James Gordon Bennett’s Editorial Career.
Bennett left his native hills of Scotland in 1819, and arrived in Boston in 1820. After enduring the tortures of poor Goldsmith (as teacher, traveler, editor, and author) for fifteen years, he takes the basement of the crumbling ruin at No. 20 Wall street, and advertises for a boy, when John Kelly (now a Member of Congress from the Fourth, Sixth, Tenth, and Fourteenth Wards) thus responds:
Enter John Kelly in rags and barefooted.
John—Mr. Bennett: Mother says you advertised for a boy, and sent me to ask you for the situation.
Bennett—What’s your name?
John—Johnny Kelly.
Bennett—Where do you live?
John—In the Fourteenth Ward.
Bennett—How long have you been in this country?
John—I have always been in this beautiful country.
Bennett—Aint you an Irish boy?
John—No, sir,—I am an American boy, and I’m very glad I am an American.
Bennett—Why are you glad of that?
John—Because George Washington was an American, and I dearly love his memory, because he always spoke the truth, and was good and brave, and loved and saved his country.
Bennett—Who told you all this?
John—My grandfather first told me of Washington’s greatness, and goodness, and bravery, and since he died, I have read the Life of Washington several times.
Bennett—Where was your grandfather born?
John—In Scotland.
Bennett—Ah! then, you are of Scotch descent?
John—Yes, sir.
Bennett—Did you ever hear of Wallace?
John—Yes, sir, and of William Tell, and his son Albert, of Switzerland. Grandfather told me all about their courageous deeds and great love of country.
Bennett—Where were your parents born?
John—In poor old Ireland.
Bennett—Why did they leave their country?
John—Because liberty was dead, and the people starving, and sorely oppressed by tyrants.
Bennett—Who crushed the liberty of Ireland?
John—England, Scotland, and Wales.
Bennett—That will do, my boy, and I am pleased with your intelligence and love of liberty, though you should not denounce the glorious Scotland, because your grandfather came from its pretty vales and majestic mountains.
John—If Scotland and Wales had sympathised with Ireland, and fought her battles for freedom, the sweetest and greenest Isle of all the earth would now be free like my dear America, and Scotland and Wales could also have enjoyed the blessings of liberty.
Enter Washer Woman.
Washer Woman—And so I have caught the old Scotch Serpent at last, eh? I have been here a dozen times, and also at your last boarding house, which you left without paying a poor widow (with five young children) for your board, and she is very sick in consequence of your cowardly villainy, and is about to have another child, and her landlord told her yesterday that she must move immediately, or he would turn her into the street, for not paying her rent. But I’ll stand none of your wickedness. And now, Bennett, if you don’t instantly pay me for washing and mending your filthy and ragged clothes, I will rope you on the spot. (She takes a rope from behind her apron.)
Bennett—Call in the morning, and I will certainly pay you.
Washer Woman—I shall do no such thing, you lying diddler. I will have it now, or I will rope you, and pull your hair, and scratch and bite, and maul you to a jelly. (She approaches him with menacing gestures.)
Bennett—There, good woman,—there’s your money. (She seizes it and departs, wagging her head and body with victorious vociferations.)
Bennett—There, Master Kelly, you perceive that I am very poor.
John—Yes, sir, and so am I, and I like to be with the poor, because they are far more kind and generous than the rich.
Bennett (wiping a tear from his eye)—My boy, I can see a noble heart in your breast, and you remind me of the happy friends I left in my native land, whom I may never see again, and who are ignorant of the terrible vicissitudes through which I have passed, since I left my dear father’s roof.
John—What country is yours?
Bennett—Scotland.
John—Ah! Scotland! My adored grandfather’s native home! O, I love you much better, now that I learn you came from Scotland.
Bennett—No more of this, dear boy. I cannot talk of my present poverty, and of my native skies, without sad emotions. And now to business. Can you write a handsome hand?
John—I can write a plain hand.
Bennett—Can you spell well?
John—Tolerably well, for a poor boy.
Bennett—Do you understand figures?
John—Better than spelling or writing.
Bennett—How much do you want a week?
John—Enough to buy shoes and jacket and trowsers, and pay my father and mother something for my food and lodging.
Bennett—Well, if you prove active, and answer my purpose, I will reward you according to my success in my new enterprise.
John—When do you want me to come?
Bennett—You may stay now, and, after sweeping out the office, and folding that pile of papers in the corner, which I could not sell yesterday, you can accompany me to my Printers, Anderson & Ward, in Ann street, for the Herald papers of to-day. (John sprinkles and sweeps out, and folds the papers in half an hour, and he and Bennett start for Ann street.)
Bennett (at his printer’s in Ann street)—Mr. Anderson, are my papers ready?
Anderson—Yes, but you can’t have them until you pay me for them.
Bennett—I have not got enough.
Anderson—Then you can’t have them.
Bennett—But the newsboys are outside, waiting for them.
Anderson—I can’t help that.
Bennett—But, my dear sir, do let me have them.
Anderson—I shan’t do it.
Bennett—Will you take my watch?
Anderson—I have taken that twenty times, and, as I am not a pawnbroker, I am sick of taking your watch as security for the results of my honest labor.
Bennett—Do take it once more.
Anderson—I told you, when you last redeemed it, that I should not take it again.
Bennett (crying)—Do take it once more, Mr. Anderson.
Anderson—No, sir. Here, Rufus, put these Heralds in a box, and nail it, and take the box to my house.
John—Do take his watch once more, kind sir. Mr. Bennett has just employed me, and I’m not afraid to trust him. Besides, just look at his tears. See how big they are, and how fast they flow and roll down his manly cheeks. Do, sir, O do let him have the papers, and spare his tears, and heal his broken heart.
Anderson (looking over his spectacles)—Who the devil are you?
John—I am Johnny Kelly.
Anderson—What! Does your father live in the Fourteenth Ward?
John—Yes, sir, and that’s just where I was born, and have always lived, and always mean to, and die there also, and, if possible, I intend to be buried there, in some beautiful cemetery, because I most fondly love the good and generous people of the Fourteenth Ward. And now, Mr. Anderson, have I not often seen you at my father’s, on winter evenings, telling each other funny and pleasing stories of the past?
Anderson—Seen me at your father’s, you young rogue? Why, to be sure you have. I came to America with your father and mother, and my wife was present when you were born in Mott street, and after your mother got well, we had a great frolic at your Christening, and went to the Park Theatre, and you were the fattest and prettiest baby I ever saw.
John—You don’t say so? Give me your hand—
Anderson (jumping over the counter)—and a kiss, too, you rosy little rascal. (Kisses him, and then turns to Bennett.) There, Bennett, take your papers, and give me your old dumb silver turnip once more, but I’ll be hanged before I will ever take it again. And you may attribute your good luck this time to this bright and pretty and honest little boy, whom I have loved since his infancy. (Bennett and John take the papers, and let the boys outside have some, and then depart for No. 20 Wall street.)
Bennett (on his way to Wall street)—Well, my lad, you have saved me to-day, and I’ll remember it with gratitude as long as I live. Tell your father and mother that I will come and see them on Sunday evening, and take tea with them. You can tell them that I will let you have money enough on Saturday night to get you a pair of shoes, as it won’t do for you to be my clerk with naked feet. Besides, I’m afraid you will get nails or splinters in your bare feet, and have the lock jaw. So, John, you had better ask your father to let you wear his shoes until Saturday.
John—Daddy hasn’t got any shoes. He has been sick a long time with inflammatory rheumatism, and he can’t work any more, and he is obliged to go barefooted like myself.
Bennett—Good Lord! Then ask your mother to let you wear her shoes until Saturday.
John—Mother aint got but one pair, and they are slippers, and nearly worn out.
Bennett—Well, then, I must try to get you some second-hand shoes in the morning. I have only one pair myself, but I think I can borrow some that are considerably worn from one of my room-mates. So, good day, Johnny, and come down early in the morning, and I guess I’ll have some protection for your tender feet.
John—Good day, sir, and I hope you will not cry any more until I see you.
Bennett—I thank you, my dear boy, for your genial sympathy, and I will strive not to cry again until I see you. So, good by.
John—Good by, sir. (They separate.)
(To be continued.)
