James Gordon Bennett’s Editorial Career.
Bennett and John Kelly.
Bennett—John, the wall cracked again yesterday, and I fear this old ruin will soon fall, and bury us in death. So, after you have folded those papers, you can take them and the broom, and I will take my memorandum book and easy slippers, and we will go to the new quarters that I hired yesterday in Broadway. The rent is very cheap, and I am not to pay it until the end of the month, which is a godsend in these days of poverty.
John—I have only got fifty papers to fold, and I will soon be ready.
Bennett—Hurry, Johnny, for the building may fall before we get out. (John folds papers mighty fast.)
John—I am ready, sir.
Bennett—Come on then. (They depart for Broadway, with all their luggage, consisting of fifty Heralds, a broom, memorandum book, and Bennett’s easy slippers.)
Enter Landlord.
Landlord—Mr. Bennett, I told you that you could pay your rent at the end of the month, but I have concluded to require it in advance.
Bennett—I have not the money to spare, but I will let you have my watch as security.
Landlord—I have no pawnbroker’s license, and I fear it would be a violation of the law to take a watch in pawn.
Bennett—I have let Anderson & Ward have it as security for the payment of my papers some fifty times, and they have not been arrested.
Landlord—Is it gold or silver?
Bennett—Silver.
Landlord—What is its value?
Bennett—Twenty dollars.
Landlord—Does it keep good time?
Bennett—It goes well, don’t it, Johnny (giving him a wink.)
John—Yes, sir. (May God forgive me for this lie.)
Landlord—I will take it, but you must try to pay the rent before the close of the month.
Bennett—I will, sir. Our circulation is rapidly increasing, ain’t it, Johnny?
John (pale as death)—Y-e-s, s-i-r. (O, Heavenly Father, do forgive me for another lie.)
Landlord—Good day, Mr. Bennett, and may success attend your enterprise.
Bennett—Good by, sir, but don’t call again until the very last week in the month.
Landlord—I will be as lenient as I can. Good day. (He goes.)
Bennett—John, why did you say y-e-s, s-i-r? This is no time to drawl your words. And I saw your lips quiver, and your eyes and arms directed to Heaven, as though you were engaged in silent prayer. This won’t do, sir. My case is desperate. Can’t you lie, in matters of business, without invoking the celestial pardon? If you can’t, you will soon ruin me. What say you, John?
John—My parents will not let me tell lies. They would kill me, if they caught me in the two lies I have told for you to-day. They are extremely indigent, but they are as honest as poor Burns, the great poet of your native land, who said:
“The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.”
And who also said:
“O, wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!”
Bennett (stamping the floor)—Darm it, boy, this is no time for poetry. Hang Burns, who was an old fool, and lived on air, like all the poets. I prefer Richard, who said:
“I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.”
Or Iago:
“This is the night,
That either makes me, or fordoes me quite.”
Or Ophelia, with whose beautiful aphorism I closed my leading editorial, in the first number of the Herald:
“Lord, we know that we are,
But know not what we may be.”
But darm the rhyme. We want bread and butter. I have been starving on truth and poetry, and I intend to lie, and cheat, and black mail, during the residue of my days. Do you understand me?
John—Yes, sir, but I can’t lie. I had rather be poor, and tell the truth, than lie, and cheat, and wrong my fellow creatures, and be loathed by my parents, and be despised by myself, and by others, and have sleepless nights, and be in constant fear of death, and be in danger of a prison or the scaffold. So, you had better get another boy.
Bennett—I am sorry to part with you, dear Johnny, because you have been so true and kind to me.
John—I would like to remain, but I must leave, if you require me to lie. And yet I dread to inform my poor father and mother that I have left you, and have no means to aid them. But I had rather go hungry than tell lies, and I hope and believe that my parents will forgive me for leaving you.
Bennett—I fear you are too conscientious to be my associate in the reckless and unscrupulous career of journalism before me, and therefore I shall advertise for another boy to-morrow.
John—Very well, sir. (John takes his hat to go.)
Bennett—Don’t go until I get another boy.
John—I must go now, because you have proclaimed yourself a dishonest man, and I should be unhappy if I remained longer in your presence.
Bennett—How much do I owe you?
John—Nothing.
Bennett—Yes I do.
John—You can have it, because I fear you did not get it honestly, and I do not want it. (John goes.)
Bennett (soliloquises)—This boy’s rebuke is terrible. And now I am alone. O God! if I only had his integrity, I would make any sacrifice. That boy has got the principles of Washington in his breast, and the world will hear of him. No earthly power can crush the love of truth in the heart of that dear little boy. And now what shall I do? His merited castigation has unnerved and unmanned me. I know not which way to turn. I have but little money. I cannot get another boy so faithful as Johnny. I must strive to sell my papers in the stores alone, now that Johnny is gone, and, if I fail, I am forever ruined. But this won’t do. I must not despair. I must rally. (He arises, and paces his office rapidly, with compressed jaws and lips, and distended nostrils, and clenched fingers, and ferocious gesticulation.) I must not whine now. I must cut and smash, and detract and terrify the innocent, and levy thousands on the affluent, or I am forever lost. I have no associate, nor friend, nor kindred in all this land, and I can only degrade myself, as my aged parents are in the deep mountain glades of Scotland, and can never hear of my degradation. So I will be a devil. I will advertise for another boy, and if I get one who will conspire with me in my contemplated villainy, my fortunes will yet be vast. (He writes an advertisement, and puts it in the New York Sun.)
(To be continued.)