WALL STREET, August 9th, 1870.
SIR:--It is with feelings of indignation and scorn that I proceed once
more to pollute my pen with the chronicles of a mercenary rabble. It
_had_ been thought that the remonstrances of the pure and high-minded
among your readers would have sufficed to overcome the resolution of an
infatuated, but not Criminal Editor. There was a time when the claims of
a _Certain Contributor_ were wont to be considered. But the passion for
worldly greed has, alas! perverted a too simple nature, and where the
Muses once found a congenial resting place, the demon Mammon now sits in
GHASTLY TRIUMPH.
I will not here refer to my threat of resignation, nor to the shouts of
diabolical laughter with which it was received by the conductor of a
Comic Journal, whose name it would not become me to mention. Suffice it
to say that those sentiments of loyalty and affection which have ever
been my glory, and a keen appreciation of the difficulty of obtaining
employment on the Press, have kept me attached to the staff of
PUNCHINELLO. The anguish which Finance has cost an artistic soul no one
may ever know. The silent tear may fall, but it shall be buried in my
bosom. The spectacle of my hidden suffering shall stand as a reproach to
one whom I once HONORED and now PITY.
Divesting myself of that part of my nature which is comprised in the
good, the beautiful and true, I betook myself yesterday to Wall Street
and the Gold Room. At the portals of the Financial Menagerie, a
gentleman placed his hand upon my shoulder.
Was I a subscriber?
No, but I was a comic writer.
He said I looked as though I had seen misfortune. If I was not a
subscriber, perhaps I had been in the Penitentiary, served out a
sentence at Sing Sing, or procured a divorce from my wife?