Editorial Career of James Gordon Bennett.
JOHN KELLY’S HOME.
Enter John in tears.
John’s Mother—Well, dear Johnny, why do you cry so hard? Where on earth did you come from? Have you been fighting, and did you act the coward, and get whipped, and run home? Speak, my darling boy, and speak quickly, so that your dear mother can sympathise with you.
John—(still crying)—Dear mother, my heart is so full of woe, that I cannot speak.
Mother—(begins to cry)—O, God! I fear something awful has happened to my adored son, and that he is injured internally, and will soon die. (Falls on her knees, and clasps her hands, and wails in piteous tones, and implores God to spare her son.)
John—(seizing her)—Don’t cry, dear mother, my heart, not my form, is bruised.
Mother—And who bruised your big heart? Did a ruffian throw a stone, or kick you, or strike your heart with his fist? O tell me quickly, so that I can fell him to the earth.
John—Neither, good mother, neither. I spoke figuratively, when I said my heart was bruised.
Mother—And an’t figures facts? How strangely you talk, dear Johnny. Did not your old mother go to school, and did she not cipher as far as Distraction? And when you say your poor heart is bruised figuratively, you talk from the Rule of Distraction, don’t you? Mr. Daboll used to say so, before you was born. Go to, my son, go to, for your old mother is not so far distracted as not to understand figures as far as Distraction.
Father (just emerging from a profound nap)—What is all this row about?
Mother—Some rowdy has bruised Johnny’s heart.
Father—Where is my hat? I’ll pursue the rascal.
John—Hold, father, hold, and you, mother, please calm your nerves, and listen to my brief but plaintive story.
Father—Go on, dear son.
Mother—And we will judge impartially.
John—I have left Mr. Bennett.
Mother—Good Lord! For what?
John—Because he wanted me to tell lies.
Mother—(falling)—O God! O God! We are hungry and nearly naked, and may soon be houseless, but thou hast blessed us with an honest boy, which is a far more precious boon than food and raiment and shelter. (And she utters a long and fervent and grateful prayer to God, for the unwavering integrity of her beloved son, while Johnny and his father weep aloud on their bended knees.)
Father (the distracted mother still prostrate on the floor)—John: Did Mr. Bennett pay you what he owed you?
John—He offered to, but I would not take it.
Father—Why?
John—Because I thought he got it dishonestly, as he wanted me to tell lies.
Father—My landlord was here to-day, and I told him I expected some money from Mr. Bennett for your services, and he will be here this evening, for his rent, and I fear he will turn us into the street, when I tell him that I cannot pay him.
John—I am very sorry, father, that you will be cast into the street, on my account. (The father weeps, and the mother springs to her feet, and kisses Johnny, and swears that if the landlord attempts to drive them into the open air, she will dash his brains out.)
John (putting on his hat, and with one hand on the latch)—Don’t cry, dear father and mother, nor be excited and unhappy in my brief absence.
Mother—Where are you going, Johnny?
John—I am going round to the fire engine house, to see a noble young fireman, who is a warm friend of mine, and whose father is very rich, and I am sure he will cry when I tell him that my poor old father and mother are sick and hungry, and are about to be thrust into the street.
Mother (on the verge of despair)—Tell him our mournful story, Johnny, but do not beg. No, my Johnny, for God’s sake, don’t beg. Let us all die before we implore alms. Your mother is too proud to have her son descend to that. Don’t beg, Johnny, don’t beg, I implore you. It is my last prayer to my dear son.
John—I could not beg, mother. I would die before I would thus degrade myself and noble parents, who have seen fairer days than these. Besides, my friend is humane, and so are his parents, and I am sure I will not have to beg him to relieve us. It will be sufficient for him to learn of our destitution, and that we became utterly poor, because I would not tell lies for James Gordon Bennett.
Father—Go, my son, to your young fireman friend, and tell your story in your own way. I’m sure you will never degrade your father and mother, after your refusal to lie for Mr. Bennett.
Mother—Go, Johnny, and soon return to your distracted parents, and let them know their fate.
John (kissing his mother, and warmly pressing his father’s hand)—Good bye, father and mother, and I’ll soon bring you pleasing news, and a deliverance from abject penury. (He goes.)
Evening—Enter Landlord.
Landlord—Well, Mr. Kelly, have you got my rent?
Mr. Kelly—No, sir. My son has left Mr. Bennett, because he wanted him to tell lies.
Landlord—For what?
Mr. Kelly—Because he wanted him to lie.
Landlord—What a fool your son must be.
Mrs. Kelly—Don’t you call my son a fool, sir. God loved George Washington because he would not lie, and made him the Liberator of his country.
Landlord—That’s all gammon. Washington was an old Federalist, and an old knave and fool, and could swear and lie as hard as a delinquent tenant.
Mrs. Kelly (throws the tea pot, full of scalding water, at his head)—Take that, you miserable old tory and miser. (The landlord rushes upon Mrs. Kelly, when Mr. Kelly, forgetting his rheumatic leg, flies at him like a tiger, and while they grapple, and level their deadly blows, with Mrs. Kelly pouring hot water down the neck and back of the landlord—in comes John, and his young fireman friend, who both seize the landlord, and hurl him down stairs, and kick him into the street, amid the frantic yells of all the neighbors. John then introduces the young New York Fireman to his father and mother, who receive him with courtesy and fervor.)
(To be continued.)
