MR. BEZZLE was the editor and proprietor of a large and influential
newspaper that sold two for a cent, and had special correspondents in
every corner of the office. By honest industry and a generous disregard
of what went into the newspaper, so that it paid, he had raised himself
to the highest rung of fortune's ladder, and we all know what tall
ringing _that_ is. He used to say that to accept one kind of
advertisement and to reject another, was an injustice to the public and
an outrage upon society, and that strict integrity required that he
should accept, at as much as he could get a line, every advertisement
sent for insertion. It would have done you good to have witnessed Mr.
BEZZLE'S integrity in this respect, and the noble spirit of
self-sacrifice with which he resolved that none of the public should be
slighted. He used to laugh to scorn the transcendental notion about the
editorial columns not being purchased, "If my opinions are worth
anything," he used to exclaim, "they are worth being paid for; and if I
unsay to-morrow what I said yesterday, the contradiction is only
apparent, and is in accordance with the great spirit of progress and the
breaking up of old institutions." The sequel to this magnanimous career
may be imagined. The enterprise paid so well that old BEZZLE found it to
his interest to employ a man at fifteen dollars a week to do nothing
else but write notes from "Old Subscribers," informing BEZZLE that they
had taken his "valuable paper" for over twenty years, that no family
should be without it, and that they would rather, any morning, go
without their breakfast than go without reading the _Hifalutin'
Harbinger_. One day, when BEZZLE had been an editor for forty years, he
fell asleep and had a dreadful dream. He thought that he rose early one
morning, dressed himself in his best suit of broadcloth, which he had
taken for a bad debt, walked up to the ticket office of a theatre where
he was well known, and asked for a couple of seats. The gentlemanly
treasurer (was there ever a treasurer that wasn't gentlemanly in a
newspaper notice?) handed him two of the best seats in the house--end
seats, middle aisle, six rows from the stage. Mr. BEZZLE slapped down a
five-dollar bill with that air of virtue which had become a second
nature to him. (Second nature, by the by, is no more like nature at
first hand than second childhood is like real childhood.)
"Why, Mr. BEZZLE!" exclaimed the treasurer, "have you taken leave of
your senses, sir? Put that back in your pocket;" and he pointed to the
recumbent bank-note. "Who ever heard of an editor paying for two seats
at the theatre since the world began? What have we ever done to offend
you, Mr. BEZZLE, that you should behave thus?"
"Sir," said Mr. BEZZLE, "I once was young, but now am old. I see the
error of my editorial ways, and have resolved to mend 'em. My columns
are _not_ to be bought, sir. My dramatic critic is not to be suborned. I
am determined to tear down the flaunting lie with which THESPIS has so
long concealed her blushless face, and to show the deluded public the
cothurnus bespattered, and the sock and buskin draggled in the mire.
Perish my theatrical advertising columns when I cease to tell the truth!
There is the sum twice told: I pays my money and I takes my choice.
Never mind the change." And with these words Mr. BEZZLE stalked off, his
face crimson with a rush of aesthetics to the head.
From the theatre Mr. BEZZLE went to the house of a celebrated publisher,
who received him with open arms, and conducted him to a counter where
all the newest and most expensive books were displayed. "We are just
settled in our new quarters," explained the publisher, "and any little
thing you might say about us in your valuable paper would be--I don't
_ask_ it, you know--but it would be--upon my word it would. See here,
Mr. BEZZLE, I want you to pick out from this counter just what you want,
and--"
"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. BEZZLE, leaping at the publisher with eyes that
fairly blazed with the radiance of rectitude, "who do you take me for?"
If Mr. BEZZLE had been less violent he would probably have said, "_Whom_
do you take me for," and so have spared himself the ignominy of sinking
to the ungrammatical level of the Common Herd. But the fact is, his
proud spirit was chafed and fretted at the spectacle of sordid
self-seeking that everywhere met his gaze, and excess of sentiment made
him forgetful of syntax. "Mark me, my friend, I am not to be bought," he
continued in unconscious blank verse. "I _shall_ take my pick, sir, and
_you_ will take this check." And he handed the amazed publisher a check
for five hundred dollars. "I sicken, sir," he continued, "of this
qualmish air of half-truth that I have breathed so long. I am going to
read these books, and say what I think of 'em, and five hundred dollars
is dirt cheap for the privilege. I had sooner that every 'New
Publications' ad. should die out of my newspaper than that my literary
columns should be contaminated with a Lie! Never mind the change, sir.
If anything is left over, send it to the proprietor of the new penny
paper that is struggling to keep its head above water. Don't say that it
came from me. Say that it came from a converted roper-in." And Mr.
BEZZLE stalked out of the office in such a tempest of morality that the
publisher felt as though a tidal wave of virtue had swept over him.
After this, Mr. BEZZLE'S dream became a trifle confused; but he thought
that this noble course of conduct was greatly approved by the public,
that its eminent practicability commended it to all classes of people,
and that theatres, publishers, and others quadrupled their
advertisements. "Ah!" sighed Mr. BEZZLE, rubbing his hands, but still
asleep, "what a sweet thing virtue is! Honesty _is_ the best policy
after all!"
At this moment his elbow was nudged, and opening his eyes he beheld one
of the office boys, whom he had sent up to the theatre half an hour ago,
to ask for six reserved seats near the stage.
"Mr. PUPPET says he's very sorry, sir," said the boy, "but the seats is
all taken for to-night, and so he can't send any."
"Can't send any, can't he?" exclaimed BEZZLE, wide awake. "All right.
Just go to Mr. SNAPPETY, the dramatic editor, for me, and tell him not
to say one word about that theatre in his criticism to-morrow, I'll
teach Mr. PUPPET," etc., etc., etc.