name.