While I was in Kansas I purchased a weekly newspaper--the _Claybank
Thundergust of Reform_. This paper had never paid its expenses; it had
ruined four consecutive publishers; but my brother-in-law, Mr. Jefferson
Scandril, of Weedhaven, was going to run for the Legislature, and I
naturally desired his defeat; so it became necessary to have an organ in
Claybank to assist in his political extinction. When the establishment
came into my hands, the editor was a fellow who had "opinions," and him
I at once discharged with an admonition. I had some difficulty in
procuring a successor; every man in the county applied for the place. I
could not appoint one without having to fight a majority of the others,
and was eventually compelled to write to a friend at Warm Springs, in
the adjoining State of Missouri, to send me an editor from abroad whose
instalment at the helm of manifest destiny could have no local
significance.
The man he sent me was a frowsy, seedy fellow, named Masthead--not
larger, apparently, than a boy of sixteen years, though it was difficult
to say from the outside how much of him was editor and how much cast-off
clothing; for in the matter of apparel he had acted upon his favorite
professional maxim, and "sunk the individual;" his attire--eminently
eclectic, and in a sense international--quite overcame him at all
points. However, as my friend had assured me he was "a graduate of one
of the largest institutions in his native State," I took him in and
bought a pen for him. My instructions to him were brief and simple.
"Mr. Masthead," said I, "it is the policy of the _Thundergust_ first,
last, and all the time, in this world and the next, to resent the
intrusion of Mr. Jefferson Scandril into politics."
The first thing the little rascal did was to write a withering leader
denouncing Mr. Scandril as a "demagogue, the degradation of whose
political opinions was only equaled by the disgustfulness of the family
connections of which those opinions were the spawn!"
I hastened to point out to Mr. Masthead that it had never been the
policy of the _Thundergust_ to attack the family relations of an
offensive candidate, although this was not strictly true.
"I am very sorry," he replied, running his head up out of his clothes
till it towered as much as six inches above the table at which he sat;
"no offense, I hope."
"Oh, none in the world," said I, as carelessly as I could manage it;
"only I don't think it a legitimate--that is, an effective, method of
attack."
"Mr. Johnson," said he--I was passing as Johnson at that time, I
remember--"Mr. Johnson, I think it _is_ an effective method. Personally
I might perhaps prefer another line of argument in this particular case,
and personally perhaps you might; but in our profession personal
considerations must be blown to the winds of the horizon; we must sink
the individual. In opposing the election of your relative, sir, you have
set the seal of your heavy displeasure upon the sin of nepotism, and for
this I respect you; nepotism must be got under! But in the display of
Roman virtues, sir, we must go the whole hog. When in the interest of
public morality"--Mr. Masthead was now gesticulating earnestly with the
sleeves of his coat--"Virginius stabbed his daughter, was he influenced
by personal considerations? When Curtius leaped into the yawning gulf,
did he not sink the individual?"
I admitted that he did, but feeling in a contentious mood, prolonged the
discussion by leisurely loading and capping a revolver; but, prescient
of my argument, Mr. Masthead avoided refutation by hastily adjourning
the debate. I sent him a note that evening, filling-in a few of the
details of the policy that I had before sketched in outline. Amongst
other things I submitted that it would be better for us to exalt Mr.
Scandril's opponent than to degrade himself. To this Mr. Masthead
reluctantly assented--"sinking the individual," he reproachfully
explained, "in the dependent employee--the powerless bondsman!" The next
issue of the _Thundergust_ contained, under the heading, "Invigorating
Zephyrs," the following editorial article:
"Last week we declared our unalterable opposition to the candidacy of
Mr. Jefferson Scandril, and gave reasons for the faith that is in us.
For the first time in its history this paper made a clear, thoughtful,
and adequate avowal and exposition of eternal principle! Abandoning for
the present the stand we then took, let us trace the antecedents of Mr.
Scandril's opponent up to their source. It has been urged against Mr.
Broskin that he spent some years of his life in the lunatic asylum at
Warm Springs, in the adjoining commonwealth of Missouri. This cuckoo
cry--raised though it is by dogs of political darkness--we shall not
stoop to controvert, for it is accidentally true; but next week we shall
show, as by the stroke of an enchanter's wand, that this great
statesman's detractors would probably not derive any benefits from a
residence in the same institution, their mental aberration being
rottenly incurable!"
I thought this rather strong and not quite to the point; but Masthead
said it was a fact that our candidate, who was very little known in
Claybank, had "served a term" in the Warm Springs asylum, and the issue
must be boldly met--that evasion and denial were but forms of
prostration beneath the iron wheels of Truth! As he said this he seemed
to inflate and expand so as almost to fill his clothes, and the fire of
his eye somehow burned into me an impression--since effaced--that a just
cause is not imperiled by a trifling concession to fact. So, leaving the
matter quite in my editor's hands I went away to keep some important
engagements, the paragraph having involved me in several duels with the
friends of Mr. Broskin. I thought it rather hard that I should have to
defend my new editor's policy against the supporters of my own
candidate, particularly as I was clearly in the right and they knew
nothing whatever about the matter in dispute, not one of them having
ever before so much as heard of the now famous Warm Springs asylum. But
I would not shirk even the humblest journalistic duty; I fought these
fellows and acquitted myself as became a man of letters and a
politician. The hurts I got were some time healing, and in the interval
every prominent member of my party who came to Claybank to speak to the
people regarded it as a simple duty to call first at my house, make a
tender inquiry as to the progress of my recovery and leave a challenge.
My physician forbade me to read a line of anything; the consequence was
that Masthead had it all his own way with the paper. In looking over the
old files now, I find that he devoted his entire talent and all the
space of the paper, including what had been the advertising columns, to
confessing that our candidate had been an inmate of a lunatic asylum,
and contemptuously asking the opposing party what they were going to do
about it.
All this time Mr. Broskin made no sign; but when the challenges became
intolerable I indignantly instructed Mr. Masthead to whip round to the
other side and support my brother-in-law. Masthead "sank the
individual," and duly announced, with his accustomed frankness, our
change of policy. Then Mr. Broskin came down to Claybank--to thank me!
He was a fine, respectable-looking gentleman, and impressed me very
favorably. But Masthead was in when he called, and the effect upon _him_
was different. He shrank into a mere heap of old clothes, turned white,
and chattered his teeth. Noting this extraordinary behavior, I at once
sought an explanation.
"Mr. Broskin," said I, with a meaning glance at the trembling editor,
"from certain indications I am led to fear that owing to some mistake we
may have been doing you an injustice. May I ask you if you were really
ever in the Lunatic asylum at Warm Springs, Missouri?"
"For three years," he replied, quietly, "I was the physician in charge
of that institution. Your son"--turning to Masthead, who was flying all
sorts of colors--"was, if I mistake not, one of my patients. I learn
that a few weeks ago a friend of yours, named Norton, secured the young
man's release upon your promise to take care of him yourself in future.
I hope that home associations have improved the poor fellow. It's very
sad!"
It was indeed. Norton was the name of the man to whom I had written for
an editor, and who had sent me one! Norton was ever an obliging fellow.