Josephine Thorn never read newspapers, partly because she did not care for
the style of literature known as journalistic, and partly, too, because
the papers always came at such exceedingly inconvenient hours. If she had
possessed and practiced the estimable habit of "keeping up with the
times," she would have observed an article which appeared on the morning
after the skating party, and which dealt with the speech John Harrington
had made in the Music Hall two days previous. Miss Schenectady had read
it, but she did not mention it to Joe, because she believed in John
Harrington, and wished Joe to do likewise, wherefore she avoided the
subject; for the article treated him roughly. Nevertheless, some unknown
person sent Joe a copy of the paper through the post some days later, with
a bright red pencil mark at the place, and Joe, seeing what the subject
was, read it with avidity. As she read, her cheek flushed, her small mouth
closed like a vise, and she stamped her little foot upon the floor.
It was evident that the writer was greatly incensed at the views expressed
by John, and he wrote with an ease and a virulence which proclaimed a
practiced hand. "The spectacle of an accomplished Democrat," said the
paper, "is always sufficiently unusual to attract attention: but to find
so rare a bird among ourselves is indeed a novel delight. The orator who
alternately enthralled and insulted a considerable audience at the Music
Hall, two nights ago, laid a decided claim both to accomplishment and to
democracy. He himself informed his hearers that he was a Democrat; and,
indeed, it was necessary that he should state his position, for it would
have been impossible to decide from the tone and quality of his opinions
whether he were a socialist, a reformer, a conservative, or an Irishman.
Perchance he has discovered the talisman by which it is possible for a man
to be all four, and yet to be a man, Furthermore, he claims to be an
orator. No one could listen to the manifold intonations of his voice, or
witness the declamatory evolutions of his body, without feeling an inward
conviction that the gentleman on the platform intended to present himself
to us as an orator.
"Lest we be accused of partiality and prejudice, we will at once state
that we believe it possible for a man to be singular in his manner and
quaint in his mode of phrasing, and yet to utter an opinion in some one
direction which, if neither novel nor interesting, nor even tenable, shall
yet have the one redeeming merit of representing a conceivable point of
view. But when a man begins by stating that he belongs to the Democrats
and then claims as his own the views of his political opponents, winding
up by demanding the sympathy and support of a third party, the obvious
conclusion is that he is either a lunatic, a charlatan, or both. A man
cannot serve God and Mammon, neither can any man serve both the Irish and
Chinese.
"Mr. John Harrington has made a great discovery. He has discovered that we
require a Civil Service. This is apparently the ground on which he states
himself to be a Democrat. If we remember rightly, the Civil Service
Convention, which sat in discussion of the subject in the summer of 1881,
was presided over by a prominent member of the Republican party. As some
time has elapsed since then, and the gentlemen connected with the movement
are as active and as much interested in it as ever, our orator will pardon
us for questioning his right of discovery on the one hand, and his claim
to be considered a Democrat on the strength of it, on the other. A Civil
Service is doubtless a good thing, even a very good thing, and in due time
we shall certainly have it; but that the Constitution of the United States
is on the verge of dissolution at the hands of our corrupt public
officers, that our finance is only another name for imminent bankruptcy,
or that the new millennium of Washington morals will be organized by Mr.
John Harrington--these things we deny _in toto_, from beginning to
end. So wide and deep is our skepticism, that we even doubt whether 'war,
famine, revolution, or all three together' would have instantly ensued if
Mr. John Harrington had not delivered his speech on Wednesday evening.
"In illustration--or rather, in the futile attempt to illustrate--Mr.
Harrington put forth a series of similes that should make any dead orator
turn in his grave. The nation was successively held up to our admiration
in the guise of a sick man, a cripple, a banker, a theatrical company, and
a peddler of tape and buttons. We were bankrupt, diseased; and our bones,
like those of the Psalmist, were all out of joint; and if our hearts did
not become like melting wax in the midst of our bodies, it was not the
fault of Mr. John Harrington, but rather was it due to the hardening of
those organs against the voice of the charmer.
"The Navigation Act called down the choicest of the orator's vessels of
wrath. Fools had made it, worse than fools submitted to it, and the reason
why the Salem docks were no longer crowded with the shipping of the
Peabody family was that there were ferry-boats in Boston harbor, a train
of reasoning that must be clear to the mind of the merest schoolboy. Mr.
Harrington further stated that these same ferry-boats--not to mention
certain articles he terms 'mudscows,' with which we have no acquaintance--are built of old timber, copper, and nails, obtained by breaking tip the
fleets of the Peabody family, which is manifestly a fraud on the nation.
As far as the ferry-boats are concerned, we believe we are in a position
to state that they are not built of old material; as regards the aforesaid
'mudscows' we can give no opinion, not having before heard of the article,
which we presume is not common in commerce, and may therefore be regarded
as an exception to the universal rule that things in general should not be
made of old timber, copper, and rusty nails.
"We will not weary our readers with any further attempt at unraveling the
opinions, illustrations, and rhetoric of Mr. John Harrington, Democrat and
orator. The possession of an abundant vocabulary without any especial use
for it in the shape of an idea will not revolutionize modern government,
whatever may be the opinion of the individual so richly gifted; nor will
any accomplished Democrat find a true key to success in following a course
of politics which consists in one half of the world trying to drive
paradoxes down the throat of the other half. It will not do, and Mr.
Harrington will find it out. He will find out also that the differences
which exist between the Republican and the Democratic parties are far
deeper and wider than he suspects, and do not consist in such things as
the existence or non-existence of a Civil Service, free trade, or
mudscows; and when these things are forever crushed out of his imagination
it will be time enough to give him a name, seeing he is neither Republican
nor Democrat, nor Tammany, nor even a Stalwart, nor a three-hundred-and-sixer--seeing, in fact, that he is not an astronomical point in any
political heaven with which the world is acquainted, but only the most
nebulous of nebulae which have yet come within our observation."
Joe read the article rapidly, and then read the last paragraph again and
threw the paper aside. She sat by the fire after breakfast, and Miss
Schenectady had come into the room several times and had gone out again,
busied with much housekeeping. For Miss Schenectady belonged to the elder
school of Boston women, who "see to things" themselves in the intervals of
literature, gossip, and transcendental philosophy. But Joe sat still for
nearly half an hour after she had done reading and nursed her wrath, while
she toasted her little feet at the fire. At last she made up her mind and
rose.
"I am going to see Sybil, Aunt Zoë," she said, meeting the old lady at the
door.
"Well, if she is up at this time of day," answered Miss Schenectady.
"Oh, I fancy so," said Joe.
Mrs. Sam Wyndham's establishment was of the modern kind, and nobody was
expected to attend an early breakfast of fish, beefsteaks, buckwheat
cakes, hot rolls, tea, coffee, and chocolate at eight o'clock in the
morning. Visitors did as they pleased, and so did Mrs. Sam, and they met
at luncheon, a meal which Sam Wyndham himself was of course unable to
attend. Joe knew this, and knew she was certain to find Sybil alone. It
was Sybil she wanted to see, and not Mrs. Wyndham. But as she walked down
Beacon Street the aspect of affairs changed in her mind.
Joe had not exaggerated when she said to Vancouver that she had a very
good memory, and it would have been better for him if he had remembered
the fact. Joe had not forgotten the conversation with him in the evening
after Harrington's speech, and in reading the article that had been sent
to her she instantly recognized a phrase, word for word as Vancouver had
uttered it. In speaking to her he had said that politics "consisted in one
half of the world trying to drive paradoxes down the throat of the other
half." It was true that in the article John Harrington was warned that he
would discover the fallacy of this proposition, but in Joe's judgment this
did not constitute an objection. Vancouver had written the article, and
none other; Vancouver, who professed a boundless respect for John, and who
constantly asserted that he took no active part whatever in politics. It
was inconceivable that the coincidence of language should be an accident.
Vancouver had made the phrase when making conversation, and had used it in
his article; Joe was absolutely certain of that, and being full of her
discovery and of wrath, she was determined to consult with her dearest
friend as to the best way of revenging the offense on its author.
But as she walked down Beacon Street she reflected on the situation. She
was sure Sybil would not understand why she cared so much, and Sybil would
form hasty ideas as to the interest Joe took in Harrington. That would
never do. It would be better to speak to Mrs. Sam Wyndham, who was herself
so fond of John that she would seize with avidity on the information, from
whatever source it came. But then Mrs. Wyndham was fond of Vancouver also.
No, she was not. When Joe thought of it she was sure that though Vancouver
was devoted to Mrs. Sam, Mrs. Sam did not care for him excepting as an
agreeable person of even temper, who was useful in society. But for
Harrington she had a real friendship. If it came to the doing of a
service, Mrs. Wyndham would do it. Joe's perceptions were wonderfully
clear and just.
But when she reached the house she was still uncertain, and she passed on,
intending to turn back and go in as soon as she had made up her mind. In
spite of all that she could argue to herself it seemed unsafe--unwise, at
least. Sybil might laugh at her, after all; Mrs. Wyndham might possibly
tell Vancouver instead of telling John. It would be better to tell John
herself; she remembered having once spoken to him about Vancouver, and she
could easily remind him of the conversation. She would probably see him
that evening at a party she was going to; and yet it was so hard to have
to keep it all to herself for so many hours, instead of telling.
Nevertheless she would go and see Sybil, taking care, of course, to say
nothing about the article.
At the time Joe was walking up and down Beacon Street in the effort to
come to a decision, John Harrington found himself face to face with a very
much more formidable problem. He stood before the fire-place in his rooms
in Charles Street, with an extinguished cigar between his teeth, his face
paler than usual, and a look of uncertainty on his features that was oddly
out of keeping with his usual mood. He wore an ancient shooting coat, and
his feet were trust into a pair of dingy leather slippers; his hands were
in his pockets, and he was staring vacantly at the clock.
On the oak writing-table that filled the middle of the room lay an open
telegram. It was dated from Washington, and conveyed the simple
information that Senator Caleb Jenkins had died at five o'clock that
morning. It was signed by an abbreviation that meant nothing except to
John himself. The name of the senator was itself fictitious, and stood for
another which John knew.
The table was covered with Government reports, for when the message came
John was busy studying a financial point of importance to him. The
telegram had lain on the table for half an hour, and John still stood
before the fire-place, staring at the clock.
The senator had not been expected to live, in fact it was remarkable that
he should have lived so long. But when a man has been preparing for a
struggle during many months, he is apt to feel that the actual moment of
the battle is indefinitely far off. But now the senator was dead, and John
meant to stand in his place. The battle was begun. No one who has not
seen some of the inside workings of political life can have any idea of
what a man feels who is about to stand as a candidate in an election for
the first time in his life. For months, perhaps for years, he has been
engaged with political matters; his opinions have been formed by himself
or by others into a very definite shape; it may be that, like Harrington,
he has frequently spoken to large audiences with more or less success; he
may have written pamphlets and volumes upon questions of the day, and his
writings may have roused the fiercest criticism and the most loyal
support. All this he may have done, and done it well, but when the actual
moment arrives for him to stand upon his feet and address his
constituents, no longer for the purpose of making them believe in his
opinions, but in order to make them believe in himself, he is more than
mortal if he does not feel something very unpleasantly resembling fear.
It is one thing to express a truth, it is another to set one's self upon a
pedestal and declare that one represents it, and is in one's own person
the living truth itself. John was too honest and true a man not to feel a
positive reluctance to singing his own praises, and yet that is what most
electioneering consists in.
But to be elected a senator in Massachusetts is a complicated affair. A
man who intends to succeed in such an enterprise must not let the grass
grow under his feet. In a few hours the whole machinery of election must
be at work, and before night he would have to receive all sorts and
conditions of men and electioneering agents. The morning papers did not
contain any notice of the senator's death, as they had already gone to
press when the news reached them, if indeed it was as yet public property.
But other papers appeared at mid-day, and by that time the circumstances
would undoubtedly be known. John struck a match and relit his cigar. The
moment of hesitation was over, the last breathing-space before the fight,
and all his activity returned. Half an hour later he went out with a
number of written telegrams in his hand, and proceeded to the central
telegraph office.
The case was urgent. In the first place the governor of the state would,
according to law and custom, immediately appoint a senator _pro
tempore_ to act until the legislature should elect the new senator in
place of the one deceased. Secondly, the legislature, which meets once a
year, was already in session, and the election would therefore take place
immediately, unless some unusual delay were created, and this was
improbable.
In spite of the article which had so outraged Josephine Thorn's sense of
justice, there were many who believed in John Harrington as the prophet of
the new faith, as the senator of reform and the orator of the future, and
his friends were numerous and powerful, both in the electing body and
among the non-official mass of prominent persons who make up the aggregate
of public opinion. It had long been known that John Harrington would be
brought forward at the next vacancy, which, in the ordinary course of
things, would have occurred in about a year's time, at the expiration of
the senior senator's term of office, but which had now been suddenly
caused by the death of his colleague. John was therefore aware that his
success must depend almost immediately upon the present existing opinion
of him that prevailed, and as he made his way through the crowded streets
to the telegraph office, he realized that no effort of his own would be
likely to make a change in that opinion at such short notice. At first it
had seemed to him as though he were on a sudden brought face to face with
a body of men whom he must persuade to elect him as their representative,
and in spite of his great familiarity with political proceedings, the idea
was extremely disagreeable to him. But on more mature reflection it was
clear to him that he was in the hands of his friends, that he had said his
say and had done all he would now be able to do in the way of public
speaking or public writing, and that his only possible sphere of present
action lay in exerting such personal influence as he possessed.
John Harrington was ambitious, or, to speak more accurately, he was wholly
ruled by a dominant aspiration. He was convinced by his own study and
observation, as well as by a considerable amount of personal experience,
that great reforms were becoming necessary in the government of the
country, and he was equally sure that a man was needed who should be
willing to make any sacrifice for the sake of creating a party to
inaugurate such changes. In his opinion the surest step towards obtaining
influence in the affairs of the country was a seat in the senate, and with
an unhesitating belief in the truth and honesty of the principles he
desired to make known, he devoted every energy he possessed to the
attainment of his object.
To him government seemed the most important function of society, the
largest, the broadest, and the noblest; to help, if possible, to be a
leader in the establishment of what was good for the country, and to be
the very foremost in destroying that which was bad, were in his view the
best objects and aims for a strong man to follow. And John Harrington knew
himself to be strong, and believed himself to be right, and thus armed he
was prepared for any struggle.
The quality of vanity exists in all men, not least in those whose chief
profession is modesty; and seeing that it is a universal element, created
and inherent in every one, it is impossible to say it is bad in itself.
For it is impossible to conceive any human creature without it. A recent
philosopher of reputation has taught that by vanity, by the desire to
appear attractive to the other sex, man has changed his own person from
the form of a beast to the image of God. Vanity is a mighty power and
incentive, as great as hunger and thirst, and much more generally active
in the affairs of civilized humanity. And yet its very name means
hollowness. "The hollowness of hollowness, all things are hollowness,"
said the preacher, and his translators have put the word vanity in his
mouth, because it means the same thing. But in itself, being hollow, it is
neither bad nor good; its badness or goodness lies in those things whereof
a man makes choice to fill the void, the inexpressible and indefinable
craving within his soul; as also hunger is only bad when it is satisfied
by bad things, or not satisfied at all, so that in the one case it leads
to disease, and in the other to the committing of crimes in the desire for
satisfaction. Many a poor fellow was hung by the neck in old times for
stealing a loaf to stop his hunger, and many a man of wit goes to the mad-house nowadays because the void of his vanity is unfilled.
But vanity is called by yet another name when its disagreeable side is
hidden, and when its emptiness has come to crave for great things. It is
pride, then honorable pride, then ambition, and perhaps at the last it is
called heroic sacrifice. Vanity is an unsatisfied desire, hollow in
itself, but capable of holding both bad and good. It is not identical with
self-complacency, nor yet with conceit.
Probably John Harrington had originally possessed as much of this
mysterious quality as most men who are conscious of strength and talent.
It had never manifested itself in small things, and its very extent had
made many things seem small which were of the highest importance to other
men. He had worked as a boy at all manner of studies like other boys, but
the idea of laboring in distasteful matters for the sake of being first
among his companions seemed utterly absurd to him. From the time he had
begun to think for himself--and he was young when he reached that stage--he had formed a rooted determination to be first in his country, to be a
great reformer or a great patriot, and he cared to study nothing that was
not connected with this idea. When his name was first heard in public
life, it was as the author of a pamphlet advocating certain sweeping
measures of which no one else had ventured to dream as yet. He would have
smiled now had he taken the trouble to read again some of those earlier
productions of his. It had seemed so easy to move the world then, and it
seemed so hard now. But nevertheless he meant to move it, and as each year
brought him increased strength and wider experience, it brought with it
also the conviction of ultimate success. He had long forgotten to hope for
the sudden and immediate power to stir the world, for he had discovered
that it was a labor of years, the work of a lifetime; but if he had ever
had any doubts as to the result of that work, he had forgotten them also.
And now his strength, his aspirations, his vanity, and his intellect were
roused together to the highest activity of which they were capable, the
hour having come for which he had longed through half his lifetime, and
though it was but the first trial, in which he might fail, it had for him
all the importance of the supreme crisis of his existence. No wonder that
his face was pale and his lips set as he walked back to his lodgings from
the telegraph office. As he walked down the hill by the railings of the
Common he came upon Josephine Thorn, standing at the entrance of one of
the boarded walks, as though hesitating whether to go in. He was close to
her as he bowed, and something in her face made him stop.
"Good morning, Miss Thorn," he said. She nodded gravely and hesitated. He
was about to go on, thinking she was in one of those moods which he called
capricious. But she stopped him.
"Mr. Harrington, I want to speak to you," she said quickly, seeing that
her opportunity was on the point of slipping away.
"Yes?" said John, smiling faintly.
"Mr. Harrington--did you read that article about you, the day after the
skating party?"
"Yes," said John. "It was not complimentary, if I remember."
"It was vile," said Joe, the angry color rising to her temples again. "It
was abominable. It was written by Mr. Vancouver."
John started slightly.
"I think you must be mistaken," he said.
"No, I am not mistaken. There were things in it, word for word as he said
them to me just after the speech. I am perfectly sure."
John looked very gravely at Joe, as though to be sure of her honesty.
There was no mistaking the look in her eyes.
"Miss Thorn," John said, "Vancouver may have said those very things to
some one else, who wrote them and printed them. But in any case, I am
exceedingly obliged to you for the information"--
"You are not angry?" Joe began, already repenting.
"No--how could I be? It may be important. The junior senator for
Massachusetts died this morning, and there may be an election at any
moment. I have not told any one else, but it will be known everywhere in
an hour's time. Good-by, and many thanks."
"You will be senator, of course?" said Joe, in great excitement.
"I cannot tell," John answered. "Are you going down the hill?"
"No--thanks--I am going home," said Joe. "Good-by."