Having thus provided against being drawn down and utterly swamped in the bread-and-subsistence struggle that was before me, I sought to gain a position in connection with some paper in New York. I had offers under consideration from several of them. The conductors of the “Moral Spouting Horn” had conversed with me touching their projects, and I had also been furnishing letters for the “Great Democracy,” and one of the proprietors had invited me to a private dinner, I suppose for the purpose of looking me over and trying my paces before he concluded to purchase me.
Mr. Goldstick was a florid, middle-aged man, with a slightly bald head, an easy portliness of manner, and that air of comfortable patronage which men who are up in the world sometimes carry towards young aspirants. It was his policy and his way to put himself at once on a footing of equality with them, easy, jolly, and free; justly thinking that thereby he gained a more unguarded insight into the inner citadel of their nature, and could see in the easy play of their faculties just about how much they could be made to answer his purposes. I had a chatty, merry dinner of it, and found all my native shyness melting away under his charming affability. In fact, during the latter part of the time I almost felt that I could have told him anything that I could have told my own mother. What did we not talk about that is of interest in these stirring times? Philosophy, history, science, religion, life, death, and immortality — all received the most graceful off-hand treatment, and were discussed with a singular unanimity of sentiment — that unanimity which always takes place when the partner in a discussion has the controlling purpose to be of the same mind as yourself. When, under the warm and sunny air of this genial nature, I had fully expanded, and confidence was in full blossom, came the immediate business conversation in relation to the paper.
“I am rejoiced,” said Mr. Goldstick, “in these days of skepticism to come across a young man with real religious convictions. I am not, I regret to say, a religious professor myself, but I appreciate it, Mr. Henderson, as the element most wanting in our modern life.” Here Mr. Goldstick sighed and rolled up his eyes, and took a glass of wine.
I felt encouraged in this sympathetic atmosphere to unfold to him my somewhat idealized views of what might be accomplished by the daily press, by editors as truly under moral vows and consecrations as the clergymen who ministered at the altar.
He caught the idea from me with enthusiasm, and went on to expand it with a vigor and richness of imagery, and to illustrate it with a profusion of incidents, which left me far behind him, gazing after him with reverential admiration.
“Mr. Henderson,” said he, “the ‘Great Democracy’ is not primarily a money-making enterprise — it is a great moral engine; it is for the great American people, and it contemplates results which look to the complete regeneration of society.”
I ventured here to remark that the same object had been stated to me by the “Moral Spouting Horn.”
His countenance assumed at once an expression of intense disgust.
“Is it possible,” he said, “that the charlatan has been trying to get hold of you? My dear fellow,” he added, drawing near to me with a confidential air, “of course I would be the last man to infringe on the courtesies due to my brethren of the press, and you must be aware that our present conversation is to be considered strictly confidential.”
I assured him with fervor that I should consider it so.
“Well, then,” he said, “between ourselves, I may say that the ‘ Moral Spouting Horn ‘ is a humbug. On mature reflection,” he added, “I don’t know but duty requires me to go farther, and say, in the strictest confidence, you understand, that I consider the ‘Moral Spouting Horn’ a swindle.”
Here it occurred to me that the same communication had been made in equal confidence by the proprietor of the “Moral Spouting Horn” in relation to the “Great Democracy.” But, much as I was warmed into confidence by the genial atmosphere of my friend, I had still enough prudence to forbear making this statement.
“Now,” said he, “my young friend, in devoting yourself to the service of the ‘ Great Democracy’ you may consider yourself as serving the cause of God and mankind in ways that no clergyman has an equal chance of doing. Beside the press, sir, the pulpit is effete. It is, so to speak,” he added, with a sweep of the right hand, “nowhere. Of course, the responsibilities of conducting such an organ are tremendous, tremendous,” he added reflectively, as I looked at him with awe; “and that is why I require in my writers, above all things, the clearest and firmest moral convictions. Sir, it is a critical period in our history; there is an amount of corruption in this nation that threatens its dissolution; the Church and the Pulpit have proved entirely inadequate to stem it. It rests with the Press.”
There was a solemn pause, in which nothing was heard but the clink of the decanter on the glass, as he poured out another glass of wine.
“It is a great responsibility,” I remarked, with a sigh.
“Enormous!” he added, with almost a groan, eying me sternly. “Consider,” he went on, “the evils of the tremendously corrupted literature which is now being poured upon the community. Sir, we are fast drifting to destruction, it is a solemn fact. The public mind must be aroused and strengthened to resist; they must be taught to discriminate; there must be a just standard of moral criticism no less than of intellectual, and that must be attended to in our paper.”
I was delighted to find his views in such accordance with my own, and assured him I should be only too happy to do what I could to forward them.
“We have been charmed and delighted,” he said, “with your contributions hitherto; they have a high moral tone and have been deservedly popular, and it is our desire to secure you as a stated contributor in a semi-editorial capacity, looking towards future developments. We wish that it were in our power to pay a more liberal sum than we can offer, but you must be aware, Mr. Henderson, that great moral enterprises must always depend, in a certain degree, on the element of self-sacrifice in their promoters.” I reflected, at this moment, on my father’s life, and assented with enthusiasm — remarking that “if I could only get enough to furnish me with the necessaries of life I should be delighted to go into the glorious work with him, and give to it the whole enthusiasm of my soul.”
“You have the right spirit, young man,” he said. “It is delightful to witness this freshness of moral feeling.” And thus, before our interview was closed, I had signed a contract of service to Mr. Goldstick, at very moderate wages, but my heart was filled with exulting joy at the idea of the possibilities of the situation.
I was young, and ardent; I did not, at this moment, want to make money so much as to make myself felt in the great world. It was the very spirit of Phaeton; I wanted to have a hand on the reins, and a touch of the whip, and guide the fiery horses of Progress. I had written stories, and sung songs, but I was not quite content with those; I wanted the anonymous pulpit of the Editor to speak in, the opportunity of being the daily invisible companion and counselor of thousands about their daily paths. The offer of Mr. Goldstick, as I understood it, looked that way, and I resolved to deserve so well of him, by unlimited devotion to the interests of the paper, that he should open my way before me.
CHAPTER XII. BACHELOR COMRADES
I SOON became well acquainted with my collaborators on the paper. It was a pleasant surprise to be greeted in the foreground by the familiar face of Jim Fellows, my old college classmate. Jim was an agreeable creature, born with a decided genius for gossip. He had in perfection the faculty which phrenologists call individuality. He was statistical in the very marrow of his bones, apparently imbibing all the external facts of every person and everything around him by a kind of rapid instinct. In college, Jim always knew all about every student; he knew all about everybody in the little town where the college was situated, their name, history, character, business, their front-door and their back-door affairs. No birth, marriage, or death ever took Jim by surprise; he always knew all about it long ago. Now, as a
newspaper is a gossip market on a large scale, this species of talent often goes farther in our modern literary life than the deepest reflection or the highest culture.
Jim was the best-natured fellow breathing; it was impossible to ruffle or disturb the easy, rattling, chattering flow of his animal spirits. He was like a Frenchman in his power of bright, airy adaptation to circumstances and determination and ability to make the most of them.
“How lucky!” he said, the morning I first shook hands with him at the office of the “Great Democracy”; “you are just on the minute; the very lodging you want has been vacated this morning by old Styles; sunny room — south windows — close by here — water, gas, and so on, all correct; and, best of all, me for your opposite neighbor.”
I went round with him, looked, approved, and was settled at once, Jim helping me with all the good-natured handiness and activity of old college days. We had a rattling, gay morning, plunging round into auction-rooms, bargaining for second-hand furniture, and with so much zeal did we drive our enterprise, seconded by the co-labors of a charwoman whom Jim patronized, that by night I found myself actually settled in a home of my own, making tea in Jim’s patent bachelor tea-kettle, and talking over his and my affairs with the freedom of old cronies. Jim made no scruple in inquiring in the most direct manner as to the terms of my agreement with Mr. Goldstick, and opened the subject succinctly, as follows: —
“Now, my son, you must let your old grandfather advise you a little about your temporalities. In the first place, what’s Old Soapy going to give you?”
“If you mean Mr. Goldstick” — said I.
“Yes,” said he, “call him ‘Soapy’ for short. Did he come down handsomely on the terms?”
“His offers were not as large as I should have liked; but then, as he said, this paper is not a money-making affair, but a moral enterprise, and I am willing to work for less.”
“Moral grandmother!” said Jim in a tone of unlimited disgust. “He be — choked, as it were. Why, Harry Henderson, are your eye-teeth in such a retrograde state as that? Why, this paper is a fortune to that man; he lives in a palace, owns a picture-gallery, and rolls about in his own carriage.”
“I understood him,” said I, “that the paper was not immediately profitable in a pecuniary point of view.”
“Soapy calls everything unprofitable that does not yield him fifty per cent, on the money invested. Talk of moral enterprise! What did he engage you for?”
I stated the terms.
“For how long?”
“For one year.”
“Well, the best you can do is to work it out now. Never make another bargain without asking your grandfather. Why, he pays me just double; and you know, Harry, I am nothing at all of a writer compared to you. But then, to be sure, I fill a place you’ve really no talent for.”
“What is that?”
“General professor of humbug,” said Jim. “No sort of business gets on in this world without that, and I’m a real genius in that line. I made Old Soapy come down, by threatening to ‘ rat,’ and go to the ‘Spouting Horn,’ and they couldn’t afford to let me do that. You see, I’ve been up their back stairs, and know all their little family secrets. The ‘Spouting Horn’ would give their eye-teeth for me. It’s too funny,” he said, throwing himself back and laughing.
“Are these papers rivals?” said I.
“Well, I should ‘ rayther’ think they were,” said he, eying me with an air of superiority amounting almost to contempt. “Why, man, the thing that I’m particularly valuable for is, that I always know just what will plague the ‘Spouting Horn’ folks the most. I know precisely where to stick a pin or a needle into them; and one great object of our paper is to show that the ‘Spouting Horn’ is always in the wrong. No matter what topic is uppermost, I attend to that, and get off something on them. For you see, they are popular, and make money like thunder, and, of course, that isn’t to be allowed. Now,” he added, pointing with his thumb upward, “overhead, there is really our best fellow — Bolton. Bolton is said to be the best writer of English in our day; he’s an A No. 1, and no mistake; tremendously educated, and all that, and he knows exactly to a shaving what’s what everywhere; he’s a gentleman, too; we call him the Dominie. Well, Bolton writes the great leaders, and fires off on all the awful and solemn topics, and lays off the politics of Europe and the world generally. When there ‘s a row over there in Europe, Bolton is magnificent on editorials. You see, he has the run of all the rows they have had there, and every bobbery that has been kicked up since the Christian era. He’ll tell you what the French did in 1700 this, and the Germans in 1800 that, and of course he prophesies splendidly on what’s to turn up next.”
“I suppose they give him large pay,” said I.
“Well, you see, Bolton ‘s a quiet fellow and a gentleman —— one that hates to jaw — and is modest, and so they keep him along steady on about half what I would get out of them if I were in his skin. Bolton is perfectly satisfied. If I were he, I shouldn’t be, you see. I say, Harry, I know you ‘d like him. Let me bring him down and introduce him,” and before I could either consent or refuse, Jim rattled upstairs, and I heard him in an earnest, persuasive treaty, and soon he came down with his captive.
I saw a man of thirty-three or thereabouts, tall, well formed, with bright, dark eyes, strongly marked features, a finely turned head, and closely cropped black hair. He had what I should call presence — something that impressed me, as he entered the room, with the idea of a superior kind of individuality, though he was simple in his manners, with a slight air of shyness and constraint. The blood flushed in his cheeks as he was introduced to me, and there was a tremulous motion about his finely cut lips, betokening suppressed sensitiveness. The first sound of his voice, as he spoke, struck on my ear agreeably, like the tones of a fine instrument, and, reticent and retiring as he seemed, I felt myself singularly attracted toward him.
What impressed me most, as he joined in the conversation with my rattling, free and easy, good-natured neighbor, was an air of patient, amused tolerance. He struck me as a man who had made up his mind to expect nothing and ask nothing of life, and who was sitting it out patiently, as one sits out a dull play at the theatre. He was disappointed with nobody, and angry with nobody, while he seemed to have no confidence in anybody. With all this apparent reserve, he was simply and frankly cordial to me, as a newcomer and a fellow-worker on the same paper.
“Mr. Henderson,” he said, “I shall be glad to extend to you the hospitalities of my den, such as they are. If I can at any time render you any assistance, don’t hesitate to use me. Perhaps you would like to walk up and look at my books? I shall be only too happy to put them at your disposal.”
We went up into a little attic room whose walls were literally lined with books on all sides, only allowing space for the two southerly windows which overlooked the city.
“I like to be high in the world, you see,” he said, with a smile.
The room was not a large one, and the centre was occupied by a large table, covered with books and papers. A cheerful coal fire was burning in the little grate, a large leather armchair stood before it, and, with one or two other chairs, completed the furniture of the apartment. A small, lighted closet, whose door stood open on the room, displayed a pallet bed of monastic simplicity.
There were two occupants of the apartment who seemed established there by right of possession. A large Maltese cat, with great, golden eyes, like two full moons, sat gravely looking into the fire, in one corner, and a very plebeian, scrubby mongrel, who appeared to have known the hard side of life in former days, was dozing in the other. Apparently, these genii loci were so strong in their sense of possession that our entrance gave them no disturbance. The dog unclosed his eyes with a sleepy wink as we came in, and then shut them again, dreamily, as satisfied that all was right.
Bolton invited us to sit down, and did the honors of his room with a quiet elegance, as if it had been a palace instead of an at
tic. As soon as we were seated, the cat sprang familiarly on the table and sat down cosily by Bolton, rubbing her head against his coat-sleeve.
“Let me introduce you to my wife,” said Bolton, stroking her head. “Eh, Jenny, what now?” he added, as she seized his hands playfully in her teeth and claws. “You see, she has the connubial weapons,” he said, “and insists on being treated with attention; but she’s capital company. I read all my articles to her, and she never makes an unjust criticism.”
Puss soon stepped from her perch on the table and ensconced herself in his lap, while I went round examining his books. The library showed varied and curious tastes. The books were almost all rare.
“I have always made a rule,” he said, “never to buy a book that I could borrow.”
I was amused, in the course of the conversation, at the relations which apparently existed between him and Jim Fellows, which appeared to me to be very like what might be supposed to exist between a philosopher and a lively pet squirrel — it was the perfection of quiet, amused tolerance.
Jim seemed to be not in the slightest degree under constraint in his presence, and rattled on with a free and easy slang familiarity, precisely as he had done with me.
“What do you think Old Soapy has engaged Hal for?” he said. “Why, he only offers him” — Here followed the statement of terms.
I was annoyed at this matter-of-fact way of handling my private affairs, but on meeting the eyes of my new friend I discerned a glance of quiet humor which reassured me. He seemed to regard Jim only as another form of the inevitable.
“Don’t you think it is a confounded take-in?” said Jim.
“Of course,” said Mr. Bolton, with a smile, “but he will survive it. The place is only one of the stepping-stones. Meanwhile,” he said, “I think Mr. Henderson can find other markets for his literary wares, and more profitable ones. I think,” he added, while the blood again rose in his cheeks, “that I have some influence in certain literary quarters, and I shall be happy to do all that I can to secure to him that which he ought to receive for such careful work as this. Your labor on the paper will not by any means take up your whole power or time.”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 316
