“How is John Forney getting on?”
“Like Satan, walking to and fro upon the face of the earth, going from the Chronicle in Washington one day to the Press in Philadelphia on the next, and filling them both cram full of leaders and letters.”
“Two papers, both daily! I tell Forney that I find it is all I can do to attend to one. Tell him not to get too rich—bad for the constitution and worse for the country. Any man who has more than a million is a public nuisance.”
Finally, we walked together from the ferry to the corner of Park Place and Broadway, and the philosopher, after
minutely explaining to me which omnibus I was to take, bade me adieu. I do not think we ever met again.
In the summer Colonel Forney went to Europe with John the junior. When he left he said, “I do not expect you to raise the circulation of the Press, but I hope that you will be able to keep it from falling in the dead season.” I went to work, and what with enlarging the telegraphic news, and correspondence, and full reports of conventions, I materially increased the sale. It cost a great deal of money, to be sure, but the Colonel did not mind that. At this time there came into our office as associate with me Captain W. W. Nevin. He had been all through the war. I took a great liking to him, and we always remained intimate friends. All in our office except myself were from Lancaster County, the birthplace, I believe, of Fitch and Fulton. It is a Pennsylvania German county, and as I notoriously spoke German openly without shame ours was called a Dutch office. Once when Colonel Forney wrote a letter from Holland describing the windmills, the Sunday Transcript unkindly remarked that “he had better come home and look after his own Dutch windmill at the corner of Seventh and Chestnut Streets.”
I had at this time a great deal to do with the operas and theatres, and often wrote the reviews. After a while, as Captain Nevin relieved me of a great deal of work, and I had an able assistant named Norcross, I devoted myself chiefly to dramatic criticism and the weekly, and such work as suited me best. As for the dignity of managership, Captain Nevin and I tossed it from one to the other like a hot potato in jest, but between us we ran the paper very well. There was an opera impresario named Maurice Strakosch, of whom I had heard that he was hard to deal with and irritable. I forget now who the prima donna in his charge was, but there had appeared in our paper a criticism which might be interpreted in some detail unfavourably by a captious critic. One afternoon there came into the office, where I was alone, a gentlemanly-seeming man, who began to manifest anger in regard
to the criticism in question. I replied, “I do not know, sir, what your position in the opera troupe may be, but if it be anything which requires a knowledge of English, I am afraid that you are misplaced. There was no intention to offend in the remarks, and so far as the lady is concerned I shall only be too glad to say the very best I can of her. Comprenez, monsieur, c’est une bagatelle.” He laughed, and we spoke French, then Italian, then German, and of Patti and Sontag and Lind. Then I asked him what he really was, and he replied, “I do not believe that you even know the name of my native tongue. It is Czech.” I stared at him amazed, and said—
“Veliky Bog! Rozprava pochesky? Nekrasneya rejece est.”
The Bohemian gentleman drew a handsomely bound book from his pocket. “Sir,” he said, “this is my album. It is full of signatures of great artists, even of kings and queens and poets. There is not a name in it which is not that of a distinguished person, and I do not know what your name is, but I beg that you will write it in my book.”