HAPS AND MISHAPS.
I entered upon my new duties with enthusiasm, and produced some
editorials, for which I was complimented by Mr. Goldstick.
"That's the kind of thing wanted!" he said; "a firm, moral tone, and
steady religious convictions; that pleases the old standards."
Emboldened by this I proceeded to attack a specific abuse in New York
administration, which had struck me as needing to be at once righted. If
ever a moral trumpet ought to have its voice, it was on this subject. I
read my article to Bolton; in fact I had gradually fallen into the habit
of referring myself to his judgment.
"It is all perfectly true," he remarked, when I had finished, while he
leaned back in his chair and stroked his cat, "but they never will put
_that_ into the paper, in the world."
"Why!" said I, "if ever there was an abuse that required exposing, it is
this."
"Precisely!" he replied.
"And what is the use," I went on, "of general moral preaching that is
never applied to any particular case?"
"The use," he replied calmly, "is that that kind of preaching pleases
everybody, and increases subscribers, while the other kind makes
enemies, and decreases them."
"And you really think that they won't put this article in?" said I.
"I'm certain they won't," he replied. "The fact is this paper is bought
up on the other side. Messrs. Goldstick and Co. have intimate connection
with Messrs. Bunkam and Chaffem, who are part and parcel of this very
affair."
I opened my mouth with astonishment. "Then Goldstick is a hypocrite," I
said.
"Not consciously," he answered, calmly.
"Why!" said I, "you would have thought by the way he talked to me that
he had nothing so much at heart as the moral progress of society, and
was ready to sacrifice everything to it."
"Well," said Bolton, quietly, "did you never see a woman who thought she
was handsome, when she was not? Did you never see a man who thought he
was witty, when he was only scurrilous and impudent? Did you never see
people who flattered themselves they were frank, because they were
obtuse and impertinent? And cannot you imagine that a man may think
himself a philanthropist, when he is only a worshiper of the golden
calf? That same calf," he continued, stroking his cat till she purred
aloud, "has the largest Church of any on earth."
"Well," said I, "at any rate I'll hand it in."
"You can do so," he replied, "and that will be the last you will hear of
it. You see, I've been this way before you, and I have learned to save
myself time and trouble on these subjects."
The result was precisely as Bolton predicted.
"We must be a little careful, my young friend," said Mr. Goldstick, "how
we handle specific matters of this kind; they have extended relations
that a young man cannot be expected to appreciate, and I would advise
you to confine yourself to abstract moral principles; keep up a high
moral standard, sir, and things will come right of themselves. Now, sir,
if you could expose the corruptions in England it would have an
admirable moral effect, and our general line of policy now is down on
England."
A day or two after, however, I fell into serious disgrace. A part of my
duties consisted in reviewing the current literature of the day; Bolton,
Jim, and I, took that department among us, and I soon learned to
sympathize with the tea-tasters, who are said to ruin their digestion by
an incessant tasting of the different qualities of tea. The enormous
quantity and variety of magazines and books that I had to "sample" in a
few days brought me into such a state of mental dyspepsia, that I began
to wish every book in the Red Sea. I really was brought to consider the
usual pleas and tone of book notices in America to be evidence of a high
degree of Christian forbearance. In looking over my share, however, I
fell upon a novel of the modern, hot, sensuous school, in which glowing
coloring and a sort of religious sentimentalism were thrown around
actions and principles which tended directly to the dissolution of
society. Here was exactly the opportunity to stem that tide of
corruption against which Mr. Goldstick so solemnly had warned me. I made
the analysis of the book a text for exposing the whole class of
principles and practices it inculcated, and uttering my warning against
corrupt literature; I sent it to the paper, and in it went. A day or two
after Mr. Goldstick came into the office in great disorder, with an open
letter in his hand.
"What's all this?" he said; "here's Sillery and Peacham, blowing us up
for being down on their books, and threatening to take away their
advertising from us."
Nobody seemed to know anything about it, till finally the matter was
traced back to me.
"It was a corrupt book, Mr. Goldstick," said I, with firmness, "and the
very object you stated to me was to establish a just moral criticism."
"Go to thunder! young man," said Mr. Goldstick, in a tone I had never
heard before. "Have you no discrimination? are you going to blow us up?
The _Great Democracy_, sir, is a great moral engine, and the advertising
of this publishing house gives thousands of dollars yearly towards its
support. It's an understood thing that Sillery and Peacham's books are
to be treated handsomely."
"I say, Captain," said Jim, who came up behind us at this time, "let me
manage this matter; I'll straighten it out; Sillery and Peacham know me,
and I'll fix it with them."
"Come! Hal, my boy!" he said, hooking me by the arm, and leading me out.
We walked to our lodgings together. I was gloriously indignant all the
way, but Jim laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"You sweet babe of Eden," said he, as we entered my room, "do get quiet!
I'll sit right down and write a letter from the Boston correspondent on
that book, saying that your article has created a most immense sensation
in the literary circles of Boston, in regard to its moral character, and
exhort everybody to rush to the book-store and see for themselves. Now,
'hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,' while I do it."
"Why, do you mean to go to Boston?" said I.
"Only in spirit, my dear. Bless you! did you suppose that the Boston
correspondents, or any other correspondents, are there, or anywhere else
in fact, that they profess to be? I told you that I was the professor of
humbug. This little affair lies strictly in my department."
"Jim!" said I, solemnly, "I don't want to be in such a network of
chicanery."
"Oh, come, Hal, nobody else wants to be just where they are, and after
all, it's none of your business; you and Bolton are great moral
forty-pounders. When we get you pointed the right way for the paper you
can roar and fire away at your leisure, and the moral effect will be
prodigious. I'm your flying-artillery--all over the field everywhere,
pop, and off again; and what is it to you what I do? Now you see, Hal,
you must just have some general lines about your work; the fact is, I
ought to have told you before. There's Sillery and Peacham's books have
got to be put straight along: you see there is no mistake about that;
and when you and Bolton find one you can't praise honestly, turn it over
to me. Then, again, there's Burill and Bangem's books have got to be put
down. They had a row with us last year, and turned over their
advertising to the _Spouting Horn_. Now, if you happen to find a bad
novel among _their_ books show it up, cut into it without mercy; it
will give you just as good a chance to preach, with your muzzle pointed
the right way, and do exactly as much good. You see there's everything
with you fellows in getting you pointed right."
"But," said I, "Jim, this course is utterly subversive of all just
criticism. It makes book notices good for nothing."
"Well, they are not good for much," said Jim reflectively. "I sometimes
pity a poor devil whose first book has been all cut up, just because
Goldstick's had a row with his publishers. But then there's this
comfort--what we run down, the _Spouting Horn_ will run up, so it is
about as broad as it is long. Then there's our Magazines. We're in with
the _Rocky Mountains_ now--we've been out with them for a year or two
and cut up all their articles. Now you see we are in, and the rule is,
to begin at the beginning and praise them all straight through, so
you'll have plain sailing there. Then there's the _Pacific_--you are to
pick on that all you can. I think you had better leave that to me. I
have a talent for saying little provoking things that gall people, and
that they can't answer. The fact is, the _Pacific_ has got to come down
a little, and come to our terms, before we are civil to it."
"Jim Fellows"--I began,
"Come, come, go and let off to Bolton, if you have got anything more to
say;" he added, "I want to write my Boston letter. You see, Hal, I shall
bring you out with flying colors, and get a better sale for the book
than if you hadn't written."
"Jim," said I, "I'm going to get out of this paper."
"And pray, my dear Sir, what will you get into?"
"I'll get into one of the religious papers."
Jim upon this leaned back, kicked up his heels, and laughed aloud. "I
could help you there," he said. "I do the literary for three religious
newspapers now. These solemn old Dons are so busy about their
tweedle-dums and tweedle-dees of justification and election, baptism and
church government, that they don't know anything about current
literature, and get us fellows to write their book notices. I rather
think that they'd stare if they should read some of the books that we
puff up. I tell you, Christy's Minstrels are nothing to it. Think of it,
Hal,--the solemn _Holy Sentinel_ with a laudatory criticism of Dante
Rosetti's "Jenny" in it--and the _Trumpet of Zion_ with a commendatory
notice of Georges Sand's novels." Here Jim laughed with a fresh impulse.
"You see the dear, good souls are altogether too pious to know anything
about it, and so we liberalize the papers, and the publishers make us a
little consideration for getting their books started in religious
circles."
"Well, Jim," said I, "I want to just ask you, do you think this sort of
thing is right?"
"Bless your soul now!" said Jim, "if you are going to begin with that,
here in New York, where are you going to end--'Where do you 'spect to
die when you go to?'--as the old darkey said."
"Well," said I, "would you like to have Dante Rosetti's "_Jenny_" put
into the hands of _your_ sister or younger brother, recommended by a
religious newspaper?"
"Well, to tell the truth, Hal, I didn't write those notices. Bill Jones
wrote them. Bill's up to anything. You know every person in England and
this country have praised Dante Rosetti, and particularly "Jenny," and
religious papers may as well be out of the world as out of fashion,--and
so mother she bought a copy for a Christmas present to sister Nell. And
I tell you if I didn't get a going over about it!"
"I showed her the article in the _Holy Sentinel_, but it didn't do a bit
of good. She made me promise I wouldn't write it up, and I never have.
She said it was a shame. You see mother isn't up to the talk about high
art, that's got up now a days about Dante Rosetti and Swinburne, and
those. I thought myself that "Jenny" was coming it pretty strong,--and
honest now, I never could see the sense in it. But then you see I am not
artistic. If a fellow should tell a story of that kind to my sister, I
should horsewhip him, and kick him down the front steps. But he dresses
it up in poetry, and it lies around on pious people's tables, and nobody
dares to say a word because it's "artistic." People are so afraid they
shall not be supposed to understand what high art is, that they'll
knuckle down under most anything. That's the kind of world we live in.
Well! I didn't make the world and I don't govern it. But the world owes
me a living, and hang it! it shall give me one. So you go up to Bolton,
and leave me to do my work; I've got to write columns, and then tramp
out to that confounded water-color exhibition, because I promised Snooks
a puff,--I shan't get to bed till twelve or one. I tell you it's steep
on a fellow now."
I went up to Bolton, boiling, and bubbling and seething, with the spirit
of sixteen reformers in my veins. The scene, as I opened the door, was
sufficiently tranquilizing. Bolton sat reading by the side of his shaded
study-lamp, with his cat asleep in his lap; the ill-favored dog, before
mentioned, was planted by his side, with his nose upturned, surveying
him with a fullness of doggish adoration and complacency, which made his
rubbishly shop-worn figure quite an affecting item in the picture.
Crouched down on the floor in the corner, was a ragged, unkempt,
freckled-faced little boy, busy doing a sum on a slate.
"Ah! old fellow," he said, as he looked up and saw me. "Come in; there,
there, Snubby," he said to the dog, pushing him gently into his corner;
"let the gentleman sit down. You see you find me surrounded by my
family," he said. "Wait one minute," he added, turning to the boy in the
corner, and taking his slate out of his hand, and running over the sum.
"All right, Bill. Now here's your book." He took a volume of the
_Arabian Nights_ from the table, and handed it to him, and Bill settled
himself on the floor, and was soon lost in "Sinbad the Sailor." He
watched him a minute or two, and then looked round at me, with a smile.
"I wouldn't be afraid to bet that you might shout in that fellow's ear
and he wouldn't hear you, now he is fairly in upon that book. Isn't it
worth while to be able to give such perfect bliss in this world at so
small an expense? I've lost the power of reading the _Arabian Nights_,
but I comfort my self in seeing this chap."
"Who is he?" said I.
"Oh, he's my washerwoman's boy. Poor fellow. He has hard times. I've set
him up in selling newspapers. You see, I try now and then to pick up one
grain out of the heap of misery, and put it into the heap of happiness,
as John Newton said."
I was still bubbling with the unrest of my spirit, and finally
overflowed upon him with the whole history of my day's misadventures,
and all the troubled thoughts and burning indignations that I had with
reference to it.
"My dear fellow," he said, "take it easy. We have to accept this world
as a _fait accompli_. It takes some time for us to learn how little we
can do to help or to hinder. You cannot take a step in the business of
life anywhere without meeting just this kind of thing; and one part of
the science of living is to learn just what our own responsibility is,
and to let other people's alone. The fact is," he said, "the growth of
current literature in our times has been so sudden and so enormous that
things are in a sort of revolutionary state with regard to it, in which
it is very difficult to ascertain the exact right. For example, I am
connected with a paper which is simply and purely, at bottom, a
financial speculation; its owners must make money. Now, they are not bad
men as the world goes--they are well-meaning men--amiable, patriotic,
philanthropic--some of them are religious; they, all of them, would
rather virtue would prevail than vice, and good than evil; they, all of
them, would desire every kind of abuse to be reformed, and every good
cause to be forwarded, that could be forwarded without a sacrifice of
their main object. As for me, I am not a holder or proprietor. I am
simply a servant engaged by these people for a certain sum. If I should
sell myself to say what I do not think, or to praise what I consider
harmful, to propitiate their favor, I should be a dastard. They
understand perfectly that I never do it, and they never ask me to.
Meanwhile, they employ persons who will do these things. I am not
responsible for it any more than I am for anything else which goes on in
the city of New York. I am allowed my choice among notices, and I never
write them without saying, to the best of my ability, the exact truth,
whether literary or in a moral point of view. Now, that is just my
stand, and if it satisfies you, you can take the same."
"But," said I, "It makes me indignant, to have Goldstick talk to me as
he did about a great self-denying moral enterprise--why, that man must
know he's a liar."
"Do you think so?" said he. "I don't imagine he does. Goldstick has
considerable sentiment. It's quite easy to get him excited on moral
subjects, and he dearly loves to hear himself talk--he is sincerely
interested in a good number of moral reforms, so long as they cost him
nothing; and when a man is working his good faculties, he is generally
delighted with himself, and it is the most natural thing in the world,
to think that there is more of him than there is. I am often put in mind
of that enthusiastic young ruler that came to the Saviour, who had kept
all the commandments, and seemed determined to be on the high road to
saintship. The Saviour just touched him on this financial question, and
he wilted in a minute. I consider that to be still the test question,
and there are a good many young rulers like him, who _don't_ keep all
the commandments."
"Your way of talking," said I, "seems to do away with all moral
indignation."
He smiled, and then looked sadly into the fire--"God help us all," he
said. "We are all struggling in the water together and pulling one
another under--our best virtues are such a miserable muddle--and
then--there's the beam in our own eye."
There was a depth of pathos in his dark eyes as he spoke, and suddenly a
smile flashed over his features, and looking around, he said--
"So, what do you think of that, my cat,
And what do you think of that, my dog."