* * * * *
[Illustration: STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.]
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Volume I.—No. 14.] SATURDAY, JULY 24, 1858. [Price 2 Cents.
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
=Conference of Methodists.=
The miser Harpers still Harping on the Dimes—The self-degradation and
downfall of the Harpers, who “played on the Harp of a thou-_sand
strings—sperrits of just men made perfic!”_
_John Harper_—Brothers: These are desperate times.
_Wesley Harper_—Yes, and something must soon be done, or we must again
suspend.
_Fletcher Harper_—That’s so.
_Evil Genius_—Go ahead!
_Good Genius_—Beware!
_Jack_—Our stock in the _Courier and Enquirer_ don’t pay. We have had
the best place and the largest type in the columns of that Journal for
20 years, and I tell you, brothers, it don’t pay. While young _Fletch_
had stock in the _Times_, we had the best place, and the biggest type,
but you all know it didn’t pay. Nor do any of the public journals yield
a fair return for our enormous advertising investments.
_Jim_—Jack: What in the devil are you driving at? Upon my soul, you
positively alarm me. Why, I declare, I never saw your eyes roll so, nor
your jaws close so fiercely, nor your fist fall so heavily on your knee.
Now, for the Lord’s sake, do disclose, in common parlance, what you mean
by your mysterious declamation. (Wesley takes out his pen knife, and
cuts his nails, and Fletcher takes a fresh cud of tobacco, and crosses
his legs.)
_Jack_—I have had an interview with James Gordon Bennett.
_Jim_—Fletch: Hand me that fan. Wes: Please open the window. Sam: Bring
me a glass of ice water. Now, Jack, proceed.
_Jack_—Bennett spoke of other days, and inquired after our health.
_Jim_—Whose health?
_Jack_—Mine and yours.
_Jim_—What the devil did he mean by that? My health is always good. I
never had the rheumatism or gout, like you, Jack. What did the old
reprobate mean by inquiring about my health? I’ll thank him to mind his
own business.
_Jack_—Jim: Listen: For thirty years, you have imposed on me the
financial department of our vast establishment, until I have racked my
brain, and nearly worn myself into the grave, and I am pursued in my old
age, by our creditors, as never before. True, we recently resumed
payment, but we know that we did that for effect, and before we were
fairly out of the woods. I tell you, brothers, we are in a very critical
condition. People want bread, instead of books and papers, in these days
of famine and commercial desolation. Now, brothers, I am desperate, and
I favor a resort to desperate measures, to save the credit of our House.
_Jim_—I think I smell a skunk. To save our pecuniary credit, you would
sacrifice our honor. Talk out, Jack, for I too am growing desperate,
when the scuffle is between credit and honor, and I will die in defence
of the latter.
_Jack_—Is not our _Weekly_ declining, and our _Monthly_ rapidly
decaying, and our general business nearly paralysed. Must we not pay our
notes? And how can we do that, unless we adopt the course of Bonner, who
is devouring all the publishers of the civilised world. Now, Jim, it is
very pleasant for you to sit here two or three hours every day, and talk
about temperance, (and take a glass on the sly occasionally,) and praise
Methodism, (and go to the Theatre, and some other very curious places of
amusement,) and hold political meetings in our counting room, which you
fill daily with a gang of seedy political vagabonds, who once, (with the
aid of Divine Providence, and Methodists, and Daniel F. Tiemann, and
Peter Cooper, and Judge Sidney Stewart, and the politicians of the
Second, Sixth, and Eleventh Wards,) set a ball in motion, that elected
you Mayor of New York, from which you did not make a cent, and did not
add a cipher to your private fortune,—I say, all this is mighty pleasant
for you, but not for me, as the entire financial department of our
immense establishment has ever been on my shoulders, and I am getting
very old, and I now am about to change our tactics, or we are forever
lost.
_Jim_—Go on, Jack—go on. But stop a moment. Fletch: Just open the desk,
and pass me the bottle of brandy. (Takes a stiff horn.) Now, Jack, go
on, for I am prepared for anything.
_Jack_—I told Bennett that I thought of publishing his biography
favorably in our _Weekly_.
_Jim_—And what did the old devil say to that?
_Jack_—His eyes brightened and glistened with perfect delight, and he
said it was a darm fine idea.
_Jim_—Wes: Do you hear all this?
_Wes_—O yes: I was with brother John, at the interview with Bennett and
Hudson, at the _Herald_ Office.
_Jim_—And Fletch: What have you to say?
_Fletch_—I was there, too.
_Jim_—Here, Ike, run for your life to the Apothecary, and get me some
Camphor and Asafetida. Sam: Bring me a lump of ice, and hold it on my
head. My blood rushes with great violence to my brain. Fletch: Just pass
the brandy bottle this way once more. O my God, my good brothers, I fear
you will be the death of your brother James. I never thought we would
come to this. John is nearly seventy years old, and I am on the winter
side of sixty, and Wesley is sixty, and Fletcher is nearly sixty, and
after a long life of toil, and the preservation of our business honor,
and with children and grandchildren soon to fill our places on the field
of action, it is now proposed to prostrate ourselves at the feet of a
man, who has led a life of infamy from his youth to the present hour,
and who has pursued to the grave many a virtuous and timid female, and
many a noble merchant, who were so unfortunate as to get in his wicked
clutches. O, brothers, I had rather starve, than succumb to Bennett, who
has abused us all our days. We can survive our present misfortunes,
without disgracing our _Weekly_ with the panegyric of James Gordon
Bennett, which will injure our respectable family journal more than we
shall realise from our advertisements and all the puffs we can squeeze
from Bennett. There’s my private fortune. Take it, and I will gladly
return to a one story dwelling, and to utter penury, before I will
sacrifice my self-respect, and my honor, to such a monster as James
Gordon Bennett.
_Jack_—Myself, and Wesley, and Fletcher, have long considered this, and
we are unchangeable, as we deem it our only means of salvation. It is
incontrovertibly true, that Bennett has the largest circulation of any
paper in America, and if he will permit us to advertise, and puff us
like Bonner, why, I am willing to make any sacrifice.
_Jim_—I perceive the old liar has been as quiet as a mouse about his
prodigious circulation, since he had to swear in the Carr libel case,
that his circulation was only about 50,000. The old scamp, just prior to
his oath, declared that his circulation was nearly 100,000. Once a liar,
always a liar, is my motto, and I don’t believe the _Herald’s_
circulation is as large as that of the _Sun_, which is conducted by
Moses S. Beach, who is an honest man, and a true Christian, and a
meritorious gentleman.
_Jack_—Say what you will, Jim.—Wes, and Fletch, and myself are resolved
to extend our hands to Bennett in terms of the warmest friendship.
_Jim_—Well, brothers, you are three to one, and as ours are democratic
institutions—that is, as the country we have adopted, is democratic (for
some of us are of English birth, and the rest of us had a very narrow
escape, although the world is ignorant of the fact)—I say, that as you
are all against my judgment in this matter, and as I don’t like to leave
you in my old age, why, I shall very reluctantly, and in tears—as you
see—(he cries) consent to sell ourselves to James Gordon Bennett, whom I
have always regarded as the incarnation of a lie, and of the devil. And
now, brothers, I am prepared to go to the _Herald_ Office, and for your
sake, affectionately press Bennett’s hand in hypocrisy, and publish his
biography, in our _Weekly_, daubed all over with whitewash, and without
any severity of allusion to Helen Jewett, or Grinnell, or any of his
black mail victims, or the numerous males and females whose early graves
he dug. And now I’ll take another copious draught of brandy, and then
I’m ready for our degradation, and for the first step in the eternal
downfall of the Harpers, who have preserved their business honor all
over the world, until this evil and melancholy hour. Now, brothers, come
on, and I’m ready to face Bennett and the devil himself, and kiss their
toes, if it is your behest. (They all go to the _Herald_ Office, two
abreast, with their numerous posterity, three abreast, in the rear,
young _Fletch_ leading the younger tribes, with a _Weekly_ and _Monthly_
in either hand, to show Mr. Bennett as a sample.)
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
=Randall’s Island.=
_The evening sun gilds the trees and spires—The lily and rosy and
classic Mistress on her couch reclining._