 | THE NEWS-BOY. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities |  |
5. THE NEWS-BOY.
Arms have had their day. The age of steel is past.
The thunders of Mont St. Jean formed the grand finale
to the melo-drama of military exploit, and the curtain fell,
never to rise again, upon the last scene of martial greatness,
when the laurelled warriors of France cast aside the
baton of command to have recourse to their spurs. Bellona
then went to boarding-school, and learned to comb
her refractory locks into the pliant graces of the toilet,
while Mars obtained a situation in a counting-house, and
seated upon a three-legged stool, still nibs his pen to gain
a livelihood. Romance expired at Waterloo. Chivalry
expended itself when Ney was foiled; and the Belgian
peasant unconsciously depicts the moral of the fall of
the empire when he boils potatoes in the helmet of the
knight, and cooks his mutton in a breastplate of the
“Guard.” The world is tired of slaughter—the poetry
of the shambles is exhausted. We live as long as we
can now, and find existence none the worse for having a
full supply of arms and legs. A body like a cullender is
not essential to reputation, and death has become so unpopular
that it is only by special favour that ambition can
get itself hanged.
New elements produce new combinations. When the
musket rusts in a garret, and glory puzzles over the multiplication
table and retails brown sugar, the restless impulses
of humanity seek excitements before unknown.
Strategy exhibits itself in the marts of trade. Napoleons
are financiers. The sun of Austerlitz bursts through the
clouds which overhang the stock exchange. Bulls and
bears constitute the contending hosts of modern times,
it in embezzlement and defalcation. We are “smart”
now—exceeding smart, and pugnacity is thrown to the
dogs. Learning, too, leaves its solidity in the cloister,
and, no longer frighted by trumpets and sulphurous vapors,
spreads itself thinly abroad. Being in haste, the
world reads as it runs, so that heavy books, like heavy
artillery, remain in the arsenals. Man, commercial man,
speculating man, financial man—man, heedless of gory
greatness, but eager for cash, must know all that is in
agitation. Having ceased to kill his neighbour, he is
anxious to ascertain what his neighbour is about, that he
may turn him and his doings to profitable account; and
hence, in the place of those gaudy banners which used to
flout the sky, instead of the oriflamme of nations, which
once rallied their battalia, we gather round the newspaper,
not with sword, and shield, and casque, but with ink-stained
jacket and with pen in ear. Our clarion now,
more potent than the Fontarabian horn, is the shrill voice
of the news-boy, that modern Minerva, who leaped full
blown from the o'erfraught head of journalism; and, as the
news-boy is in some respects the type of the time—an incarnation
of the spirit of the day,—a few words devoted
to his consideration may not be deemed amiss.
As the true Corinthian metal was formed from the
meltings of the devoted city, thus the news-boy is the
product of the exigencies of the era. The requirements
of the age always bring forth that which is wanted. The
dragon teeth of tyranny have often caused the earth to
crop with armed men, and the nineteenth century, thirsting
for information and excitement, finds its Ganymede
in the news-boy. He is its walking idea, its symbol, its
personification. Humanity, in its new shape, is yet young
and full of undefined energies, and so is he. The first
generation of his race not having outgrown their business,
to play in human affairs, is as yet too imperfectly developed
even for the meditations of the most speculative
philosopher that ever extracted glowing sunbeams from
the refreshing cucumber; but, as nature does nothing in
vain, it is fair to infer that the news-boy is destined,
in one way or another, to fix the period which gave him
birth, in the niche of history. Too many powerful elements
combine in him not to be productive of grand results.
What is the news-boy—what is necessary to his
original constitution—what faculties are involved, cherished,
strengthened and made, as it were, the preponderating
forces of his character, by the calling to which
he is devoted? Survey the news-boy—extract him from
the buzzing crowd and place him on a pedestal, while
you analyze his character in its psychological and physical
details, estimating, at the same time, the past and
future operation of circumstances in educating him for
mature effort in the contentions of men. Anatomize him,
and “see what breeds about his heart.” A rough study,
truly—soiled garments and patches. The youth is not
precisely fitted for presentation in the drawing-room, evident
though it be that his self-possession would not desert
him in the presence of an empress. Valets and body
servants do not trouble themselves about him. Father
and mother, brother and sister, if such there be, have
enough to do in struggling for their own existence, without
attending to the details of his costume, and many a
repair is the result of his own handiwork in hours stolen
from needful rest. That battered hat, grown foxy by exposure,
is picturesque in its proportions, not so much
from careless usage as from hard service, and those oxhide
boots, embrowned and cracked, have shamed the
feats of plank-walking pedestrains. Sooth to say, our
hero is somewhat uncouth in his externals. That fair
He would not shine amid carpet knights, nor would Titania
weary Oberon with prayers to have him for her
henchman. The news-boy would not weep either, if he
were to know that perfumed pride and silken delicacy
thus curl the nose at him; for he would be lost and wearied
in such preferment. Observe his frame, so light,
yet so strong;—so pliant, wiry and enduring. No
“debile wretch” enters the ranks of these juvenile Præ
torians; or, if he should venture on services so far beyond
his capacity, exhaustion soon removes him. Glance at
the expression of that weather-beaten face, prematurely
channelled into line and hardened into muscle. Care,
courage and resolution are in every curve of those compacted
lips. The soft roundness of childhood has departed
long since. That mouth knows more of the strong
word, the keen retort, the well-weighed phrases of the
bargainer, of cunning solicitation, and of the fierce
wrangle, than of the endearing kisses of affection. It
brings no memory of rosebuds. It is no poetic feature
for romance to dwell upon, but a mouth of plain reality—
of confirmed utilitarianism. It wreathes itself more
readily into the mould of worldly intrepidity, than into the
gentle dimples of early life. It is, in the news-boy, as in
all mankind beside, a key to the individual mysteries of
our nature. The impulses, the ruling trait, are here developed,
and the news-boy offers no exception to the rule.
The glance of his eye is as cold, but as bright, as the
beaming sun of a frosty morning, which sparkles on the
ice, but melts it not. Still, though self-interest and sordid
calculation dwell in its depths, we find a laughing devil
there, which feasts on satire and sports like the chevaliers
of old, à l'outrance. Its jokes bite shrewdly, and the
lance of its wit displays the point “unbated,” though not
“envenomed.” When the news-boy turns awhile from
quiet recreation. His raillery and his pleasant tricks
both deal in heavy blows and rude interchanges. Your
nice, nervous sensibility finds no quarter from one whose
very existence in all its phases is roughness. Should he
hereafter learn to woo, it will be “as the lion wooes his
bride.”
Such is the physique of the news-boy, and it contains
many of the constituent points of greatness. Tossed early
into the world, the impediments which cause other men
to fail, are soon surmounted in his path. He has no
kindly arm to lean upon, and, through mistaken tenderness,
to make his steps unsteady. He is his own staff—
his own protector. Of diffidence, he never heard the
name—he does not know its nature. Imaginary barriers
cannot interpose between him and his object; for he recognises
none as worthier than he, and self-distrust plays
no fantastic tricks to defeat the consummation of what he
may resolve. He lives in deeds, and not in dreamy
speculation—he is an actor, not a looker on, and practice
has given him that estimate of his own powers which
rarely falls below the mark, and which, best of all, surrounds
disappointment with no unreal terrors. When he
falls, he falls but to rise again with renewed strength, like
the fabled Antæus. And while continued collision with
the world thus hardens his intellectual being, his muscular
energies, which sustain the spirit, receive a training
of proportionate severity. He has no tender years. Let
wealthy youth be housed in luxury, and guarded from the
storm. Soft couches and protracted slumbers do not
enervate the news-boy. Compared to him, the sun itself
is a sluggard. No morning ray finds him in bed; the
moon and stars witness his uprisings, and he travels forth
in darkness to commence his daily toil. Let the rain fall
in torrents—the lightning flash—the thunders roar, the
are alike indifferent to one who has such duties to perform.
It is on him that society waits for its mental aliment,
and can he falter—can he shrink before winds and
showers, before frosts and heats, who, more truly than
any human being, is the “schoolmaster abroad?” No—
others may crouch around the fire, or shrink beneath their
blankets, at the sound of winter's threatening blasts; but
the news-boy springs up, whistling cheerily, to encounter
any hardship that may oppose him.
Now, it is contended that whole masses and classes of
youth, thus educated, thus trained—who live, as it were,
by their wits—by their boldness, their address, their perseverance—whose
faculties are always literally at the
grindstone—who daily practise endurance, fortitude, self-restraint,
abstinence, and many other virtues; who are
pre-eminently frugal and industrious; who learn to understand
men and boys, dandies and dandizettes, and are
schooled to emulation and competition—must of necessity
produce something—not a little of roguery, mayhap,
which is often the fungous growth, the untrimmed shoot,
of a certain grade of cleverness. But we look for more
than this—it genius is ever latent, the life of the news-boy
must bring it forth. The blows which fall on him,
would elicit sparks from the flint. In the school which
boasts of such a pupil, society is the book, adversity the
teacher, and harsh circumstance plays the part of rod
and ferula. He is scourged into wisdom, almost before
others can walk alone.
In what peculiar way, Tom Tibbs, whose admirable
portrait graces our present number, is likely to distinguish
himself, remains to be seen. His faculties are expansive
—roaming like summer bees. The moment of concentration,
when genius, rallying upon its focus, burns its way
through all impediments, has not yet come to him. But
In fact, he has long been spoken of as a “hopeful youth,”
by many of those who know him; and though the phrase
may often be applied derisively, as a sort of lucus a non
lucendo, still this is but the vulgar error, which cannot
comprehend the kittenhood of lionism—the unappreciated
infancy of power. No one ever achieved distinction who
did not begin a nuisance, just as greatness in a
single walk, of necessity constitutes a bore; and it may
be so with Tibbs. He has already learned the one great
lesson of success. He looks upon the community as a
collective trout—a universal fish, which must nibble at
his bait, lie in his basket, and fill his frying-pan. On this
maxim, heroes have overrun the world. It has been the
foundation, not only of fortunes, but of empires. Why
should it not elevate Tibbs? Especially as his soul has
not been whittled down to a single point, by the process
of acquiring the knowledge to which we refer. Tibbs
has the affections, the sympathies, the twining tendrils of
the heart, in as great perfection as can be expected in
one who has been taught to look upon downright fact as
the great purpose of existence. The pennies, however,
do not engross him utterly; but when he is in pursuit of
the pennies, that pursuit is made paramount. He takes
his business as Falstaff did his sack, “simple, of itself;”
and his pleasures are imbibed “neat,” never spoiling
both by an infusion and admixture of either. That soldier
is a poor sentinel who nods upon his post, and would
both watch and wink upon a tour of duty. The winkings
of Tibbs are wisely condensed into a continuous
slumber; and when he watches, it is generally found that
his eyes are quite as widely open as the eyes of other
people.
Tom Tibbs had a father, a necessity from which it is
believed the greatest are not exempt, and in Tom's case,
which it would have pleased him to be excused. Tom's
father was a disciplinarian—that is, he compounded for
his own delinquencies by a compensatory severity upon
the delinquencies of others. When he had made a fool
of himself abroad, he balanced the account and atoned
for the folly, by chastising Tom at home, and thus went
to bed with a cleared conscience and a weary arm. When
he had spent more money upon a recreation than precisely
suited his circumstances, the family were put upon short
commons, and Tom's contingent of shoes and jackets, as
well as those of his brothers and sisters—for he is not
the only scion of Tibbsism—was economically retrenched.
The elder Tibbs piqued himself much upon his paternal
kindness in teaching prudence to his offspring. “You'll
bless me for it,” said he, with tears in his eyes, as he
prepared to hammer them all round, after having been
fined for wheeling his barrow upon the pavement,
“you'll bless me for it the longest day you have to
live.” The elder Tibbs was patriarchal—he made the
law as the necessity arose, carrying it into effect himself,
and its adaptation to circumstances was wonderful.
Any trouble in solving the equity of the case was instantly
obviated by flogging Tom, and then old Tibbs would
exclaim, “My conscience is easy—I do my best towards
these naughty children—my duty is fulfilled—if they
come to bad ends, they can't blame me for it. I have
spared no pains to bring 'em up properly,” and he had
not been sparing, so far as the strap was concerned.
Mrs. Tibbs was a tender-hearted woman, who did not
exactly understand parental duties as they were received
by her husband; yet, being somewhat overcrowed by the
commanding spirit of her mate, she sometimes almost
began to think that Tom must indeed be rather a bad boy
to require the neat's leather so often. But Mrs. Tibbs
thus preserving a verdant spot in Tom's otherwise arid
heart; for, as his cuticle was hardened, his spirit also grew
callous.
The pressure of the times, however, at last compelled
the Tibbs family to migrate westward; and the father,
when two days out from the city, having become warm
with his own eloquence upon the difficulties of making a
living, called Tom to his side and diverged into a personal
episode and an individual apostrophe:
“It's so hard now to get along in the world, that I
shouldn't wonder, if any thing happened to me, if these
children were to starve. Tom, Tom, how often have I
told you that you'd never come to good! Tom, Tom!
you'll break my heart! Where's that strap? I don't
want to do it, but I must!”
Tom, however, could not be prevailed upon to “stay
to supper,” and escaped, retracing his steps to the city,
and dissolving all connection with the strap. He thought
that he had received quite as much “bringing up,” in
that respect, as was necessary.
Tom felt his destiny strong within him. He threw
himself into the bosom of the news-boys, and through
their kindness, for they are a kindly race when properly
approached, soon became one of the most distinguished
of the corps. No one can sell more adroitly than he; his
perseverance is mingled with tact, and his verbal embellishments
as to the peculiar interest of the number
of the journal he has to sell, are founded on fact. He
never announces the steamer to be in before she is
telegraphed, nor indulges in the false pretences which
so often derogate from the dignity of the profession.
He estimates its importance, and proceeds upon principle.
The traveller who trades with Tibbs, at the cars, or on
board the steamboat, may safely buy under the ringing of
been exchanged for newspapers stale as an addled egg,
and freshly pumped on, to give them an appearance of
juvenility. Nor does Tom ever avail himself of hasty departures,
to be oblivious in the matter of returning change.
He does not, under such circumstances, “as some ungracious
pastors do,” put your quarter in one pocket and
fumble for sixpences in the other, until the train darts
away; nor would he, if tempted to the performance of
this unworthy feat, add insult to injury, by holding up the
cash when distance had made its reception impossible, or
by assuming that burlesque expression of hypocritical
astonishment with which some paper-venders, in a similar
catastrophe, outrage your feelings besides wronging
your purse. As Tom often justly remarks to such of his
colleagues as are habituated to these practices, “This
'ere chiselling system won't do. Nobody likes to be
chiselled, and when you have chiselled everybody, why
then they'll get a law passed, and chisel us all to chips. A
joke to-day is often a licking to-morrow, mind I tell you.”
Tom's philosophy was, at once, Franklinian and indisputable.
He felt the necessity of obviating all danger of
a war of races. He knew that nothing but mischief was
to be anticipated, if all the rest of the human family were
to be “chiselled” into a hostility against the news-boys;
for the minority always stand in the predicament of being
presented and suppressed as a nuisance, whenever the
stronger party think fit to exercise the power of numbers;
and, as a natural consequence, Tom was opposed to the
practice of clustering about a corner and selling news-papers
in a flock. “A sprinkling of news-boys, one or
two in every square,” thought he, “is well enough. It's
good for trade, and makes things lively; but to be cutting
up, so fashion, all in a jam, why people go on t'other
side of the way, and retailing's done for. I vote for
way through the literary circles.”
But Tibbs, with all his good sense, has a weakness.
There is a forte and a foible to every blade, and even
such a blade as a news-boy cannot escape the common
lot of humanity. Sound upon the general principle of
not annoying others, yet, in the indulgence of his humour,
he sometimes makes an exception. He especially dislikes
Mr. Sappington Sapid, a starched gentleman of the
old school, who never reads a journal, cares nothing for
the current of events, and entertains a perfect horror of
the modern style of newspapers and of all concerned in
their distribution. In fact, he attributes much of the
evils of the time to cheap journalism, and he has
not been sparing of an expression of his views on the
subject, whenever the opportunity was afforded. On
some one of these occasions, it was his luck to wound
the feelings of Thomas Tibbs, and Tibbs accordingly
marked him for a sufferer.
Incessantly was Mr. Sappington Sapid assailed. Not a
news-boy passed his door without ringing the bell to ascertain
whether a paper was not required—he never walked
the streets without perpetual and ridiculous solicitations.
When he appeared, all customers were left for his special
annoyance, and, in consequence of failing in the attaint
one day, when he directed an indignant kick at the provoking
Tibbs—unpractised individuals should never
essay the rapid and extemporaneous application of the
foot—Mr. Sappington Sapid sat suddenly and unexpectedly
down in a puddle of water, in full sight of a legion
of his tormentors, who never forgot the incident, but
would rehearse it, to the delight of their fellows, whenever
the unfortunate man happened to present himself,
and Tibbs was especially dexterous in giving the broadest
effect to the incident.
What a vitality there is in our worst mishaps! It
would be nothing, comparatively, if disaster were circumscribed
by its immediate consequences, and it would have
made but little figure in Mr. Sapid's memoirs had he only
caught cold by the operation referred to; but when a personal
sorrow is transmuted into a general joke, it becomes,
ipso facto, a living piece of attendant biography, a walking
companionship, which even smiles over a man's last resting-place.
Death itself affords no refuge to the hero of a
“ridicule.” “Poor fellow!” say his dearest friends,
“perhaps it's wrong to mention it now, but, by-the-way,
did you ever hear how,—ha! ha! ho!—how he made
such a fool of himself at Mrs. Dunover's pic-nic? Ho!
ho! ha! Poor soul!!”
Rob a church, or lay logs on the rail-road, and there is
a chance that the last may be heard of it; but if a drollery,
no matter how sad in its essence, be created at any one's
expense, he and it are so far married that they cling together
through life, while the jest is a “relict,” to move
post mortem mirth, autopsical grins and necrological merriment.
A dear departed is much more likely to be resurrectionised
by a surviving joke, than by the most intrepid
of body-snatchers, and the best of portraits is not so good
a memento as being implicated in an anecdote which is
sure to create laughter. Under an inkling of this truth,
Mr. Sapid always denies that he is the person who
“shook his foot” at the news-boys.
But there are bounds to patience. A man is but a
bottle before the fire of mischance, and when the heat
becomes insupportable, he must of necessity explode, no
matter how tightly corked by fortitude, or wired down by
philosophy. “The grief that will not speak,” is a deadly
inward fermentation. They who survive sorrow, are those
who “exteriorize” sorrow, and give sorrow a free channel.
To scold is the vital principle of practical hygieine for the
The inference therefore is, that the average of existence
would be at a higher rate, if the admirable counter-irritant
of round swearing were not proscribed in refined society,
thus killing people by the suppressed perspiration of an
indignant spirit.
Sapid, however, was none of these. Patience might
sit upon a monument, if she liked; but there was nothing
of the marble-mason in his composition, nor did he at all
affect the “statuesque,” when vexation chafed his heart.
If preyed upon in this way, though he never indulged in
Commodore Trunnion's expletives, nor “shotted his discourse”
like that worthy commander, yet he did not, by
any means, pray in return, as Dinah had often reason to
acknowledge, when the chamber pitcher was left vacant
of water, or when forgetful Boots failed in the performance
of his resplendent office. No! Sappington Sapid
makes people hear of it when he is offended, justly thinking
it better that their ears should be annoyed, than that
he should pine away of an unexpressed inflammation.
It was a bright forenoon, such as elicits snakes in the
country, and evolves the fashionable in cities, when Mr.
Sappington Sapid walked firmly along the street, filled
with a settled purpose. His coat was buttoned up to the
chin, to prevent the evaporation of his stern resolve; his
lips were drawn together, as if to obviate all danger of
evasion by word of mouth; his hat had settled martially
down almost to the bridge of his nose, while his heels
saluted mother earth so determinedly, that his whole
frame-work jarred at the shock. If ever a man displayed
outward symptoms of having his mind made up into the
most compact kind of a parcel, it was Sappington Sapid,
on this memorable occasion. No beggar would have
dared to ask charity from him, under such an aspect. He
was safe from being solicited to take a cab. They who
genius was rebuked; as, it is said, Mark Antony's was
by Cæsar;” a psychological phenomenon often manifest,
when, by the force of an emergency, even inferior men
are screwed up to the sublime,—just as valour's self
shrinks abashed from the angry presence of a cornered cat.
But whither wandered Sapid? No one knew. He
had taken breakfast without a word, and had wandered
forth in equal silence. Counsel he sought not—sympathy
he did not require. When we are girded up, of
our own impulse, to pull the trigger of a catastrophe, advice
is felt to be an impertinence, and no spur is needed
to prick the sides of our intent. We are a sufficiency
unto ourselves. Legions could not make us stronger,
and, therefore, Sapid disdained companionship or an interchange
of thought. He, Sapid, was enough to fill the
canvas for the contemplated picture. He was the
tableau, all alone, so far as his share in the incident was
to be concerned.
Some clue to his state of mind may be afforded, when
it is known that he was visited by a night-mare, a journalistic
incubus, on the previous night. An immense
Tom Tibbs sat upon his breast, and tried to feed him
with penny papers. His head seemed to grow to the
size of a huge type-foundery, and each of his ears roared
like a power press. Then again, he was flattened into
an immense sheet, and they printed him as a “Double
Brother Jonathan,” with pictorial embellishments. He
was expanded into whole acres of reading for the people,
and did not awake until he was folded, pasted up, and
thrust into the mail-bag; when, protesting against the
ignominy of being charged “at the usual rate of newspaper
postage,” he sprang up convulsively, and found that
his night-cap had got over his nose.
“Is this the office of the `National Pop-gun and Universal
Valve Trumpet?”' inquired Sapid, in sepulchral tones.
“Hey—what? Oh!—yes,” gruffly replied the clerk, as
he scrutinized the applicant.
“It is, is it?” was the response.
“H-umpse;” being a porcine affirmative, much in use
in the city of brotherly love.
“I am here to see the editor, on business of importance,”
slowly and solemnly articulated Sapid.
There must have been something professionally alarming
in this announcement, if an opinion may be formed
from the effect it produced.
“Editor's not come down yet, is he, Spry?” inquired
the clerk, with a cautionary wink at the paste-boy.
“Guess he ain't more nor up yet,” said Spry; “the
mails was late, last night.”
“I'll take a seat till he does come,” observed Sapid,
gloomily.
Spry and the clerk laid their heads together, in the
most distant corner of the little office.
“Has he got a stick?” whispered one.
“No, and he isn't remarkable big, nuther.”
“Any bit of paper in his hand—does he look like State
House and a libel suit? It's a'most time—not had a new
suit for a week.”
“Not much; and, as we didn't have any scrouger in
the `Gun' yesterday, perhaps he wants to have somebody
tickled up himself. Send him in.”
St. Sebastian Sockdolager, Esq., the editor of “The
National Pop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpet,” sat at
a green table, elucidating an idea by the aid of a steel pen
and whitey-brown paper, and, therefore, St. Sebastian
Sockdolager did not look up when Mr. Sapid entered the
sanctum. The abstraction may, perhaps, have been a
sample of literary stage effect; but it is certain that the
steeple-chase, straight across the paper, and direful was
the scratching thereof. The luckless idea being at last
fairly run down and its brush cut off, Mr. Sockdolager
threw himself back in his chair, with a smile of triumph.
“Tickletoby!” said he, rumpling his hair into heroic
expansiveness.
“What?” exclaimed Sapid, rather nervously.
“My dear sir, I didn't see you—a thousand pardons!
Pray, what can be done for you in our line?”
“Sir, there is a nuisance—”
“Glad of it, sir; the `Gun' is death on a nuisance.
We circulate ten thousand deaths to any sort of a nuisance
every day, besides the weekly and the country edition.
We are a regular smash-pipes in that line—surgical,
surgical to this community—we are at once the knife and
the sarsaparilla to human ills, whether financial, political
or social.”
“Sir, the nuisance I complain of, lies in the circulation
—in its mode and manner.”
“Bless me!” said Sockdolager, with a look of suspicion;
“you are too literal in your interpretations. If
your circulation is deranged, you had better try Brandreth,
or the Fluid Extract of Quizembob.”
“It is not my circulation, but yours, which makes all
the trouble. I never circulate,—I can't without being
insulted.”
“Really, mister, I can't say that this is clearly comprehensible
to perception. Not circulate! Are you below
par in the `money article,' or in what particular do
you find yourself in the condition of being `no go'? Excuse
my facetiæ and be brief, for thought comes tumbling,
bumping, booming”— and Sockdolager dipped
his pen in the ink.
Mr. Sappington Sapid unravelled the web of his miseries.
the saucy, and to write an article which shall make 'em
ashamed of themselves. I shall call on every editor in
the city, sir, and ask the same—a combined expression
for the suppression of iniquity. We must be emancipated
from this new and growing evil, or our liberties
become a farce, and we are squushed and crushed in a
way worse than fifty tea-taxes.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Whatcheecallem; it can't be done—
it would be suicidal, with the sharpest kind of a knife.
Whatcheecallem, you don't understand the grand movement
of the nineteenth century—you are not up to snuff
as to the vital principle of human progression—the propulsive
force has not yet been demonstrated to your benighted
optics. The sun is up, sir; the hill-tops of intellect
glow with its brightness, and even the level plain
of the world's collective mediocrity is gilded by its beams;
but you, sir, are yet in the foggy valley of exploded prejudice,
poking along with a tuppenny-ha'penny candle
—a mere dip. Suppress sauciness! Why, my dear bungletonian,
sauciness is the discovery of the age—the secret
of advancement! We are saucy now, sir, not by the
accident of constitution—temperament has nothing to do
with it. We are saucy by calculation, by intention, by
design. It is cultivated, like our whiskers, as a super-added
energy to our other gifts. Without sauciness,
what is a news-boy? what is an editor? what are revolutions?
what are people? Sauce is power, sauce is spirit,
independence, victory, every thing. It is, in fact,—this
sauce, or `sass,' as the vulgar have it—steam to the great
locomotive of affairs. Suppress, indeed! No, sir; you
should regard it as part of your duty as a philanthropist
and as a patriot, to encourage this essence of superiority
in all your countrymen; and I've a great mind to
write you an article on that subject, instead of the
completely, that justice will not be done to the community
till they, like you, are enlightened on this important
point.”
St. Sebastian Sockdolager, now having a leading
article for “The National Pop-gun and Universal Valve
Trumpet,” clearly in his mind, was not a creature to be
trifled with. An editor in this paroxysm, however gentle
in his less inspired moments, cannot safely be crossed,
or even spoken to. It is not wise to call him to dinner,
except through the keyhole, and to ask for “more copy,”
in general a privileged demand, is a risk too fearful to be
encountered. St. Sebastian's eye became fixed, his brow
corrugated, his mouth intellectually ajar.
“But, sir, the nuisance”—said Sappington.
“Don't bother!” was the impatient reply, and the
brow of St. Sebastian Sockdolager grew black as his
own ink.
“The boys, sir, the boys!—am I to be worried out of
my life and soul?”
The right hand of St. Sebastian Sockdolager fell heavily
upon the huge pewter inkstand—the concatenation of
his ideas had been broken—he half raised himself from
his chair and glanced significantly from his visiter to the
door.
“Mizzle!” said he, in a hoarse, suppressed whisper.
The language itself was unintelligible—the word might
have been Chaldaic, for all that Sapid knew to the contrary;
but there are situations in which an interpreter is
not needed, and this appeared to be one of them. Sapid
never before made a movement so swiftly extemporaneous.
He intends shortly to try whether the Grand Jury is a
convert to the new doctrine of sauciness.
Tibbs, in the meantime, grows in means and expands
in ambition. Progress is in his soul, like a reel in a bottle.
He aspires already to a “literary agency,” and often
feels as if he were destined to publish more magazines at
a single swoop than there are now in existence, each of
which shall have upon its cover, a picture of “The News-Boy,”
while the same device shall gleam upon the panels
of his coach.
| THE NEWS-BOY. Peter Ploddy, and other oddities | |