BACHELOR COMRADES.
I soon became well acquainted with my collaborators on the paper. It was
a pleasant surprise to be greeted in the foreground by the familiar face
of Jim Fellows, my old college class-mate.
Jim was an agreeable creature, born with a decided genius for gossip. He
had in perfection the faculty which phrenologists call individuality. He
was statistical in the very marrow of his bones, apparently imbibing all
the external facts of every person and everything around him, by a kind
of rapid instinct. In college, Jim always knew all about every student;
he knew all about everybody in the little town where the college was
situated, their name, history, character, business, their front door and
their back door affairs. No birth, marriage, or death ever took Jim by
surprise; he always knew all about it long ago.
Now, as a newspaper is a gossip market on a large scale, this species of
talent often goes farther in our modern literary life than the deepest
reflection or the highest culture.
Jim was the best-natured fellow breathing; it was impossible to ruffle
or disturb the easy, rattling, chattering flow of his animal spirits. He
was like a Frenchman in his power of bright, airy adaptation to
circumstances, and determination and ability to make the most of them.
"How lucky!" he said, the morning I first shook hands with him at the
office of the _Great Democracy_; "you are just on the minute; the very
lodging you want has been vacated this morning by old Styles; sunny
room--south windows--close by here--water, gas, and so on, all correct;
and, best of all, _me_ for your opposite neighbor."
I went round with him, looked, approved, and was settled at once, Jim
helping me with all the good-natured handiness and activity of old
college days. We had a rattling, gay morning, plunging round into
auction-rooms, bargaining for second-hand furniture, and with so much
zeal did we drive our enterprise, seconded by the co-labors of a whom
Jim patronized, that by night I found myself actually settled in a home
of my own, making tea in Jim's patent bachelor tea-kettle, and talking
over his and my affairs with the freedom of old cronies. Jim made no
scruple in inquiring in the most direct manner as to the terms of my
agreement with Mr. Goldstick, and opened the subject succinctly, as
follows:
"Now, my son, you must let your old grandfather advise you a little
about your temporalities. In the first place; what's Old Soapy going to
give you?"
"If you mean Mr. Goldstick," said I----
"Yes," said he, "call him 'Soapy' for short. Did he come down handsomely
on the terms?"
"His offers were not as large as I should have liked; but then, as he
said, this paper is not a money-making affair, but a moral enterprise,
and I am willing to work for less."
"Moral grandmother!" said Jim, in a tone of unlimited disgust. "He
be--choked, as it were. Why, Harry Henderson, are your eye-teeth in such
a retrograde state as that? Why, this paper is a fortune to that man; he
lives in a palace, owns a picture gallery, and rolls about in his own
carriage."
"I understood him," said I, "that the paper was not immediately
profitable in a pecuniary point of view."
"Soapy calls everything unprofitable that does not yield him fifty per
cent. on the money invested. Talk of moral enterprise! What did he
engage you for?"
I stated the terms.
"For how long?"
"For one year."
"Well, the best you can do is to work it out now. Never make another
bargain without asking your grandfather. Why, he pays me just double;
and you know, Harry, I am nothing at all of a writer compared to you.
But then, to be sure, I fill a place you've really no talent for."
"What is that?"
"General professor of humbug," said Jim. "No sort of business gets on in
this world without that, and I'm a real genius in that line. I made Old
Soapy come down, by threatening to 'rat,' and go to the _Spouting Horn_,
and they couldn't afford to let me do that. You see, I've been up their
back stairs, and know all their little family secrets. The _Spouting
Horn_ would give their eye-teeth for me. It's too funny," he said,
throwing himself back and laughing.
"Are these papers rivals?" said I.
"Well, I should 'rayther' think they were," said he, eyeing me with an
air of superiority amounting almost to contempt. "Why, man, the thing
that I'm particularly valuable for is, that I always know just what will
plague the _Spouting Horn_ folks the most. I know precisely where to
stick a pin or a needle into them; and one great object of our paper is
to show that the _Spouting Horn_ is always in the wrong. No matter what
topic is uppermost, I attend to that, and get off something on them. For
you see, they are popular, and make money like thunder, and, of course,
that isn't to be allowed. Now," he added, pointing with his thumb
upward, "overhead, there is really our best fellow--Bolton. Bolton is
said to be the best writer of English in our day; he's an A No. 1, and
no mistake; tremendously educated, and all that, and he knows exactly to
a shaving what's what everywhere; he's a gentleman, too; we call him the
Dominie. Well, Bolton writes the great leaders, and fires off on all the
awful and solemn topics, and lays off the politics of Europe and the
world generally. When there's a row over there in Europe, Bolton is
magnificent on editorials. You see, he has the run of all the rows they
have had there, and every bobbery that has been kicked up since the
Christian era. He'll tell you what the French did in 1700 this, and the
Germans in 1800 that, and of course he prophesies splendidly on what's
to turn up next."
"I suppose they give him large pay," said I.
"Well, you see, Bolton's a quiet fellow and a gentleman--one that hates
to jaw--and is modest, and so they keep him along steady on about half
what _I_ would get out of them if I were in his skin. Bolton is
perfectly satisfied. If I were he, I shouldn't be, you see. I say,
Harry, I know you'd like him. Let me bring him down and introduce him,"
and before I could either consent or refuse, Jim rattled up stairs, and
I heard him in an earnest, persuasive treaty, and soon he came down with
his captive.
I saw a man of thirty-three or thereabouts, tall, well formed, with
bright, dark eyes, strongly-marked features, a finely-turned head,
and closely-cropped black hair. He had what I should call
_presence_--something that impressed me, as he entered the room, with
the idea of a superior kind of individuality, though he was simple in
his manners, with a slight air of shyness and constraint. The blood
flushed in his cheeks as he was introduced to me, and there was a
tremulous motion about his finely-cut lips, betokening suppressed
sensitiveness. The first sound of his voice, as he spoke, struck on my
ear agreeably, like the tones of a fine instrument, and, reticent and
retiring as he seemed, I felt myself singularly attracted toward him.
What impressed me most, as he joined in the conversation with my
rattling, free and easy, good-natured neighbor, was an air of patient,
amused tolerance. He struck me as a man who had made up his mind to
expect nothing and ask nothing of life, and who was sitting it out
patiently, as one sits out a dull play at the theater. He was
disappointed with nobody, and angry with nobody, while he seemed to have
no confidence in anybody. With all this apparent reserve, he was simply
and frankly cordial to me, as a new-comer and a fellow-worker on the
same paper.
"Mr. Henderson," he said, "I shall be glad to extend to you the
hospitalities of my den, such as they are. If I can at any time render
you any assistance, don't hesitate to use me. Perhaps you would like to
walk up and look at my books? I shall be only too happy to put them at
your disposal."
We went up into a little attic room whose walls were literally lined
with books on all sides, only allowing space for the two southerly
windows which overlooked the city.
"I like to be high in the world, you see," he said, with a smile.
The room was not a large one, and the center was occupied by a large
table, covered with books and papers. A cheerful coal-fire was burning
in the little grate, a large leather arm-chair stood before it, and,
with one or two other chairs, completed the furniture of the apartment.
A small, lighted closet, whose door stood open on the room, displayed a
pallet bed of monastic simplicity.
There were two occupants of the apartment who seemed established there
by right of possession. A large Maltese cat, with great, golden eyes,
like two full moons, sat gravely looking into the fire, in one corner,
and a very plebeian, scrubby mongrel, who appeared to have known the
hard side of life in former days, was dozing in the other.
Apparently, these _genii loci_ were so strong in their sense of
possession that our entrance gave them no disturbance. The dog unclosed
his eyes with a sleepy wink as we came in, and then shut them again,
dreamily, as satisfied that all was right.
Bolton invited us to sit down, and did the honors of his room with a
quiet elegance, as if it had been a palace instead of an attic. As soon
as we were seated, the cat sprang familiarly on the table and sat down
cosily by Bolton, rubbing her head against his coat-sleeve.
"Let me introduce you to my wife," said Bolton, stroking her head. "Eh,
Jenny, what now?" he added, as she seized his hands playfully in her
teeth and claws. "You see, she has the connubial weapons," he said, "and
insists on being treated with attention; but she's capital company. I
read all my articles to her, and she never makes an unjust criticism."
Puss soon stepped from her perch on the table and ensconced herself in
his lap, while I went round examining his books.
The library showed varied and curious tastes. The books were almost all
rare.
"I have always made a rule," he said, "never to buy a book that I could
borrow."
I was amused, in the course of the conversation, at the relations which
apparently existed between him and Jim Fellows, which appeared to me to
be very like what might be supposed to exist between a philosopher and a
lively pet squirrel--it was the perfection of quiet, amused tolerance.
Jim seemed to be not in the slightest degree under constraint in his
presence, and rattled on with a free and easy slang familiarity,
precisely as he had done with me.
"What do you think Old Soapy has engaged Hal for?" he said. "Why, he
only offers him--" Here followed the statement of terms.
I was annoyed at this matter-of-fact way of handling my private affairs,
but on meeting the eyes of my new friend I discerned a glance of quiet
humor which re-assured me. He seemed to regard Jim only as another form
of the inevitable.
"Don't you think it is a confounded take-in?" said Jim.
"Of course," said Mr. Bolton, with a smile, "but he will survive it. The
place is only one of the stepping-stones. Meanwhile," he said, "I think
Mr. Henderson can find other markets for his literary wares, and more
profitable ones. I think," he added, while the blood again rose in his
cheeks, "that I have some influence in certain literary quarters, and I
shall be happy to do all that I can to secure to him that which he ought
to receive for such careful work as this. Your labor on the paper will
not by any means take up your whole power or time."
"Well," said Jim, "the fact is the same all the world over--the people
that grow a thing are those that get the least for it. It isn't your
farmers, that work early and late, that get rich by what they raise out
of the earth, it's the middlemen and the hucksters. And just so it is in
literature; and the better a fellow writes, and the more work he puts
into it, the less he gets paid for it. Why, now, look at me," he said,
perching himself astride the arm of a chair, "I'm a genuine literary
humbug, but I'll bet you I'll make more money than either of you,
because, you see, I've no modesty and no conscience. Confound it all,
those are luxuries that a poor fellow can't afford to keep. I'm a
sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, but I'm just the sort of fellow
the world wants, and, hang it, they shall pay me for being that sort of
fellow. I mean to make it shell out, and you see if I don't. I'll bet
you, now, that I'd write a book that you wouldn't, either of you, be
hired to write, and sell one hundred thousand copies of it, and put the
money in my pocket, marry the handsomest, richest, and best educated
girl in New York, while you are trudging on, doing good, careful work,
as you call it."
"Remember us in your will," said I.
"Oh, yes, I will," he said. "I'll found an asylum for decayed authors of
merit--a sort of literary 'Hotel des Invalides.'"
We had a hearty laugh over this idea, and, on the whole, our evening
passed off very merrily. When I shook hands with Bolton for the night,
it was with a silent conviction of an interior affinity between us.
It is a charming thing in one's rambles to come across a tree, or a
flower, or a fine bit of landscape that one can think of afterward, and
feel richer for their its in the world. But it is more when one is in a
strange place, to come across a man that you feel thoroughly persuaded
is, somehow or other, morally and intellectually worth exploring. Our
lives tend to become so hopelessly commonplace, and the human beings we
meet are generally so much one just like another, that the possibility
of a new and peculiar style of character in an acquaintance is a most
enlivening one.
There was something about Bolton both stimulating and winning, and I lay
down less a stranger that night than I had been since I came to New
York.