A DEMOCRACY.
The _Star_ was printed in an old building where more than one
newspaper had failed. The interior of the place was so comfortless in
arrangement, so subject to unaccountable drafts of cold air in winter
and breaths of hot oppression in summer, that it must have been built
especially for a newspaper office. Henry found that the working force
consisted mainly of a few young reporters and a large force of
editorial writers. The weakness of nearly every newspaper is its
editorial page, and especially so when the paper is owned by a
politician. The new manager straightway began a reorganization. It was
an easy matter to form an efficient staff, for in every city some of
the best newspaper men are out of employment--the bright and uncertain
writers who have been shoved aside by trustworthy plodders. He did not
begin as one who knows it all, but he sought the co-operation of
practical men. The very man who knew that the paper could not do
without him was told that his services were no longer needed. In his
day he had spread many an acre of platitudes; he had hammered the
tariff mummy, and at every lick he had knocked out the black dust; he
had snorted loud in controversy, and was arrogant in the certainty
that his blowhard sentence was the frosty air of satire. He was the
representative of a class. To him all clearness of expression was
shallowness of thought, and brightness was the essence of frivolity.
He soon found another place, for some of the Chicago newspapers still
set a premium upon windy dullness.
Among the writers whom Henry decided to retain was Laura Drury. She
wrote book reviews and scraps which were supposed to be of interest to
women. Her room opened into Henry's, and through a door which was
never shut he could see her at work. The brightness and the modesty of
her face attracted him. She could not have been more than twenty years
of age.
"Have you been long in newspaper work?" he asked, when she had come in
to submit something to him.
"Only a short time," she answered, and returned at once to her desk.
Henry looked at her as she proceeded with her work. Her presence
seemed to refine the entire office. He fancied that her hair made the
room brighter. His curiosity was awakened by one touch of her
presence. He sought to know more of her, and when she had come in
again to consult him, he said: "Wait a moment, please. How long have
you been connected with this paper?"
"About three months, regularly."
"Had you worked on any other paper in the city?"
"No, sir; I have never worked on any other paper."
"Have you lived here long?"
"No, sir, I have been here only a short time. I am from Missouri."
"You didn't come alone, did you?"
She glanced at him quickly and answered: "I came alone, but I live
with my aunt."
She returned to her work, and she must have discovered that he was
watching her, for the next day he saw that she had moved her desk.
Henry had applied for membership in the Press Club, and one morning a
reporter told him that he had been elected.
"Was there any opposition?" the editor asked.
"Not after the boys learned that you had been a reporter. You can go
over at any time and sign the constitution."
"I'll go now. Suppose you come with me."
The Press Club of Chicago is a democracy. Money holds but little
influence within its precincts, for its ablest members are generally
"broke." There are no rules hung on its walls, no cool ceremonies to
be observed. Its atmosphere invites a man to be natural, and warns him
to conceal his vanities. Among that body of men no pretense is sacred.
Here men of Puritan ancestry find it well to curb a puritanical
instinct. A stranger may be shocked by a snort of profanity, but if he
listens he will hear a bright and poetic blending of words rippling
after it. A great preacher, whose sermons are read by the world, sat
one day in the club, uttering the slow and heavy sentences of an
oracle. He touched his finger tips together. He was discoursing on
some phase of life; and an old night police reporter listened for a
moment and said, "Rats!" The great man was startled. Accustomed to
deliver his theories to a silent congregation, he was astonished to
find that his wisdom could so irreverently be questioned. The reporter
meant no disrespect, but he could not restrain his contempt for so
presuming a piece of ignorance. He turned to the preacher and showed
him where his theories were wrong. With a pin he touched the bubble of
the great man's presumption, and it was done kindly, for when the
sage arose to go he said: "I must confess that I have learned
something. I fear that a preacher's library does not contain all that
is worth knowing." And this, more than any of his sermons, proved his
wisdom.
In the Press Club the pulse of the town can be felt, and scandals that
money and social influence have suppressed are known there. The
characters of public men are correctly estimated; snobs are laughed
at; and the society woman who seeks to bribe the press with she
cajolery of a smile is a familiar joke. Of course this is not wholly a
harmonious body, for keen intelligence is never in smooth accord with
itself. To the "kicker" is given the right to "kick," and keen is the
enjoyment of this privilege. Every directory is the worst; every
officer neglects his duty.
Literary societies know but little of this club, for literary
societies despise the affairs of the real worker--they are interested
in the bladdery essay written by the fashionable ass.
Henry was shown into a large room, brightly carpeted and hung with
portraits. On a leather lounge a man lay asleep; at a round table a
man sat, solemnly playing solitaire; and in one corner of the
apartment sat several men, discussing an outrageous clause in the
constitution that Henry had just signed. The new member was introduced
to them. Among the number were John McGlenn, John Richmond and
a shrewd little Yankee named Whittlesy. Of McGlenn's character
a whole book might be written. An individual almost wholly distinct
from his fellow-men; a castigator of human weakness and yet a
hero-worshiper--not the hero of burning powder and fluttering flags,
but any human being whose brain had blazed and lighted the world. Art
was to him the soul of literature. Had he lived two thousand years
ago, as the founder of a peculiar school of philosophy, he might still
be alive. If frankness be a virtue, he was surely a reward unto
himself. He would calmly look into the eyes of a poet and say, "Yes, I
read your poem. Do you expect to keep on attempting to write poetry?
But you may think better of it after a while. I wrote poems when I was
of your age." He did not hate men because they were wealthy, but he
despised the methods that make them rich. His temperament invited a
few people to a close friendship with him, and gently warned many to
keep a respectful distance. Aggressive and cutting he was, and he
often said that death was the best friend of a man who is compelled to
write for a living. He wrote a subscription book for a mere pittance,
and one of the agents that sold it now lives in a mansion. He regarded
present success as nothing to compare with an immortal name in the
ages to come. He was born in the country, and his refined nature
revolted at his rude surroundings, and ever afterward he held the
country in contempt. In later years he had regarded himself simply as
a man of talent, and when this decision had been reached he thought
less of life. If his intellectual character lacked one touch, that
touch would have made him a genius. When applied to him the term
"gentleman" found its befitting place.
Careless observers of men often passed Richmond without taking
particular notice of him. He was rather undersized, and was bald, but
his head was shapely. He was so sensitive that he often assumed a
brusqueness in order not to appear effeminate. His judgment of men
was as swift as the sweep of a hawk, and sometimes it was as sure. He
had taken so many chances, and had so closely noted that something
which we call luck, that he might have been touched a little with
superstition, but his soul was as broad as a prairie, and his mind was
as penetrating as a drill; and a fact must have selected a close
hiding-place to escape his search. Sitting in his room, with his plug
of black tobacco, he had explored the world. Stanley was amazed at his
knowledge of Africa, and Blaine marveled at his acquaintance with
political history.
"We welcome you to our club," McGlenn remarked when Henry had sat
down, "but are you sure that this is the club you wanted to join!"
Henry was surprised. "Of course I am. Why do you ask that question?"
"Because you are a rich man, and this is the home of modesty."
Henry reached over and shook hands with him. "I like that," said he,
"and let me assure you that you have in one sentence made me feel that
I really belong here, not because I am particularly modest, but
because your sentiments are my own. I am not a rich man, but even if I
were I should prefer this group to the hyphenated"--
"Fools," McGlenn suggested.
"Yes," Henry agreed, "the hyphenated fools that I am compelled to
meet. George Witherspoon is a rich man, but his money does not belong
to me. I didn't help him earn any of it; I borrowed money from him,
and, so soon as I can, I shall return it with interest."
"John," said Richmond, "you were wrong--as you usually are--in asking
Mr. Witherspoon that question, but in view of the fact that you
enabled him to put himself so agreeably on record, we will excuse your
lack of courtesy."
"I don't permit any man who goes fishing with any sort of ignorant
lout, and who spends a whole day in a boat with him, to tell me when I
am lacking in courtesy."
Richmond laughed, put his hand to his mouth, threw back his head and
replied: "I go fishing, not for society, but for amusement; and, by
the way, I think it would do you good to go fishing, even with an
ignorant lout. You might learn something."
"Ah," McGlenn rejoined, "you have disclosed the source of much of your
information. You learn from the ignorant that you may confound the
wise."
Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "At some playful time," said he,
"I might seek to confound the wise, but I should never so far forget
myself as to make an experiment on you."
"Mr. Witherspoon," remarked McGlenn, "we will turn from this rude
barbarian and give our attention to Mr. Whittlesy, who knows all about
dogs."
"If he knows all about dogs," Henry replied, "he must be well
acquainted with some of the most prominent traits of man."
"I am not talking much to-day," said Whittlesy, ducking his head. "I
went fooling round the Board of Trade yesterday; and they got me, and
they got me good."
"How much did they catch you for, Whit?" McGlenn asked.
"I won't say, but they got me, and got me good, but never mind. Ill go
after 'em."
The man who had been asleep on the leather lounge got up, stretched
himself, looked about for a moment, and then, coming over to the
group, said: "What's all this bloody rot?" Seeing a stranger, he
added, by way of apology: "I thought this was the regular roasting
lay-out."
"Mr. Witherspoon," said Richmond, "let me introduce Mr. Mortimer, an
old member of the club;" and when the introduction had been
acknowledged, Richmond added: "Mortimer has just thought of something
mean to say and has come over to say it. He dozes himself full of
venom and then has to get rid of it."
"Our friend Richmond is about as truthful as he is complimentary,"
Mortimer replied.
"Yes," said Richmond, "but if I were no more complimentary than you
are truthful, I should have a slam for everybody."
"Oh, ho, ho, no," McGlenn cried, and Richmond shouted: "Oh, I have
been robbed."
Henry looked about for the cause of this commotion and saw a smiling
man, portly and impressive, coming toward them with a dignified mince
in his walk. And Mr. Flummers was introduced with half-humorous
ceremony. He had rather a pleasant expression of countenance, and men
who were well acquainted with him said that he had, though not so long
of arm, an extensive reach for whisky. He was of impressive size, with
a sort of Napoleonic head; and when hot on the trail of a drink, his
voice held a most unctuous solicitude. He was exceedingly annoying to
some people and was a source of constant delight to others. At one
time he had formed the habit of being robbed, and later on he was
drugged; but no one could conjecture what he would next add to his
repertory. His troubles were amusing, his difficulties were humorous,
his failures were laughable, and his sorrows were the cause for jest.
He had a growing paunch, and when he stood he leaned back slightly as
though his rotund front found ease in exhibition. As a law student he
had aimed a severe blow at justice, and failing as an attorney, he had
served his country a good turn. As a reporter he wrote with a torch,
and wrote well. All his utterances were declamatory; and he had a set
of scallopy gestures that were far beyond the successful mimicry of
his fellows. The less he thought the more wisely he talked. Meditation
hampered him, and like a rabbit, he was generally at his best when he
first "jumped up."
He shook hands with Henry, looked at him a moment and asked: "Are you
going to run a newspaper with all those old geysers you've got over
there?"
The new member winced.
"Don't pay any attention to Flummers," John Richmond said.
"Oh, yes," Flummers insisted. "You see, I know all those fellows. Some
of them were worn out ten years ago--but say, are you paying anything
over there?"
"Yes, paying as much as any paper in the town."
"That's the stuff; but say, you can afford it. Who rang the bell? Did
anybody ring? Boy," (speaking to a waiter), "we ought to have
something to drink here."
"Do _you_ want to pay for it?" Richmond asked.
"Oh, ho, ho, no, I'm busted. I've set 'em up two or three times
to-day."
"Why, you stuffed buffalo robe, you"--
"Oh, well, it was the other day, then. I'm all the time buying the
drinks. If it weren't for me you geysers would dry up. Say, John,
touch the bell."
"Wait," said Henry. "Have something with me."
"Ah, now you command the respect of the commonwealth!" Flummers cried.
"By one heroic act you prove that your life is not a failure. These
fellows round here make me tired. Boy, bring me a little whisky. What
are you fellows going to take? What! you want a cigar?" he added,
speaking to Henry.
"Oh, I had a great man on my staff yesterday--big railroad man. Do you
know that some of those fellows like to have a man show them how to
spend their money? I see I'm posted for dues. This municipality must
think I'm made of money."
When he caught sight of the boy coming with the tray, a peculiar
light, such as painters give the face of Hope, illumined his
countenance, and clasping his hands, he unctuously greeted himself.
"Mr. Flummers," said McGlenn, "we all love you."
"Oh, no."
"Yes; it is disreputable, but we love you. It was a long time before I
discovered your beauties. I used to think that the men who loved you
were the enemies of a higher grade of life, and perhaps they were, but
I love you. You are a great man, Mr. Flummers. Nature designed you to
be the president of a life insurance company."
"Well, say, I know that."
"Yes," continued McGlenn. "A life insurance company ought to employ
you as a great joss, and charge people for the privilege of a mere
glimpse of you."
"I shouldn't think," said Richmond, "that a man who had committed
murder in Nebraska would be so extreme as to pose as the president of
a life insurance company."
"Mr. Hammers, did you commit a murder in Nebraska?" McGlenn asked.
"Oh, no."
"But didn't you confess that you killed a man there?" Richmond urged.
"Oh, well, that was a mistake."
"What? The confession?"
"No, the killing. You see, I was out of work, and I struck a doctor
for a job in his drug-store; and once, when the doctor was away, an
old fellow sent over to have a prescription filled, and I filled it.
And when the doctor returned he saw the funeral procession going past
the store. He asked me what it meant, and I told him."
"Then what did he say?"
"He asked me if I got pay for the prescription. Oh, but he was a
thrifty man!" Flummers clasped his hands, threw himself back and
laughed with a jolting "he, he, he." "Well, I've got to go. Did
anybody ring? Say, John"--to Richmond--"why don't you buy something?"
"What? Oh, you gulp, you succession of swallows, you human sink-hole!
Flummers, I have bought you whisky enough to overflow the
Mississippi."
"Oh, ho, ho, but not to-day, John. Past whisky is a scandal; in
present whisky there lies a virtue. Never tell a man what you have
done, John, lest he may think you boastful, but show him what you will
do now, so that he may have the proof of your ability. Is it possible
that I've got to shake you fellows? My time is too valuable to waste
even with a mere contemplation of your riotous living."
He walked away with his mincing step. "There's a character," said
Henry, looking after him. "He is positively restful."
"Until he wants a drink," Mortimer replied, "and then he is restless.
Well, I must follow his example of withdrawal, if not his precept of
appetite. I am pleased to have met you, Mr. Witherspoon, and I hope to
see you often."
"I think you shall, as I intend to make this my resting-place."
"There is another character," said McGlenn, referring to Mortimer. "He
is a very learned man, so much so that he has no need of imagination.
He is a _very_ learned man."
"And he is charmed with the prospect of saying a mean thing," Richmond
replied. "I tell him so," he added, "though that is needless, for he
knows it himself. His mind has traveled over a large scope of
intellectual territory, and he commands my respect while I object to
his methods."
The conversation took a serious turn, and Richmond flooded it with his
learning. His voice was low and his manner modest--a great man who in
the game of human affairs played below the limit of his abilities.
McGlenn roused himself. When emphatic, he had a way of turning out his
thumb and slowly hammering his knee with his fist. In his sky there
was a cloud of pessimism, but the brightness of his speech threw a
rainbow across it. He was a poet in the garb of a Diogenes. Many of
his theories were wrong, but all were striking. Sometimes his
sentences flashed like a scythe swinging in the sunshine.
Henry talked as he had never found occasion to talk before. These men
inspired him, and in acknowledgment of this he said: "We may for years
carry in our minds a sort of mist that we cannot shape into an idea.
Suddenly we meet a man, and he speaks the word of life unto that mist,
and instantly it becomes a thought."
Other members joined the group, and the conversation broke and flew
into sharp fragments. McGlenn and Richmond began to wrangle.
"Your children may not read my books," said McGlenn, replying to some
assertion that Richmond had made, "but your great-grandchildren will."
"Oh, that's possible," Richmond rejoined. "I can defend my immediate
offspring, while my descendants may be left without protection. If you
would tear the didacticism out of your books and inject a little more
of the juice of human interest--hold on!" Richmond threw up his arm,
as though warding off a blow. "When that double line comes between his
eyes I always feel that he is going to hit me."
"I wouldn't hit you. I have some pity left."
"Or fear--which is it?"
"Not fear; pity."
"Why don't you reserve some of it for your readers?"
McGlenn frowned. "I don't expect you to like my books."
"Oh, you have realized the fact that the characters are wooden?"
"No, but I have realized that they are beyond your feeble grasp. I
don't want you to like my books." He hammered his knee. "The book that
wins your regard is an exceedingly bad production. When you search
for facts you may sometimes go to high sources, but when you read
fiction you go to the dogs. A consistent character in fiction is
beyond you."
"There are no consistent characters in life," said Richmond, "and a
consistent character in fiction is merely a strained form of art. In
life the most arrant coward will sometimes fight; the bravest man at
times lacks nerve; the generous man may sometimes show the spirit of
the niggard. But your character in fiction is different. He must be
always brave, or always generous, or always niggardly. He must be
consistent, and consistency is not life."
"But inconsistency is life, and you are, therefore, not dead," McGlenn
replied. "If inconsistency were a jewel," he added, "you would be a
cluster of brilliants. As it is, you are an intellectual fault-finder
and a physical hypochondriac."
"And you are an intellectual cartoon and a physical mistake."
"I won't talk to you. Even the semblance of a gentleman commands my
respect, but I can't respect you. I like truth, but"--
"Is that the reason you seek me?"
"No, it is the reason I avoid you. Brutal prejudice never held a
truth."
"Not when it shook hands with you," Richmond replied.
McGlenn got up, walked over to the piano, came back, looked at his
watch, and addressing Richmond, asked:
"Are you going home, John?"
"Yes, John. Suppose we walk."
"I'll go you; come on."
They bade Henry good evening and together walked off affectionately.
"What do you think of our new friend?" Richmond asked as they strolled
along.
"John, he has suffered. He is a great man."
"I don't know how he may turn out," Richmond said, "but I rather like
him. Of course he hasn't fitted himself to his position--that is, he
doesn't as yet feel the force of old Witherspoon's money. His
experience has gone far toward making a man of him, but his changed
condition may after a while throw his past struggles into contempt and
thereby corrode his manliness."
"I don't think that he scraped up his principles from the Witherspoon
side of the house," McGlenn declared. "If he had, we should at once
have discovered in him the unmistakable trace of the hog. Oh, I don't
think he will stay in the club very long. His tendency will be to
drift away. All rich men are the enemies of democracy. If they pretend
that they are not, they are hypocrites; if they believe they are not,
it is because they haven't come to a correct understanding of
themselves. The meanest difference that can exist between men is the
difference that money makes. There is some compassion in an
intellectual difference, and even in a difference of birth there is
some little atonement to be expected, but a moneyed difference is
stiff with unyielding brutality."
In this opinion they struck a sort of agreement, but they soon fell
apart, and they wrangled until they reached a place where their
pathway split. They halted for a moment; they had been fierce in
argument. Now they were calm.
"Can't you come over to-night, John?" McGlenn asked.
"No, I can't possibly come to-night, John. I've got a piece of work on
hand and must get it off. I've neglected it too long already."
But he did go over that night, and he wrangled with McGlenn until
twelve o'clock.