The man he sent me was a frowsy, seedy fellow, named Masthead — not larger, apparently, than a boy of sixteen years, though it was difficult to say from the outside how much of him was editor and how much cast-off clothing; for in the matter of apparel he had acted upon his favorite professional maxim, and “sunk the individual;” his attire — eminently eclectic, and in a sense international — quite overcame him at all points. However, as my friend had assured me he was “a graduate of one of the largest institutions in his native State,” I took him in and bought a pen for him. My instructions to him were brief and simple.
“Mr. Masthead,” said I, “it is the policy of the Thundergust first, last, and all the time, in this world and the next, to resent the intrusion of Mr. Jefferson Scandril into politics.”
The first thing the little rascal did was to write a withering leader denouncing Mr. Scandril as a “demagogue, the degradation of whose political opinions was only equaled by the disgustfulness of the family connections of which those opinions were the spawn!”
I hastened to point out to Mr. Masthead that it had never been the policy of the Thundergust to attack the family relations of an offensive candidate, although this was not strictly true.
“I am very sorry,” he replied, running his head up out of his clothes till it towered as much as six inches above the table at which he sat; “no offense, I hope.”
“Oh, none in the world,” said I, as carelessly as I could manage it; “only I don’t think it a legitimate — that is, an effective, method of attack.”
“Mr. Johnson,” said he — I was passing as Johnson at that time, I remember—”Mr. Johnson, I think it is an effective method. Personally I might perhaps prefer another line of argument in this particular case, and personally perhaps you might; but in our profession personal considerations must be blown to the winds of the horizon; we must sink the individual. In opposing the election of your relative, sir, you have set the seal of your heavy displeasure upon the sin of nepotism, and for this I respect you; nepotism must be got under! But in the display of Roman virtues, sir, we must go the whole hog. When in the interest of public morality” — Mr. Masthead was now gesticulating earnestly with the sleeves of his coat—”Virginius stabbed his daughter, was he influenced by personal considerations? When Curtius leaped into the yawning gulf, did he not sink the individual?”
I admitted that he did, but feeling in a contentious mood, prolonged the discussion by leisurely loading and capping a revolver; but, prescient of my argument, Mr. Masthead avoided refutation by hastily adjourning the debate. I sent him a note that evening, filling-in a few of the details of the policy that I had before sketched in outline. Amongst other things I submitted that it would be better for us to exalt Mr. Scandril’s opponent than to degrade himself. To this Mr. Masthead reluctantly assented—”sinking the individual,” he reproachfully explained, “in the dependent employee — the powerless bondsman!” The next issue of the Thundergust contained, under the heading, “Invigorating Zephyrs,” the following editorial article:
“Last week we declared our unalterable opposition to the candidacy of Mr. Jefferson Scandril, and gave reasons for the faith that is in us. For the first time in its history this paper made a clear, thoughtful, and adequate avowal and exposition of eternal principle! Abandoning for the present the stand we then took, let us trace the antecedents of Mr. Scandril’s opponent up to their source. It has been urged against Mr. Broskin that he spent some years of his life in the lunatic asylum at Warm Springs, in the adjoining commonwealth of Missouri. This cuckoo cry — raised though it is by dogs of political darkness — we shall not stoop to controvert, for it is accidentally true; but next week we shall show, as by the stroke of an enchanter’s wand, that this great statesman’s detractors would probably not derive any benefits from a residence in the same institution, their mental aberration being rottenly incurable!”
I thought this rather strong and not quite to the point; but Masthead said it was a fact that our candidate, who was very little known in Claybank, had “served a term” in the Warm Springs asylum, and the issue must be boldly met — that evasion and denial were but forms of prostration beneath the iron wheels of Truth! As he said this he seemed to inflate and expand so as almost to fill his clothes, and the fire of his eye somehow burned into me an impression — since effaced — that a just cause is not imperiled by a trifling concession to fact. So, leaving the matter quite in my editor’s hands I went away to keep some important engagements, the paragraph having involved me in several duels with the friends of Mr. Broskin. I thought it rather hard that I should have to defend my new editor’s policy against the supporters of my own candidate, particularly as I was clearly in the right and they knew nothing whatever about the matter in dispute, not one of them having ever before so much as heard of the now famous Warm Springs asylum. But I would not shirk even the humblest journalistic duty; I fought these fellows and acquitted myself as became a man of letters and a politician. The hurts I got were some time healing, and in the interval every prominent member of my party who came to Claybank to speak to the people regarded it as a simple duty to call first at my house, make a tender inquiry as to the progress of my recovery and leave a challenge. My physician forbade me to read a line of anything; the consequence was that Masthead had it all his own way with the paper. In looking over the old files now, I find that he devoted his entire talent and all the space of the paper, including what had been the advertising columns, to confessing that our candidate had been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, and contemptuously asking the opposing party what they were going to do about it.
All this time Mr. Broskin made no sign; but when the challenges became intolerable I indignantly instructed Mr. Masthead to whip round to the other side and support my brother-in-law. Masthead “sank the individual,” and duly announced, with his accustomed frankness, our change of policy. Then Mr. Broskin came down to Claybank — to thank me! He was a fine, respectable-looking gentleman, and impressed me very favorably. But Masthead was in when he called, and the effect upon him was different. He shrank into a mere heap of old clothes, turned white, and chattered his teeth. Noting this extraordinary behavior, I at once sought an explanation.
“Mr. Broskin,” said I, with a meaning glance at the trembling editor, “from certain indications I am led to fear that owing to some mistake we may have been doing you an injustice. May I ask you if you were really ever in the Lunatic asylum at Warm Springs, Missouri?”
“For three years,” he replied, quietly, “I was the physician in charge of that institution. Your son” — turning to Masthead, who was flying all sorts of colors—”was, if I mistake not, one of my patients. I learn that a few weeks ago a friend of yours, named Norton, secured the young man’s release upon your promise to take care of him yourself in future. I hope that home associations have improved the poor fellow. It’s very sad!”
It was indeed. Norton was the name of the man to whom I had written for an editor, and who had sent me one! Norton was ever an obliging fellow.
Why I Am Not Editing “The Stinger”
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Monday, 9 A.M.
A man has called to ask “who wrote that article about Mr. Muskler.” I told him to find out, and he says that is what he means to do. He has consented to amuse himself with the exchanges while I ask you. I don’t approve the article.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 10 A.M.
Do you happen to remember how Dacier translates Difficile est proprie communia dicere? I’ve made a note of it somewhere, but can’t find it. If you remember please leave a memorandum of it on your table, and I’ll get it when I come down this afternoon.
P.S. — Tell the man to go away; we can’t be bothered about that fellow Muskler.
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Monday, 11:30 A.M
.
I can’t be impolite to a stranger, you know; I must tell him somebody wrote it. He has finished the exchanges, and is drumming on the floor with the end of his stick; I fear the people in the shop below won’t like it. Besides, the foreman says it disturbs the compositors in the next room. Suppose you come down.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 1 P.M.
I have found the note I made of that translation, but it is in French and I can’t make it out. Try the man with the dictionary and the “Books of Dates.” They ought to last him till it’s time to close the office. I shall be down early to-morrow morning.
P.S. — How big is he? Suggest a civil suit for libel.
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Monday, 3 P.M.
He looks larger than he was when he came in. I’ve offered him the dictionary; he says he has read it before. He is sitting on my table. Come at once!
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
13 LOFER STREET, Monday, 5 P.M.
I don’t think I shall. I am doing an article for this week on “The Present Aspect of the Political Horizon.” Expect me very early to-morrow. You had better turn the man out and shut up the office.
Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Tuesday, 8 A.M.
Mr. Munniglut has not arrived, but his friend, the large gentleman who was with him all day yesterday, is here again. He seems very desirous of seeing you, and says he will wait. Perhaps he is your cousin. I thought I would tell you he was here, so that you might hasten down.
Ought I to allow dogs in the office? The gentleman has a bull-dog.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper.
13 LOFER STREET, Tuesday, 9.30 A.M.
Certainly not; dogs have fleas. The man is an impostor. Oblige me by turning him out. I shall come down this afternoon — early.
P.S. — Don’t listen to the rascal’s entreaties; out with him!
Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Tuesday, 12 M.
The gentleman carries a revolver. Would you mind coming down and reasoning with him? I have a wife and five children depending on me, and when I lose my temper I am likely to go too far. I would prefer that you should turn him out.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper.
13 LOFER STREET, Tuesday, 2 P.M.
Do you suppose I can leave my private correspondence to preserve you from the intrusion and importunities of beggars? Put the scoundrel out at once — neck and heels! I know him; he’s Muskler — don’t you remember? Muskler, the coward, who assaulted an old man; you’ll find the whole circumstances related in last Saturday’s issue. Out with him — the unmanly sneak!
Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Tuesday Evening.
I have told him to go, and he laughed. So did the bull-dog. But he is going. He is now making a bed for the pup in one corner of your room, with some rugs and old newspapers, and appears to be about to go to dinner. I have given him your address. The foreman wants some copy to go on with. I beg you will come at once if I am to be left alone with that dog.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to Henry Inxling, Bookkeeper.
40 DUNTIONER’S ALLEY, Wednesday, 10 A.M.
I should have come down to the office last evening, but you see I have been moving. My landlady was too filthy dirty for anything! I stood it as long as I could; then I left. I’m coming directly I get your answer to this; but I want to know, first, if my blotter has been changed and my ink-well refilled. This house is a good way out, but the boy can take the car at the corner of Cobble and Slush streets.
O! — about that man? Of course you have not seen him since.
William Quoin, Foreman, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Wednesday, 12 M.
I’ve got your note to Inxling; he ain’t come down this morning. I haven’t a line of copy on the hooks; the boys are all throwing in dead ads. There’s a man and a dog in the proprietor’s office; I don’t believe they ought to be there, all alone, but they were here all Monday and yesterday, and may be connected with the business management of the paper; so I don’t like to order them out. Perhaps you will come down and speak to them. We shall have to go away if you don’t send copy.
Peter Pitchin, Editor, to William Quoin, Foreman.
40 DUNTIONER’S ALLEY, Wednesday, 3 P.M.
Your note astonishes me. The man you describe is a notorious thief. Get the compositors all together, and make a rush at him. Don’t try to keep him, but hustle him out of town, and I’ll be down as soon as I can get a button sewn on my collar.
P.S. — Give it him good! — don’t mention my address and he can’t complain to me how you treat him. Bust his bugle!
J. Munniglut, Proprietor, to Peter Pitchin, Editor.
“STINGER” OFFICE, Friday, 2 P.M.
Business has detained me from the office until now, and what do I find? Not a soul about the place, no copy, not a stickful of live matter on the galleys! There can be no paper this week. What you have all done with yourselves I am sure I don’t know; one would suppose there had been smallpox about the place. You will please come down and explain this Hegira at once — at once, if you please!
P.S. — That troublesome Muskler — you may remember he dropped in on Monday to inquire about something or other — has taken a sort of shop exactly opposite here, and seems, at this distance, to be doing something to a shotgun. I presume he is a gunsmith. So we are precious well rid of him.
Peter Pitchin, Editor to J. Munniglut, Proprietor.
PIER NO. 3, Friday Evening.
Just a line or two to say I am suddenly called away to bury my sick mother. When that is off my mind I’ll write you what I know about the Hegira, the Flight into Egypt, the Retreat of the Ten Thousand, and whatever else you would like to learn. There is nothing mean about me! I don’t think there has been any wilful desertion. You may engage an editor for, say, fifty years, with the privilege of keeping him regularly, if, at the end of that time, I should break my neck hastening back.
P.S. — I hope that poor fellow Muskier will make a fair profit in the gunsmithing line. Jump him for an ad!
Corrupting the Press
When Joel Bird was up for Governor of Missouri, Sam Henly was editing the Berrywood Bugle; and no sooner was the nomination made by the State Convention than he came out hot against the party. He was an able writer, was Sam, and the lies he invented about our candidate were shocking! That, however, we endured very well, but presently Sam turned squarely about and began telling the truth. This was a little too much; the County Committee held a hasty meeting, and decided that it must be stopped; so I, Henry Barber, was sent for to make arrangements to that end. I knew something of Sam: had purchased him several times, and I estimated his present value at about one thousand dollars. This seemed to the committee a reasonable figure, and on my mentioning it to Sam he said “he thought that about the fair thing; it should never be said that the Bugle was a hard paper to deal with.” There was, however, some delay in raising the money; the candidates for the local offices had not disposed of their autumn hogs yet, and were in financial straits. Some of them contributed a pig each, one gave twenty bushels of corn, another a flock of chickens; and the man who aspired to the distinction of County Judge paid his assessment with a wagon. These things had to be converted into cash at a ruinous sacrifice, and in the meantime Sam kept pouring an incessant stream of hot shot into our political camp. Nothing I could say would make him stay his hand; he invariably replied that it was no bargain until he had the money. The committeemen were furious; it required all my eloquence to prevent their declaring the contract null and void; but at last a new, clean one thousand-dollar note was passed over to me, which in hot haste I transferred to Sam at
his residence.
That evening there was a meeting of the committee: all seemed in high spirits again, except Hooker of Jayhawk. This old wretch sat back and shook his head during the entire session, and just before adjournment said, as he took his hat to go, that p’r’aps’twas orl right and on the squar’; maybe thar war’n’t any shenannigan, but he war dubersome — yes, he war dubersome. The old curmudgeon repeated this until I was exasperated beyond restraint.
“Mr. Hooker,” said I, “I’ve known Sam Henly ever since he was so high, and there isn’t an honester man in old Missouri. Sam Henly’s word is as good as his note! What’s more, if any gentleman thinks he would enjoy a first-class funeral, and if he will supply the sable accessories, I’ll supply the corpse. And he can take it home with him from this meeting.”
At this point Mr. Hooker was troubled with leaving.
Having got this business off my conscience I slept late next day. When I stepped into the street I saw at once that something was “up.” There were knots of people gathered at the corners, some reading eagerly that morning’s issue of the Bugle, some gesticulating, and others stalking moodily about muttering curses, not loud but deep. Suddenly I heard an excited clamor — a confused roar of many lungs, and the trampling of innumerable feet. In this babel of noises I could distinguish the words “Kill him!” “Wa’m his hide!” and so forth; and, looking up the street, I saw what seemed to be the whole male population racing down it. I am very excitable, and, though I did not know whose hide was to be warmed, nor why anyone was to be killed, I shot off in front of the howling masses, shouting “Kill him!” and “Warm his hide!” as loudly as the loudest, all the time looking out for the victim. Down the street we flew like a storm; then I turned a corner, thinking the scoundrel must have gone up that street; then bolted through a public square; over a bridge; under an arch; finally back into the main street; yelling like a panther, and resolved to slaughter the first human being I should overtake. The crowd followed my lead, turning as I turned, shrieking as I shrieked, and — all at once it came to me that I was the man whose hide was to be warmed!
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 116