Caper and Rocjean now began to throw desperately, for they had a large supply of flowers andconfettion hand, which they were anxious to dispose of suddenly—since in ten minutes the horses would run, and then the carriages must leave the Corso. It was the last day of Carnival, and to-morrow—sackcloth and ashes. How the masks crowd around them; how the beautiful faces, unmasked, are smiling! Look at them well, stamp them on your heart, for many and many one shall we see never again. Another Carnival will bring them again, like song birds in summer; but a long, long winter will be between, and we will be far, far away.
The Corso is cleared, the infantry half keeps the crowd within bounds, a charge of cavalry sweeps the street, and then come rattling, clattering, rushing on the bare-backed horses, urged on by cries, shouts, yells; and frightened thus to top speed, while the Dutch metal, tied to their sides increases their alarm—whir! they are past us, and—the bay horse is ahead.
Again the carriages are in the Corso; here and there a few bouquets are thrown, floral farewells to the merry season: then as dusk comes on, and red and golden behind San Angelo flames the funeral pyre of the sun, and through the blue night twinkles the evening star, see down the Corso a faint light gleaming. Another and another light shines from balcony and window, flashes from rolling carriage, and flames out from along the dusky walls, till,presto!you turn your head, and up the Corso, and down the Corso, there is one burst of trembling light, and ten thousand tapers are brightly gleaming, madly waving, brilliantly swaying to and fro.
Moccoli! ecco, moccoli!
Along roll carriages; high in air gleam tapers, upheld by those within; from every balcony and window shine out the swaying tapers. Hurrah! here, there, hand to hand are contests to put out these shining lights, andSenza moccoli! 'Out with the tapers!' rings forth in trumpet tones, in gay, laughing tones, in merry tones, the length of the whole glorious Corso.
Daring beauty, wild, lovely bacchante, with black, beaming eyes, tempt us not with that bright flame to destruction! Look at her, as she stands so proudly and erectly on the highest seat in the carriage, her arms thrown up, her wild eyes gleaming from under jet black, dishevelled locks, while the night breeze flutters in wavy folds the drapery of her classic dress.Senza moccoli!she sends the challenge ringing down through fifteen centuries. He braves all; the carriage is climbed, the taper is within his reach.
'To-morrow I leave!'
She flings the burning taper away from her.
'Then take this kiss!'
'Senza moccoli!' black, witching eyes—farewell!
'Boom!' rings out the closing bell; fast fades the light, 'Out with the tapers!' the shout swells up, up, up, then slowly dies, as die an organ's tones—and Carnival is ended.
A handful of beautiful flowers, found among gray, crumbling ruins; a few notes of wild, stirring music, suddenly heard, then quickly dying away in the lone watches of the night: these are the hours of the Roman Carnival.
'Played is the comedy, deserted now the scene.'
Miracles are no longer performed in Rome. As soon as the police are officially informed, they prevent their being worked even in the Campagna:—official information, however, always travels much faster when the spurs of heretical incredulity are applied—otherwise it lags; and the performances of miracle-mongers insure crowded houses, sometimes for years.
Among Caper's artist friends was a certain Blaise Monet, French by nature, Parisian by birth, artist or writer according to circumstances. Circumstances—that is to say, two thousand francs left him by a deceased relation—created him a temporary artist in Rome.
'When the money is gone,' said he, 'I shall endow some barber with my goat's hair brushes, and resume the stylus: the first have attractions—capillary—for me; the latter has the attraction—gravitation of francs—still more interesting—that is to say, more stylish.'
Blaise Monet with the May breezes fled to a small town on top of a high mountain, in order to enjoy them until autumn: with the rains of October he descended on Rome.
'How did you enjoy yourself up in that hawk's nest?' Caper asked him, when he first saw him after his return to the city.
'Like the king D'Yvétot. My house was a castle, my drink good wine, my food solid—the cheese a little too much so, and a little too much of it: no matter—the views made up for it. Gr-r-rand, magnificent, splendid—in fact, paradise for twenty baiocchi a day, all told.'
'And as for affairs of the heart?'
'My friend, mourn with me: that hole was—so to speak in regard to that matter—a monastery, without doors, windows, or holes; and a wall around it, so high, it shut out—hope! I wish you could have seen the camel who was my monastic jailer.'
'That is, when you say camel, you mean jackass?'
'Precisely! Well, my friend, his name was Father Cipriano; though why they call a man father who has no legal children, I can't conceive, though probably many of his flock do. He prejudiced the minds of the maidens against me, and made an attempt to injure my reputation among the young men and elders—in vain. The man who could paint a scorpion on the wall so naturally as even to delude Father Ciprian into beating it for ten minutes with that bundle of sticks they call a broom; the man who could win three races on a bare-backed horse, treat all hands to wine, and even bestow segars on a few of the elders; win aternoat the Timbola, and give it back to the poor of the town; catch hold of the rope and help pull by the horns, all over town, the ox, thus preparatorily made tender before it was slaughtered: such a man could not have the ill will of the men.
'Believe me, I did all my possible to touch the hearts of the maidens. I serenaded them, learning fearfulrondinelle, so as to be popular; I gathered flowers for them; I volunteered to help them pick chestnuts and cut firewood; I helped to make fireworks and fire balloons for the festivals; I drew their portraits in charcoal on a white wall, along the main street; and when they passed, with copper water jars on their heads, filled with water from the fountain, they exclaimed:
''Ecco!that is Elisa, that is Maricuccia, that is Francesca.'
'But I threw my little favors away: there was a black cloud over all, in a long black robe, called Padre Cipriano; and their hearts were untouched.
'I made one good friend, a widow lady, the Signora Margarita Baccio: she was about thirty-three years of age, and was mourning for a second husband—who did not come; the first one having departed forCieloa few months past, as she told me. The widow having a small farm to hoe and dig, and about twelve miles to walk daily, I had but limited opportunities to study her character; but I believe, if I had, I should not have discovered much, since she had very little: she was deplorably ignorant, and excessively superstitious—but good natured and hopeful—looking out for husband No. 2. She it was that informed me that Padre Cipriano had set the faces of the maidens against me, and for this I determined to be revenged.
'A short time before I left the town, my oil colors were about used up. I had made nearly a hundred sketches, and not caring to send to Rome for more paints, I used my time making pencil sketches. Among the tubes of oil colors left, of course there was the vermilion, that will outlast for a landscape painter all others, I managed to paint a jackass's head for the landlord of the inn where I boarded, with my refuse colors:—after all were gone, there still remained the vermilion. One day, out in the fields sketching an old tower, and watching the pretty little lizards darting in and out the old ruins, an idea struck me. The next day I commenced my plan.
'I caught about fifty lizards, and painted a small vermilion cross on the head of each one, using severe drying oil and turpentine, in order to insure their not being rubbed off.
'The next dark night, when Padre Cipriano was returning from an excursion, he saw an apparition: phosphorus eyes, from the apothecary; a pair of horns, from the butcher; a tall form, made from reeds, held up by Blaise Monet, and covered with his long cloak, made in the Rue Cadet—strode before him with these words:
''I am the shade of Saint Inanimus, boiled to death by Roman legions, for the sake of my religion—in oil. My bones long since have mouldered in the dust, but, where they lie, the little lizards bear a red cross on their heads. Seek near the old tower by the old Roman road, here at the foot of this mountain, and over it erect a chapel, and cause prayers to be said for Saint Inanimus: I, who was boiled to death for the sake of my religion—in oil.'
''Sh-sh-shade of S-s-saint Ann-on-a-muss, w-w-what k-kind of oi-oil was it?' gasped Padre Cipriano.
'The shade seemed to collect himself as if about to bestow a kick on the padre, but changed his mind as he screamed:
''Hog oil. Go!'
'The priest departed in fear and trembling, and the next day the whole town rang with the news that an apparition had visited Padre Cipriano, and that a procession for some reason was to be made at once to the old tower. Accordingly all the population that could, set forth at an early hour in the afternoon, the padre first informing them of all the circumstances attending the ghostly visitor, the red-headed cross lizards by no means omitted. Arrived at the tower, they were fortunate enough to find a red-cross lizard, then another, and another; and it being buzzed about that one of them was worth, I don't know how many gallons of holy water—the inhabitants moreover believing, if they had one, they could commit all kinds of sins free gratis, without confession, &c.,—there at once commenced, consequently, a most indecorous riot among those in the procession; taking advantage of which, the lizards made hurried journeys to other old ruins. The inhabitants of another small town, having heard of theMiracolo delle lucertole, came up in force to secure a few lizards for their households: then commenced those exquisite battles seen nowhere else in such perfection as in southern Italy.
'His eyes starting out of his head, his hands and legs shaking with excitement, one man stands in front of another so 'hopping mad' that you would believe them both dancing the tarantella, if you did not hear them shout—such voices for an opera chorus!—
''You say that tome? tome? to ME!' Hands working.
''I do, toyou!'
''To me,me, ME?' striking himself on his breast.
''Yes, yes, I do, I do!'
''What, tome!me!I?' both handspointing toward his own body, as if to be sure of the identity of the person; and that there might not be the possibility of any mistake, he again shouts, screams, yells, shrieks: 'To me? What, that tome! to ME!' hands and arms working like a crab's.
'Then the entire population rush, in with, 'Bravo, Johnny, bravo!' At last, after they have screamed themselves black in the face, and swung their arms and legs until they are ready to drop off, both combatants coolly walk off; and a couple of fresh hands rush in, assisted by the splendid Roman chorus, and begin:
''What,me?me?' &c.
'But the battle of the lizards was conducted with more spirit than the general run of quarrels, for the people were fighting for remission of their sins as it were—the possession of every sanctified red-headed lizard being so much money saved from the church, so many years out of purgatory.
'Thegendarmerieheard the row, and at once rushed down—four soldiers comprised the garrison—to dissipate the crowd: this they managed to do in a peaceable way. There happened to be a heretical spur in the town, in the shape of three German artists, and this incited the bishop of the province, who was at once informed of the miracle-working doings of Father Ciprian, to displace him.
'Thus, my dear friend, I was left to make love to the girls until I had to return to Rome—unfortunately only two weeks' time—for the newly-appointed priest had not the opportunity to set them against me.
'The moral of this long story is: that even vermilion can be worked up in a miraculous manner—if you put the powerful reflective faculty in motion; and doing so, you can have the satisfaction of knowing that by its means you can cause an invisible sign to be stuck up over even a country town in Italy: 'All Persons are Forbidden to Work Miracles Here!''
The government, aware of its foreign reputation for patronizing theBelle Arti, has an annual display of such paintings and sculpture as artists may see fit to send, and—the censor see fit to admit: for, inthisexhibition, 'nothing is shown that will shock the most fastidious taste'—and it can be found thus, in a building in the Piazza del Popolo.
Caper's painting for the display was rejected for some reason. It represented a sinister-looking brigand, stealing away with Two Keys in one hand and a spilt cap in the other, suddenly kicked over by a large-sized donkey, his mane and tail flying, head up, and an air of liberty about him generally, which probably shocked Antonelli's tool the censor's sense of the proprieties.
Rocjean consoled Caper with the reflection that his painting was refused admittance because the donkey had gradually grown to be emblematical of the state—in fact, was so popularly known to theforestierias the Roman Locomotive, with allusions to its steam whistle, &c., highly annoying to the chief authorities—and therefore, its introduction in a painting was intolerable, and not to be endured.
The works of art included contributions from Americans, Italians, Belgians, Swiss, English, Hessians, French, Dutch, Danes, Bavarians, Spaniards, Norwegians, Prussians, Russians, Austrians, Finns, Esthonians, Lithuanians, Laplanders, and Samoyedes. There was little evidence of the handiwork of mature artists; they either withheld their productions from dislike of the managers, or through determination of giving their younger brethren a fair field and a clear show. A careful observer could see that these young artists had not profited to the fullest extent by the advantages held out to them through a residence in the Imperial City. There was a wine-yness, and a pretty-girl-yness, and tobacco-ness, about paintings and sculpture, that could have been picked up just as well in Copenhagen orMadrid or New York as in Rome. Michael Angelo evidently had not 'struck in' on their canvases, or Praxiteles struck out from their marbles. Theirs was an unrevealed religion to these neophytes.
The study of a piece of old Turkey carpet, or a camel's hair shawl, or a butterfly's wing, or a bouquet of many flowers would have taught the best artist in the exhibition more concerning color than he would learn in ten years simply copying the best of the old painters, who had themselves studied directly from these things and their like.
In sculpture, as in painting, the artists showed the same tame following other sculptors; the same fear of facing Nature, and studying her face to face. A pretty kind of statue of Modesty a man would make, who would take the legs of a satyr, the body of a Venus, the head of Bacchus, the arms of Eros, and thus construct her; yet scarcely a modern statue is made wherein some such incongruous models do not play their part. Go with a clear head, not one ringing with last night's debauch, and study the Dying Gladiator! That will be enough—something more than five tenths of you young Popolites can stand, if you catch but the faintest conception of the mind once moving the sculptor of such a statue. After you have earnestly thought over such a masterpiece, go back to your studio: break up your models for legs, arms, bodies, and heads: take the scalpel in hand, and studyanatomyas if your heart was in it. Have the living model nude before you at all times. Close your studio door to all 'orders,' be they ever so tempting: if a fastidious world will have you make 'nude statues dressed in stockinet,' tell it to get behind you! After long years of earnest study and labor, carve a hand, a foot: if, when you have finished it, one living soul says, with truth, 'Blood, bones, and muscles seem under the marble!' believe that you are not far off from exceeding great reward.
In the Popolo exhibition for 1858 was a marble statuette of Daphnis and Chloe, by Luigi Guglielmi, of Rome.
Chloe had a low-necked dress on.
The Roman censor disapproved of this. In a city claiming to be the 'HOME OF ART'—they pinned a piece of foolscap paper around the neck of Chloe.
Rome is the cradle of art:—if so, the sooner the world changes its nurse, the better for the babe!
Oh not in Independence HallWill ye proclaim your will;Nor read aloud your negro call,As yet, on Bunker Hill.He said he would, and thought he could,And tried—and missed it clean;—Now he's o'er the Border, and awa',Weel thrashed and unco' mean.
[September22, 1862.]
Now who has done the greatest deedWhich History has ever known,And who, in Freedom's direst need,Became her bravest champion?Who a whole continent set free?Who killed the curse and broke the banWhich made a lie of liberty?You—FatherAbraham—you're the man!The deed is done. Millions have yearnedTo see the spear of Freedom cast:—The dragon writhed and roared and burned:You've smote him full and square at last.O Great and True! You do not know,You cannot tell, you cannot feelHow far through time your name must go,Honored by all men, high or low,Wherever Freedom's votaries kneel.This wide world talks in many a tongue—This world boasts many a noble state—Inall, your praises will be sung,In all the great will call you great.Freedom! Where'er that word is known,On silent shore, by sounding sea,'Mid millions or in deserts lone,Your noble name shall ever be.The word is out—the deed is done;Let no one carp or dread delay:When such a steed is fairly on,Fate never fails to find a way.Hurrah! hurrah! The track is clear,We know your policy and plan;We'll stand by you through every year:Now, FatherAbraham,you'reour man!
The unexampled extent of newspaper issues in the United States has often excited the astonishment of intelligent observers; but it is doubtful whether the whole of the enormous truth could have been fully appreciated without the actual figures which reveal it. According to the "preliminary report" of the 8th census, 1860, recently published by the Hon. J.C.G. Kennedy, the superintendent, it appears that the annual circulation of newspapers and periodicals is no less than 927,951,548, or at the rate of 34.36 for every white man, woman, and child of our population. The annual value of all the printing done in the United States, for that year, is stated at a fraction less than thirty nine and three quarters millions of dollars.
These numbers are sufficiently astounding; but the rate of increase since 1850, is, if possible, even more so. In that year, says Mr. Kennedy, the whole circulation amounted to 426,409,978 copies; and the rate of increase for the decade is 117.61 per cent., while the increase of the white population during the same period was only 38.12 per cent. If the circulation should continue to grow in the same proportion for the next ten years, the number of newspapers and periodicals issued in 1870 will be a little over two billions.
In addition to these domestic publications, no inconsiderable number of foreign journals is introduced into the United States. "The British Almanac and Companion" for 1862 states the number in 1860 to have been as follows: from Great Britain, 1,557,689; from France, 270,655; from Bremen, 41,171; from Prussia, 83,349. These figures comprehend only the foreign newspapers, and not the periodicals, some of which are republished in the United States.
Persons competent to form a correct judgment, do not hesitate to say that the number of newspapers taken in this country, exceeds that in all the world beside. So vast an amount of reading matter, voluntarily sought for and consumed by the people, at a cost of so many millions of dollars, is one of the most remarkable phenomena of the present age of wonders, and proves the avidity with which information is received, as well as the incalculable influence which the press must have on the public mind. The popular newspaper, issued in immense numbers, is in truth emphatically an American institution. Nowhere else could an audience, capable of reading, be found sufficiently numerous to absorb the issues of our teeming press. It is the offspring and indispensable accompaniment of universal education and popular representative government. These could scarcely be maintained without it. Everywhere in Europe, except perhaps in England, Italy, and Switzerland, the press is little more than an engine of the government, used chiefly, or only, for its own political purposes. Here it enjoys absolute freedom, being responsible only to the laws for any abuse of its high privilege.
This entire freedom promotes unbounded growth in journalism, and gives a circulation to the remotest cabin in the land. And if the unrestricted energies of the system produce fruits somewhat wild, not imbued with the refined flavor of better-cultivated productions, their universal distribution and bounteous fulness of supply make up somewhat for the deficiency in quality, and give promise of a future improvement, which will leave nothing to be desired. If every leaf of the forest were a sibylline record, and every month of the year should bring round the deciduous influences of autumn, the leaves that would then "strew the vales" of our country would give some adequate idea of the immense shower of these printed missiles which falls every day,every week, and every month, into the hands of the American people. Do they come as "a kindly largess to the soil they grew on," or do they scatter mischief where they fall? Of the power, for good or for evil, of this vast intellectual agency, there can be no question. But what is the nature of this influence? How does it affect the character and welfare of the community in which its unregulated and unlimited authority prevails?
The daily papers of New York, and of some other cities, contain, in each sheet, an amount of printed matter equal to sixty-four pages of an ordinary octavo volume. The scope and variety of the information embodied in them, and the uniformity with which they are maintained from year to year, give evidence of wonderful enterprise, mechanical skill, and intellectual ability. Concentrating news from all parts of the world, by means of a vast and expensive organization, and discussing, with more or less profound learning and logic, all the important questions of the day, they have established an immense spiritual power in the bosom of modern society, such as was not known to the nations in past ages.
It is true that much of the space in the great dailies, so voluminous as has been stated, is occupied in mere business notices and individual advertisements; and such is the case, generally, with the daily and weekly papers throughout the country. But even this, the humblest department of the newspaper, may justly be considered an invaluable instrument of civilization. It multiplies to an unlimited extent the means of communication among men, and is, therefore, a labor-saving invention of precisely the same character as the railroad and the steam engine. In a few brief phrases, made expressive by conventional understanding, every man can converse with thousands of his neighbors, and even of distant strangers. Without change of place, without labor of limbs or of lungs, the man of business can, in a single day, and every day, if he will, inform a whole community of his own wants, and of his readiness to meet the wants of others. The newspaper performs the work of thousands of messengers, and saves countless hours of labor to the whole community in which it circulates. In some sense, every man is brought nearer to every other. Each hears the innumerable voices which address him, and is able to distinguish the individual message which each one has sent.
It is difficult to estimate the value of this simple agency in its social aspect. Its material saving is plain to the most cursory thought; but its higher influence in binding society together and making it homogeneous, if not equally apparent, is at least quite as indisputable. Civilization is the direct result of bringing mankind into cooperation and combined effort, so that the whole power of mind and body of whole communities is brought to bear in unison for the accomplishment of social ends. Therefore, as a mere instrument of intercommunication, rendering more direct and intimate the relations of individuals, and promoting ease, celerity, and harmony in their combined movements, the power of the press is prodigious and invaluable. But when this power is extended beyond the bounds of mere material interests and the relations of ordinary business—when it appeals to the intellect and enters the domain of art, literature, science, and philosophy, embracing politics, morality, and all the highest interests of mankind, its capacity for good would seem to be illimitable.
In future ages, these innumerable sheets, which float so lightly on the surface of our civilization, will form imperishable records of the manners, habits, occupations, and the whole intellectual existence of our people. They are so numerous that no accident can destroy them all; and they will present to the eye of the future student of history the most lively, natural, and perfect picture—the very moving panorama—of the busy and teeming life of thepresent generation. No exhumed relics of buried cities, no hieroglyphic inscriptions upon ancient monuments, with whatever skill and genius deciphered, nor even any labored descriptions of past ages, which may have survived the ravages of time, will be equal to these memorials, in their power to recall the daily work, the amusements, the business, and, in short, the whole material, intellectual, and social being of our people.
The types and footprints of creation, imprinted on the rocks and imbedded in the strata of the earth, giving knowledge of the existence and habits of extinct species of animals, and teaching how geological periods have succeeded each other, with their causes and concomitants, are not so plain and distinct to us, as will be these daily effusions, advertisements, and business notices of all kinds in the ordinary newspapers of the country, to future generations of men, who shall there seek to learn the successive and gradual steps by which the social fabric shall be built up on the foundations of human thought and action. Like the worm that crawls over the mud ere it hardens into rock; or the leaf that fixes its form and impress in the bed of coal; or like the bowlder that forms the pencil point of a mighty iceberg, scratching the rocks in its movement across a submerged plain, destined to be upheaved as a continent in some future convulsion; or like the coral insect, which, in forming his separate cell, unconsciously assists in laying the foundation of islands and vast regions of solid earth; we, the creatures of the hour, all unconscious of the record we are making, leave imperishable memorials of our existence and works, in the apparently petty and fugitive contents of the journals which we read daily, and in which we make known our business and our wants. Narratives and formal descriptions may be one-sided, and may easily deceive and mislead; but these indications, which will be preserved in the social strata as they slowly subside in the ocean of humanity, carry in themselves perfect fulness and absolute verity.
One of the most significant and influential results of the wide and rapid circulation of newspapers is to be found in the simultaneous impression made on the popular mind throughout the vast extent of our country. Flashed on the telegraph, daguerreotyped and made visible in the newspaper, every event of any importance, occurring in any part of the world, is communicated, almost at the same moment, to many millions of people. All are impressed at the same time with the same thoughts, or with such kindred ideas as will naturally arise from reflection upon the same facts. Humor, with its thousand tongues, is hushed; and the telegraph, under control of agents employed to sift the truth, and responsible for it, takes its place. Falsehood still may, and, indeed, often does tamper with this mighty instrument; but its speed is so great that it can overtake even falsehood, and soon counteract and correct the mischief. What is the import of this momentous fact,—the instantaneous communication of information over a continent, and the participation of all minds, in the same thoughts, virtually at the same time? Undoubtedly the result must be a closeness of intercourse and a completeness of cooperation, which will give to the social organization a power and efficiency in accomplishing great ends, such as no human thought has ever heretofore conceived. Society becomes a unity in the highest and truest sense of that term; like the bodily frame of the individual man, it is connected throughout all its parts by a network of nerves, every member sympathizing with every other, feeling the same impulses, having the same knowledge, and forming judgments upon the same facts. When sentiments are perfectly harmonious among men, the increase of power is not merely in proportion to numbers. It grows in a much higher ratio. The effect is something like that of multiplying thesurfaces in a galvanic battery, or increasing the coils in an electro-magnetic apparatus. Passion in a multitude becomes a tornado. Eloquence moves a large audience with a power vastly greater than when the listeners are few. Similar is that strange influence which fashion exerts in all societies. Nor is this sympathetic multiplication of power limited to passion or artistic sentiment: it extends to opinions and all intellectual phenomena. A person feeling strong emotions or having profound convictions, and knowing them to be shared by millions of others, inevitably experiences a strengthening and intensifying influence from the sympathy of his fellows. If he knew himself to be solitary and alone in his opinions, unsupported by that human sympathy which every one craves, his ideas would languish, and be greatly diminished in their power. It is only great minds, of exceptional character, which can do battle, single-handed, against the world. Most men require to be propped and supported on all sides, by the great power of public opinion. The approach to unanimity of thought promoted by the general circulation of newspapers, has something of the marvellous effects seen in other cases, in enhancing the moral and intellectual power of the community.
The telegraph is the legitimate offspring of the newspaper. In the absence of the latter, there would have been comparatively little use for the former. Without the almost universal distribution of the newspaper, instantaneous communication of news would not have been so much required, and the invention for that purpose would hardly have been made. It is probably in the United States alone, with its unlimited circulation of newspapers, that this extraordinary application of natural forces could have been conceived. It is here those wonderful lightning presses have been constructed, under the stimulus of that vast demand for daily papers which arises from the general education of the people and their avidity for information. In no other state of things could such combinations have been imagined, because there would have been no occasion for the inventive effort, and even the very idea would not have occurred. Although the wide extent of our country, the vast distances separating important centres of commerce and industry, and the general activity and energy of men in this free government, all concurred in enforcing the necessity of this latest wonder of human ingenuity—the telegraph,—yet the newspaper, with its boundless circulation and power of distribution, was indispensable to make it available and to give it all its inestimable value.
But, after all, the prodigious influence of the press, aided by its great instrument, the telegraph, derives its moral and political value chiefly from the lessons it teaches, and the good purposes it aims to accomplish. Unhappily, if the newspaper may be the means of doing incalculable good, it may also be instrumental in doing infinite mischief. If it may multiply the power of the community, by promoting harmony of thought and feeling, it may direct this concentrated energy to the wrong end, as well as to the right. Being a great vehicle for the communication of ideas on all subjects, it becomes a mighty instrument of education; entering almost every house in the land, and reaching the eye of every man, woman, and child who can read, it exercises almost supreme control over the sentiments of the masses. It is a tremendous intellectual engine, radiating the light of knowledge to the extremities of the land, and, in its turn, wielding, to some extent, the incalculable power which that knowledge imparts to its recipients.
Like every other human agency, the press is liable to be controlled by sinister influences. Perhaps, from the entire absence of all direct responsibility, from its usual entire devotion to public affairs, and the acknowledged influence of its representations on the popularmind, it is peculiarly exposed to the seductions of patronage, and to the temptations of personal and mercenary interests. A mere party journal, involved in a perpetual conflict for power, and for the accompanying spoils, is, of all the depositaries of moral power, at once the most dangerous and the most contemptible. To it, truth is of secondary importance; having satisfied itself that no prosperity, or even liberty, can exist without the success of its men and measures, it makes everything bend to this purpose. The end justifies the means. Impartial statement or rational investigation is seldom to be found in its columns. Nevertheless, in the general competition which arises where the press is free, thetendencywill always be toward the true and the good. Rival journals will advocate different theories and maintain opposite systems; but free discussion will gradually eliminate error, and out of the multitudinous rays of different colors, diffused throughout society, will eventually come that perfect combination which constitutes the clear, pure, homogeneous light of truth. And even pending the early struggle and confusion which attend the inauguration of a free press, divergencies of opinion, ever tending to harmony, cannot become so great as to produce fatal effects. The rebellion of the Southern States of this Union could never have happened, in the presence of universal education and of a free press, whose emanations could have penetrated as widely as those which reach the people of the opposite section.
In view of the high functions of the press and its immense influence in the nation,—its perpetual daily lessons, falling on the public mind like drops that wear away the hardest rock and work their channel where they will,—it is of the first importance to comprehend the power behind this imperial throne, which directs and controls it. Does it assume to originate and establish principles in government and morals? Or does it aspire only to the humbler office of propagating such ideas as have been sanctioned by the best judgment of the age, of illustrating their operation, and making them acceptable to the people? The fugitive essays and hurried comments on passing events, which fill the columns of newspapers, do not ordinarily constitute solid foundations on which the principles of social or political action can be safely established. The men usually employed in this work of distributing ideas, are not they who are capable of building up substantial systems by the slow process of induction, or who can, by the opposite system, apply great general truths to the purposes of national prosperity and happiness. They are far too much engaged in the active business of life,—too deeply involved in the strifes and turmoils of mankind,—too thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the passing hour, with all its passions and prejudices—to be the philosophic guides of humanity, and to lay down, with the serene logic of truth, the bases of moral and political progress. The inevitable sympathy between the editor and his daily readers—the action and reaction which constantly take place and insensibly lead the journalist into the paths of popular opinion and passion—these are too apt to render him altogether unfit to be an oracle in the great work of social organization and government. The common sense of the multitude is often an invaluable corrective of speculative error; but the impulses and strong prejudices of communities, though calculated to sweep along with them the judgments of all, are mostly pernicious, and sometimes dangerous in the extreme. The true remedy for these evils and dangers is, to employ in the management of the daily press, the noblest intellect, combined with the most incorruptible purity of motive. Commanding the entire confidence of the nation, and worthy of it, the lessons of this great teacher—the central light-giving orb of civilization—will be received with reverence and gratitude, and with a benign and fructifying influence, something like that which the sun sheds on the world of nature.
A French philosopher, writing in 1840, says of us:
'This universal colony, notwithstanding the eminent temporal advantages of its present position, must be regarded as, in fact, in all important respects, more remote from a true social reorganization than the nations from whom it is derived, and to whom it will owe, in course of time, its final regeneration. The philosophical induction into that ulterior state is not to be looked for in America—whatever may be the existing illusions about the political superiority of a society in which the elements of modern civilization are, with the exception of industrial activity, most imperfectly developed.'
'This universal colony, notwithstanding the eminent temporal advantages of its present position, must be regarded as, in fact, in all important respects, more remote from a true social reorganization than the nations from whom it is derived, and to whom it will owe, in course of time, its final regeneration. The philosophical induction into that ulterior state is not to be looked for in America—whatever may be the existing illusions about the political superiority of a society in which the elements of modern civilization are, with the exception of industrial activity, most imperfectly developed.'
It may be admitted that we are yet somewhat behind the foremost nations of Europe in the higher walks of philosophy, and certainly in the practical application of true social principles, which, as yet, we do not fully comprehend, even if they do. But the conclusion of this author cannot be sound. However moderate may be our standard of knowledge in the United States, this knowledge, such as it is, is more widely diffused among the people who are to profit by it, than in any other country. If our attainments be comparatively small in philosophic statesmanship, the whole population partakes more or less in such progress as we have made; for education is universal, and whatever ideas are generated in the highest order of minds, soon become the familiar possession of all to the extremities of the land. Government yields with little opposition or delay to the interests and intelligence, and it may be, to the ignorance of the people: there is no other nation on the globe in which social forms and institutions are so plastic in the hands of wise and energetic men. By means of universal education and the perfect distribution of knowledge, we are laying the broadest possible basis on which the noblest structure may be raised, if we can only command the wisdom to build aright. The question, therefore, is, whether a whole people thoroughly educated and with the most perfect machinery for the diffusion of knowledge, though starting from a moderate condition of enlightenment, will outrun or fall behind other nations in which the few may be wiser, while the multitude is greatly more ignorant, and in which the forms of government and of social, organization are more rigid, and inaccessible to change or improvement. To answer this question will not cause much hesitation, at least in the mind of an American; and if we are not altogether what we think ourselves, the wisest and best of mankind, we may at least claim to be on the way to the highest improvement, with no serious obstacles in our path.
Two souls alone are friends of oursIn all the British isles;Who sorrow for our darkened hoursAnd greet our luck with smiles."And who may those twain outcasts beWhose favor ye have won?"The first is Queen of England's realm,The other that good Queen's son.
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life. Every onelivesit—to not many is itknown; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.'Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.
'Do but grasp into the thick of human life. Every onelivesit—to not many is itknown; and seize it where you will, it is interesting.'—Goethe.
'Successful.—Terminating in accomplishing what is wished or intended.'—Webster's Dictionary.
Elihu Joslin belonged to that class of knaves who are cowardly as well as unscrupulous. He never hesitated to cheat where he had an opportunity, trusting to his powers of blustering and browbeating to sustain him. When these failed, that is, when he encountered persons who were not imposed on nor intimidated by his swaggering, bullying mien, he showed his craven nature by an abject submission. From being an errand boy in an old-established paper house in the city, he had himself become the proprietor of a large business in the same line. He had but a single idea—to make money. And he did make it. His reputation among the trade was very bad. But this did not, as it ought to have done, put him out of the pale of business negotiations. Every merchant knows that there are many rich men in business, whose acts of dishonesty and whose tricks form a subject of conversation and anecdote with their associates in trade, yet who are not only tolerated, but are by some actually courted. Joslin, when quite a young man, had been the assignee of his employer, who hoped to find in him a pliant tool. He soon found his mistake. He had put himself completely in the power of his clerk, and the latter took full advantage of it. The result was, his principal was beggared, and Joslin rose on his ruins.
It was a favorite practice with Joslin to discover men who were short of money, lend them what they wanted, and thus, after a while, get control of all they possessed. When Joslin first met Mr. Burns, he hoped to entangle him as he had his friend. But the former was too good a merchant and in too sound a position to be brought in this way into his toils. He was therefore obliged to have recourse to sheer knavery to compass his object. The fact of Mr. Burns living so far from the city, the great expense which would be entailed on him by a litigation, and the natural repugnance he thought Mr. Burns would have to a lawsuit, emboldened him to employ the most high-handed measures to cheat him. The fact was, Mr. Burns's paper had become well known in the market, and commanded a ready sale. The manufacture was even—the texture firm and hard. There was a continually increasing demand for it. Joslin determined on—even for him—some audacious strokes. He sent a lot of the paper to an obscure auctioneer, one of his tools, and had it bid off in the name of a young man in his store. He thereupon reported the entire consignment to be unsalable, and credited Mr. Burns with the whole lot at the auction prices, less expenses. In this way he claimed to have no funds when Mr. Burns's drafts became due, and called on the latter for the ready money. The previous consignment he pretended to have sold in the city, at a time when paper was much lower than usual, but he had returned for this the then market price. Really he had not sold the paper at all. Knowing it was about to rise, he simply reported a sale, and kept the paper on hand to take advantage of the market, and he was now selling it at an advance of ten per cent, on the previous rates.
Mr. Burns had never before encountered so desperate a knave. As wehave said, the affair troubled him greatly. True, he was determined to investigate it thoroughly, but he could not well afford the time to go himself to New York. His chief man at the paper mill had failed to accomplish anything; so it was a great relief when Hiram volunteered his services. Mr. Burns could not tell why, but he had a singular confidence that Hiram would bring the matter out right. He was up to see his confidential clerk off in the stage, which passed through Burnsville before daylight, and which was to call at the office for its passenger. From that office a light could be seen glimmering as early as three o'clock. Hiram, after an hour or two in bed, where he did not close his eyes, had risen, and taking his valise in his hand, had gone to the office, and was again deep in the accounts. He would make memorandums from time to time, and at last wrote a brief note to Mr. Burns, asking him to send forward by the first mail a full power of attorney. At length the stage horn was heard. Hiram rose, opened his valise, and placed his papers within it. The stage wheeled rapidly round the corner, and drew up at the office door; Hiram extinguished the light, seized his valise, stepped quietly out, and was in the act of turning the key—he had a duplicate—when Mr. Burns arrived.
'I thought,' he said, 'I would see you off. You will have a fine day, and reach New Haven in ample time for the boat.'
'I have left a brief note on your table,' responded Hiram, 'to ask for a power of attorney. I think it may be important.'
'You shall have it. Good luck to you. Write me how you get along. Good-by.'
He shook Hiram's hand with an enthusiasm which belonged to his nature. The latter extended his cold, dry palm to his employer, and said, 'Good morning, sir,' and got inside. He did not in the least enter into Mr. Burns's cheerful, sympathizing spirit. If the truth must be told, he had not the slightest sympathy for him; neither did any desire to extricate him from this awkward business induce the present adventure. He cared no more for Mr. Burns than he did for Mr. Joslin. But he did enjoy the idea of meeting that knave and circumventing him. It was the pleasantest 'duty' he ever had undertaken. On it his whole thoughts were centred. What did he care whether the day was fair or foul—whether the roads were good or bad? He longed to get to work at Joslin.
The stage door closed, and the vehicle rolled swiftly away. Mr. Burns stood a moment looking after it. He had felt the entire absence of responsive sympathy in his clerk, and his old feeling returned, as it invariably did at times. He walked slowly toward his house.
'Why is it that I so often wish I was rid of that fellow, when he serves me so effectually?'
Mr. Burns turned before entering, and cast his eyes over the horizon. Daylight was just streaking the sky from the east. Joel Burns paused, and directed his glance over the town—the town he had founded and made to flourish. Tears stood in his eyes. Wherefore? He was thinking of the time when, after Mr. Bellows's death, he had, step by step, carefully travelled over this locality, while laying plans for his future career. Here—just here—he had marked four trees to indicate the site for his house, and here he had built it.
'Oh, Sarah, why had you to leave me?'
The words, uttered audibly, recalled him to himself. He opened and passed through the gate, and stepped on the piazza.
'Is that you, father?' It was his daughter's voice. He looked up and saw her at the window. 'I heard you go out, and I have been watching for you ever since. Did Mr. Meeker get off?'
'Yes.'
'Wait, father, and I will come down and take a walk with you. Wouldn't you like it?'
'Yes, dear, very much.'
They walked on together in silence. Presently Sarah perceived they were going in the direction of the burying ground. Mr. Burns entered it with his daughter, and soon stood by his wife's grave.
'She left us early, my child. You do not forget her?'
'Oh no, father!'
'Do you remember all about her—all?'
'Yes, everything.'
'I know it—I know you do. Why is it, Sarah, that lately I feel more solitary than usual?'
'Do you, father?'
'Yes, since—' He paused, unwilling, it would seem, to finish the sentence.
'You know, father, I have not been quite so much with you since Mr. Meeker came. You are more in the office.'
'So I am. I wish—' He hesitated again. Evidently something oppressed him.
Just then the first slanting rays of the morning sun gleamed over the place—pleasant rays, which seemed to change the current of Mr. Burns's thoughts, lighting up his soul as they were lighting the universe.
He spoke cheerfully: "Let us run home, now. And, Sarah, won't you see that we have a very nice breakfast? Early rising has given me an appetite."
All this time the stage was conveying Hiram Meeker toward his goal—toward Elihu Joslin. He reached New Haven in time for the boat, and early the following morning was in New York. At this date the town had not assumed its present magnificent proportions. Broadway, above Canal street, was lined with private residences instead of stores, and Bleecker street was one of the most fashionable in the city. Nevertheless it was already imposing, especially to a young man from the country.
Hiram had visited New York on two several occasions when a boy, in company with his mother, but latterly had not found any opportunity to do so. Lauding from the boat, he made his way to the then leading hotel, 'The Franklin House,' and entered his name, and presently went in to breakfast. After he had finished, he stepped out on the sidewalk. He beheld a continuous stream of human beings pouring along this extraordinary thoroughfare. Omnibuses, carts, wagons, and vehicles of every description already filled the way.
Hiram stood and regarded the scene. 'What a field here!' he said to himself. 'Look at this mass of people. Every other man an idiot—and of the rest, not one in a thousand has more than a medium share of brains. What a field, indeed, to undertake to manage and direct and control these fellows! What machinery though! Not too fast. This is the place for me. Burnsville-pho! Now, friend Joslin, * * * *
Hiram made his way to the store of H. Bennett & Co., in Pearl street. Mr. Bennett was in; glad to see Hiram, but wonderfully busy. He invited his relative to dinner—indeed, asked him why he had not come direct to his house. Then he turned away to business.
All this did not fluster Hiram in the slightest. He waited a few minutes; then took occasion to interrupt Mr. Bennett, and say he wished to speak with him on something of importance.
'Certainly,' replied the other. 'What can I do for you?'
'I come to New York on special business,' said Hiram. 'It is necessary I should know just what kind of a person Elihu Joslin is—the large paper dealer in Nassau street. I have not your facilities for ascertaining, and I ask you, as a particular favor, to find out for me.'
'Joslin!' exclaimed Mr. Bennett. 'I hope none of your people are in his clutches. He is a very hard case to deal with, so they say.'
'Is he rich?'
'Yes, worth a couple of hundred thousand, easy.'
'How does he stand with the trade?'
'Oh, unpopular enough, I should imagine. Can't tell you particularly—is not in my line, you know; but if the matter is really pressing, you shall learn all you wish to in an hour.'
'Thank you. I must know all about him prior to a personal interview, which I am to have.'
'I see. Call in at twelve o'clock, and the information will be ready for you.'
'One word more. Do you know the house of Orris & Tweed, auctioneers?'
'Orris & Tweed? Never heard their name before.'
'It is in the directory.'
'I dare say. That don't amount to anything.'
'Please let me know something of them, too. I am sorry to give you this trouble; but I am a greenhorn in New York, and have a difficult matter on my hands.'
'No trouble—at least, I don't count it such to help a friend in the way of business. Besides, if you are a greenhorn, you act as if you know what you are about.'
H. Bennett, of the prosperous house of Bennett & Co., would not have devoted five minutes extra to his namesake in the way of social chat; regarding such conduct in business hours, and in the busy season, as worse than superfluous; but as a matter of business, though purely incidental and profitless, he would have given the whole day to Hiram's affair, if absolutely necessary.
Mr. Bennett here gave some special directions to one of his numerous clerks, a sharp, active-looking fellow, with a keen eye and an air like a game cock, who vanished as soon as they were received.
Hiram left the store, and turning into Wall street, walked on till he reached Nassau street, in which was the establishment of Elihu Joslin. He strolled on without any special purpose, till his attention was arrested by an obstruction on the sidewalk. It was simply the ordinary circumstance of the delivery of goods. In this instance a dray was backed up to the curbstone, with paper. Hiram looked at it carefully. It was of Mr. Burns's manufacture. He glanced up to see the name of the house. It was not Joslin.
A new thought flashed on him. Actuated by it, he commenced to speak with the carman, but checked himself, and walked boldly into the store, and back to the counting room.
'I see you have Burns's paper. I want to purchase a small quantity of it.'
'We couldn't supply you, to-day—have just got this in to fill an order. His paper stands so high that it is scarce in the market. How much do you want? We may get some more in by Thursday.'
'Only a few reams to make out an assortment. I suppose I can buy of you on as good terms as of Joslin.'
'For a small lot, I am sure, better; indeed, I have this direct from him, which is the same thing as if sent from the mill. You know the manufacturers will sell only to jobbers. You are in the retail line, I presume?'
'I am; and I wish you would spare me a couple of reams out of this lot, and send them round to H. Bennett & Co.'s, Pearl street.'
The merchant recognized in Hiram a young country storekeeper, and, desirous as all merchants are to make new acquaintances, was willing to accommodate him. H. Bennett & Co. was a first-class name, and this decided him to break into the lot, which was already sold to somebody else.
Hiram paid for his purchase, called up a carman instanter, and never took his eye off the paper till it was delivered at Mr. Bennett's store.
That gentleman was standing at the door, saying good-by to a first-rate customer, when Hiram came up with his cart, and directed his two reams of paper to be deposited inside.
'Well, youngster, what's all this? said Mr. Bennett, good humoredly.
'A little speculation of mine,' quoth Hiram, quietly.
'Well, men do sometimes buy their ownpaper, I know—that is, when there is a promise to pay written on it; but this is a blank lot.'
'It will prove a prize to me, unless I am mistaken.'
Mr. Bennett caught the general idea on the instant. The two exchanged looks, such as are only current between very 'cute, knowing, sharp-witted men. Hiram was betrayed into returning Mr. Bennett's leer before he was aware of it. It was a spontaneous recognition, and he felt ashamed at being thus thrown off his guard. He colored slightly, and said something about his duty to his employer.
'There's where you're right,' replied Mr. Bennett. 'A man who does not serve his employer well will not serve himself well in the long run; that you may be sure of.'
The conversation ended here. Hiram strolled out again for half an hour; and when he returned, Mr. Bennett was able to give him a daguerreotype of Elihu Joslin's character, which agreed with that with which we have already favored the reader. As to 'Orris & Tweed, auctioneers,' they were not much better than Peter Funks—lived by acting as stool pigeons, and cheating generally.
Hiram left the store rejoicing at this intelligence, and took his way direct to Joslin's place. Inquiring if that personage was in, he was told yes, but specially engaged. Hiram sat for a full hour, waiting patiently: then he was told to go into the private counting room.
Entering, he beheld a large, overgrown, rough-looking man, about five and thirty, with black hair and eyes, and a coarse, florid complexion, who looked up and nodded carelessly on his entering.
'This is Mr. Joslin, I presume?'
Yes.'
'My name is Meeker, I come from Burnsville—am in the employ of Mr. Burns.'
'Well?'
'I have come down to take a look at York, and knowing you owned half the paper mill, guessed you was a friend of Mr. Burns, and might not object to let some of your folks show me about a little.'
'You don't belong in the mill, then?'
'No; but I've been all over it. It's curious work—paper making.'
'How long are you going to stay here?'
'Well, I want to make a little visit and see the place. In fact, I've a notion to come here by-and-by, and I would like to look about first. Don't you want a clerk yourself?'
'What can you do?'
'I can tend store first rate.'
'What do you want to leave Burns for?'
'I didn't say I wanted to leave him. He's a first-rate man, if he was only a little sharper—got too many soft spots: that's what I hear folks say. But I think I should like New York.'
'Well, Nicker—'
'Meeker, if you please.'
'All right, I say, Meeker; we are pretty busy now, but if you want to see the elephant—and I suppose you do—I will introduce you to one of my boys, who will give you a chance.'
He stepped out, beckoning Hiram to follow.
'Hill! Tell Hill to come here, some of you. Hill, this is Mr. Meeker, in the employ of our particular friend, Mr. Burns, of Burnsville. He wants to see something of the city. You must do what you can for him. I would not wish to slight any one, you know, who belongs with Mr. Burns.'
'All right, sir,' said Hill, a jaunty, devil-may-care looking fellow, with a sallow, sickly face, evidently the result of excess and dissipation.' If the young gentleman will tell me where he stops. I will call for him this evening.'
'At the Franklin House,' responded Hiram.
'The devil!' exclaimed Joslin. 'Tall quarters, I should say.'
'Ain't it a good place, sir? I was toldit was a good house on board the boat.'
'Good! I should think it was. The best in New York. A dollar and a half a day: did you understand that?'
'No, sir; I did not ask the price.'
'Green, that's a fact,' said Joslin to himself.' Never mind,' he continued, 'Hill will recommend you to his boarding place, if you like. Good day;' and Hiram took his leave.
'I say, Hill, I want to find out how matters stand with Burns. You've got just the chance now. Put this chap through generally. His mother don't seem to know he's out. Don't mind a few dollars: you understand? And recollect, pump him dry.'
'Dry as a sandbank,' said Hill, who was already chuckling over the sport in prospect.
Mr. Joslin continued his instructions, which, as they were of a strictly private nature, we should be violating confidence to record.
Hiram occupied himself the remainder of the day in looking about the town. He took one of Brower's omnibuses and rode to the end of the route in Broadway, opposite Bond street. Here he descended and retraced his steps. Broadway was then the general promenade. Hiram's pulse beat quick as he gazed on the beauty and fashion of the metropolis moving magnificently along. Susceptible as he was, he had never before been so impressed with female charms. He thought of the belles of Hampton and Burnsville with a species of disgust. His own costume, which he regarded as so perfect, he perceived had a provincial, country look, when contrasted with that of the gentlemen he encountered. Now in business matters, Hiram was as much at home and as self-possessed in New York as in Connecticut. But when it came to the display he now beheld, he felt and acknowledged his inferiority.
Here Hiramwasgreen. He did not stop to reflect that fine feathers make fine birds, so suddenly was he confronted with the glittering panorama. He continued to mingle with the crowd which swept along, and sometimes the blood would rush swiftly to his brain, causing him to reel, as dark eyes would be turned languidly on him, exhibiting, as he was ready to believe, an incipient interest in his destiny.
Below Canal street the character of the current began to change, till gradually Hiram was freed from the exciting trial he had been subjected to. He collected his thoughts and brought his mind back to his work—and his work Hiram Meeker never neglected. Slowly the old current drove out the new. Gradually his mind returned to its even tenor. He walked through the custom house. He entered the exchange. He visited the shipping; and when he got back to the hotel, he was tired and hungry enough. But, tired and hungry as he was, he proceeded at once to open his valise and take out a bundle of papers. Glancing over certain account sales, his eye fell on the name ofHillas purchaser. A peculiar gleam of satisfaction passed over his face as he replaced the papers in his valise and went down to dinner.
At the appointed hour, the young gentleman whom Mr. Joslin had addressed as 'Hill' waited on Hiram at the Franklin House. He sent up his card, and Hiram descended to meet him. He could scarcely recognize the young man before him, dressed in a ridiculous extreme of fashion, and covered with rings, pins, and gold chains, as the clerk hard at work with coat off, superintending the stowing away of a lot of merchandise. But Hiram was in no way deceived or taken in by the imposing manner in which Mr. Hill had got himself up. He saw quickly the difference between the real and the flash fashionable. But he did not betray this by word or sign, and continued to maintain the character he had assumed of an unsophisticated, verdant country youth.
Mr. Hill at the outset proposed they should take a drink, to which Hiram readily assented. They proceeded to the bar, when the young man asked his companion what he would have.
'A glass of lemonade,' replied Hiram.
'Lemonade!' exclaimed the other. 'You don't call that drinking with a fellow, do you?'
'I can't take anything stronger,' answered Hiram. 'I belong to the temperance society.'
'Temperance society!' retorted Hill, a good deal chapfallen that he was to lose his chief weapon of attack. 'I thought the pledge didn't hold when you were away from home?'
'Oh, yes it does; our minister says it holds everywhere. Still, I wouldn't mind taking some soda and sarsaparilla, though Dr. Stevens says there's alcohol in the sarsaparilla.'
Hiram was impracticable. Hill could not induce him even to take a little wine. He was so much chagrined that he poured out for himself a double portion of brandy, and, before he had finished it, regained his good humor.
'Well, what do you say to another glass? I think I can stand the brandy, if you can the lemonade.'
Hiram had no objections.
Hill lighted a segar. Hiram did not smoke.
'I hope you are not going to refuse my next invitation,' said Hill. 'I have got tickets for the theatre: what do you say?'
Hiram had often discussed the theatre question, both at the lyceum and on other occasions. It was to be condemned—no doubt about it. But the Rev. Mr. Goddard had once remarked in his hearing that he thought if a good opportunity was presented for a young man to visit the theatre, he had perhaps better do so, than feel an irritating curiosity all his life about it.
Seeing Hiram hesitate, Hill proceeded to urge him. 'You had better go,' he said. 'Lots to be seen. You don't know what you are losing, I tell you.'
Hiram was not influenced by his companion's importunity, but he decided to go, nevertheless. The elder Kean was then in New York, and the old Park Theatre in all its glory. That evening Kean was to play Shylock in the 'Merchant of Venice.' Hill, greatly pleased that at last he had made some headway, took another glass of brandy and water, and the young men proceeded to the theatre. The house was crowded from galleries to pit. The orchestra was playing when they entered.
Hiram was blinded by the brilliancy of the gaslights. His heart beat fast in spite of his effort to be composed.
The play began with some second-rate actors, who went through the first scene with the usual affected stage strut and tone. Hiram thought he never witnessed anything more unnatural and ridiculous. Even in the second, where Portia and Nerissa hold a dialogue, he was rather disgusted than otherwise. The machinery had scarcely been adjusted for the third scene, when a storm of applause burst from all parts of the house; clapping of hands, stamping of feet, bravos, and various noises of welcome commingled, and Hiram beheld an old man enter, somewhat bent, dressed in a Hebrew cap and tunic, having a short cane, which would serve either for support or as a means of defence. As he advanced, he cast sidelong, suspicious, and sinister glances from beneath bushy, beetling eyebrows.
At first Hiram was inclined to believe it was a real personage, so natural was his entrance—so destitute of all trick, or of anything got up.
'That's Kean,' whispered Hill.
Hiram held his breath as the words of the Jew broke distinctly on the house:
'Three thousand ducats—well.'
He entered at once with the deepest interest into the play. With head leaning forward, eyes open wide and fixed on the speaker, he drank in every word. From the first he sympathized with the main character. When Shylock wenton to say: 'Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tipolis, another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England; and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men. There be land rats and water rats, land thieves and water thieves—I mean pirates; and there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is notwithstanding sufficient:'—Hiram unconsciously shook his head, as if he doubted it.
His whole soul was now centred in the performance. When it came to the trial, in the fourth act, he turned and twisted his body, as if he could with difficulty abstain from advising Shylock to accept the offer of Bassanio: 'For the three thousand ducats here is six.'