Previous to an election, American journalism of the party-organ stripe has a demoralizing influence in the land. The good qualities of candidates are briefly mentioned. But the bad qualities—ah! these are what the party organs delight in. Not the part that their own candidate occupies on the side of virtue; not the good that is in him; not the intellectual qualifications he boasts of; not the nobleness of character he possesses—none of these inspire the editor. No, all of this is nothing: the amount of "pure cussedness" that can be attributed to the opposing candidate is the indicator of journalistic inspiration. Many a man who has thought himself a moral light has in an unguarded moment accepted a nomination, and the astonishment of himself and friends to see how corrupt he suddenly becomes is not infrequently a harbinger of victory for the opposition. The English language can hardly furnish adjectives to qualify such a man. Damned he is inevitably, and his carcass when hung up is filled with arrows dipped in printer's poisoned ink. When a foreigner picks up one of our party organs, during an exciting political campaign, he cannot help thanking his Creator he was not born in a land where public men are such rascals and robbers. Cardinal Wolsey said, "Corruption wins not more than honesty," but the dethroned favorite lived before America had gone into politics on her own account, and then left the work to her parasites instead of attending to it herself.
As an index to the feeling of the Cleverdale community, a very interesting incident that occurred after the Investigator's editor came out against Senator Hamblin is valuable. One evening Editor Rawlings, boldly entering the "Shades," walked up to Paddy Sullivan, and extending his hand said:
"Good-evening, Paddy."
The man addressed rose slowly to his feet, the hot blood rushed to his face, the florid countenance assuming an almost purple hue. Drawing back from the outstretched hand as if it had been a viper preparing to strike its fangs into his flesh, a look of scorn flashed from his bleared eyes, his lips trembled, and his chin quivered as he roared:
"Shake hands! wid sich a dirty traither as yees? Judas Iscariot was a white man beside the loike of yees, and Binedict Arnold a saint. Git out av this house, ye villin! Bad cess to a loafer who sells hisself to a tradin' thafe! Shake hands wid yees, is it? May me hand be cut from me arrum afore it aven teches that pizen thing av yours."
Several men gathered about Rawlings, and each had a word to say.
"Well, gentlemen, what have I done?" asked Rawlings; "can't a thoroughbred citizen call in here without being insulted? Come, boys, let's take a drink. Set 'em up, Paddy."
"Set 'em up, Paddy? Not a domned set up here. D'ye hear?" and the proprietor began pulling off his coat. "Now look ye here, Mr. Binedict Arnold, there's the door! and if your dirty carcass isn't outside of it in fifteen siconds, be jabers, I'm the darlint to throw yees out! No, b'ys, yees kape back. Moind, I'm the jedge to settle wid him. Iditor, git out!"
Rawlings, realizing that the angry Paddy was in earnest, slowly walked toward the door, when an egg striking him full in the back caused him to utter a savage oath.