Those of my readers who are well acquainted with journalism, know that
some of our newspapers, nominally edited by the persons whose names
appear as responsible in that capacity, _seldom_, perhaps _never_
contain an article from their pen, the whole paper being "made up" by
some obscure individual, with more brains than pennies, whose brilliant
paragraphs, metaphysical essays, and racy book reviews, are attributed
(and tacitly fathered) by the comfortably-fed gentlemen who keep these,
their factotums, in some garret, just one degree above starving point.
In the city, where board is expensive, and single gentlemen are "taken
in and done for," under many a sloping attic roof are born thoughts
which should win for their originators fame and independence.
Mr. Horace Gates, a gentlemanly, slender, scholar-like-looking person,
held this nondescript, and unrecognized relation to the Irving Magazine;
the nominal editor, Ruth's brother Hyacinth, furnishing but one article
a week, to deduct from the immense amount of labor necessary to their
weekly issue.
"Heigho," said Mr. Gates, dashing down his pen; "four columns yet to
make up; I am getting tired of this drudgery. My friend Seaten told me
that he was dining at a restaurant the other day, when my employer, Mr.
Hyacinth Ellet, came in, and that a gentleman took occasion to say to
Mr. E., how much he admired _his_ article in the last Irving Magazine,
on 'City Life.' _His_ article! it took me one of the hottest days this
season, in this furnace of a garret, with the beaded drops standing on
my suffering forehead, to write that article, which, by the way, has
been copied far and wide. His article! and the best of the joke is
(Seaten says) the cool way in which Ellet thanked him, and pocketed all
the credit of it! But what's this? here's a note from the very gentleman
himself:
"MR. GATES:
"SIR,--I have noticed that you have several times scissorized from
the exchanges, articles over the signature of 'Floy,' and inserted
them in our paper. It is my wish that all articles bearing that
signature should be excluded from our paper, and that no allusion
be made to her, in any way or shape, in the columns of the Irving
Magazine. As you are in our business confidence, I may say, that
the writer is a sister of mine, and that it would annoy and mortify
me exceedingly to have the fact known; and it is my express wish
that you should not, hereafter, in any way, aid in circulating her
articles.
"Yours, &c., HYACINTH ELLET."
"What does that mean?" said Gates; "_his_ sister? why don't he want her
to write? I have cut out every article of hers as fast as they appeared;
confounded good they are, too, and I call myself a judge; they are
better, at any rate, than half our paper is filled with. This is all
very odd--it stimulates my curiosity amazingly--_his_ sister? married
or unmarried, maid, wife, or widow? She can't be poor when he's so
well off; (gave $100 for a vase which struck his fancy yesterday, at
Martini's.) I don't understand it. 'Annoy and mortify him exceedingly;'
what _can_ he mean? I must get at the bottom of that; she is becoming
very popular, at any rate; her pieces are traveling all over the
country--and here is one, to my mind, as good as anything _he_ ever
wrote. Ha! ha! perhaps that's the very idea now--perhaps he wants to be
the only genius in the family. Let him! if he can; if she don't win an
enviable name, and in a very short time too, I shall be mistaken. I
wish I knew something about her. Hyacinth is a heartless dog--pays me
principally in fine speeches; and because I am not in a position just
now to speak my mind about it. I suppose he takes me for the pliant
tool I appear. By Jupiter! it makes my blood boil; but let me get
another and better offer, Mr. Ellet, and see how long I will write
articles for you to father, in this confounded hot garret. '_His_
sister!' I will inquire into that. I'll bet a box of cigars she writes
for daily bread--Heaven help her, if she does, poor thing!--it's hard
enough, as I know, for a _man_ to be jostled and snubbed round in
printing-offices. Well, well, it's no use wondering, I must go to work;
what a pile of books here is to be reviewed! wonder who reads all the
books? Here is Uncle Sam's Log House. Mr. Ellet writes me that I must
simply announce the book without comment, for fear of offending southern
subscribers. The word 'slave' I know has been tabooed in our columns
this long while, for the same reason. Here are poems by Lina
Lintney--weak as diluted water, but the authoress once paid Mr. Ellet a
compliment in a newspaper article, and here is her 'reward of merit,'
(in a memorandum attached to the book, and just sent down by Mr. Ellet;)
'give this volume a first-rate notice.' Bah! what's the use of criticism
when a man's opinion can be bought and sold that way? it is an
imposition on the public. There is 'The Barolds' too; I am to 'give
that a capital notice,' because the authoress introduced Mr. Ellet into
fashionable society when a young man. The grammar in that book would
give Lindley Murray convulsions, and the construction of the sentences
drive Blair to a mad-house. Well, a great deal the dear public know what
a book is, by the reviews of it in this paper. Heaven forgive me the
lies I tell this way on compulsion.
"The humbuggery of this establishment is only equalled by the
gullibility of the dear public. Once a month, now, I am ordered to
puff every 'influential paper in the Union,' to ward off attacks on
the Irving Magazine, and the bait takes, too, by Jove. That little
'Tea-Table Tri-Mountain Mercury,' has not muttered or peeped about
Hyacinth's 'toadyism when abroad,' since Mr. Ellet gave me orders
to praise 'the typographical and literary excellence of that
widely-circulated paper.' Then, there is the editor of 'The Bugbear,' a
cut-and-thrust-bludgeon-pen-and-ink-desperado, who makes the mincing,
aristocratic Hyacinth quake in his patent-leather boots. I have orders
to toss him a sugar-plum occasionally, to keep his plebeian mouth shut;
something after the French maxim, 'always to praise a person for what
they _are not_;'--for instance, 'our very _gentlemanly_ neighbor and
contemporary, the discriminating and refined editor of The Bugbear,
whose very readable and spicy paper,' &c., &c. Then, there is the
_religious_ press. Hyacinth, having rather a damaged reputation, is
anxious to enlist them on his side, particularly the editor of 'The
Religious Platform.' I am to copy at least one of his editorials once
a fortnight, or in some way call attention to his paper. Then, if
Hyacinth chooses to puff actresses, and call Mme. ---- a 'splendid
personation of womanhood,' and praise her equivocal writings in his
paper, which lies on many a family table to be read by innocent young
girls, he knows the caustic pen of that religious editor will never
be dipped in ink to reprove him. That is the way it is done. Mutual
admiration-society--bah! I wish _I_ had a paper. Wouldn't I call things
by their right names? Would I know any sex in books? Would I praise a
book because a woman wrote it? Would I abuse it for the same reason?
Would I say, as one of our most able editors said not long since to his
reviewer, 'cut it up root and branch; what right have these women to set
themselves up for authors, and reap literary laurels?' Would I unfairly
insert all the adverse notices of a book, and never copy one in its
praise? Would I pass over the wholesale swindling of some aristocratic
scoundrel, and trumpet in my police report, with heartless comments,
the name of some poor, tempted, starving wretch, far less deserving of
censure, in God's eye, than myself? Would I have my tongue or my pen
tied in any way by policy, or interest, or clique-ism? No--sir! The
world never will see a paper till mine is started. Would I write long
descriptions of the wardrobe of foreign _prima donnas_, who bring their
cracked voices, and reputations to our American market, and 'occupy
suites of rooms lined with satin, and damask, and velvet,' and goodness
knows what, and give their reception-soirees, at which they '_affably
notice_' our toadying first citizens? By Jupiter! why _shouldn't_ they
be 'affable'? Don't they come over here for our money and patronage? Who
cares how many 'bracelets' Signora ---- had on, or whose 'arm she leaned
gracefully upon,' or whether her 'hair was braided or curled'? If,
because a lord or a duke once 'honored her' by insulting her with
infamous proposals, some few brainless Americans choose to deify her as
a goddess, in the name of George Washington and common sense, let it not
be taken as a national exponent. There are some few Americans left, who
prefer ipecac in homoeopathic doses."