University of Virginia Library

14. XIV.
PROFESSIONAL AND PECUNIARY.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 173. In-line Illustration. Image of a group of people in a lecture all watching the man at the front point to something with a long pointer.]

NOTHING satisfactory to either
party resulted from Martin's interview
with his uncle. On the
contrary, the breach between
them seemed widened. Mr. Merrivale,
discouraged, impatient,
mortally offended, perhaps, proposed
no subsequent meeting with
his refractory nephew; and the
latter, having scorned the last
opportunity by which, with a small sacrifice of manly pride, he
might have secured certain pecuniary advantages, of which he
stood wofully in need, was left once more to struggle alone
against misfortune and want, dependent upon that most precarious
of all trades, the literary profession, for his daily bread. But
Martin was not sorry. His spirit, too buoyant to be crushed,
leaped forth courageously to face the future. The difficulties it
had met and vanquished gave it new strength. It seemed to have
fed upon them, as a hunter on wild game, and to have been
stimulated and nourished thereby.

In this frame of mind Martin set out on the following morning

to take the poem of “Alice” to the office of the Streamer of the
Free. It was another stormy day. The same cold east wind,
and dreary drizzling rain, swept through the streets of Boston.
But his soul was bright and hopeful as a June morning. It was
full of sunshine, poetry and song.

He was a little diffident, however, about entering the office of
the Streamer. Not that he stood in awe of the editor, for he had
read his articles; but it appeared to him a meanness, a sacrilege,
to ask money for so divine a creation as a poem. The rigid
finger of necessity pointed the way, however, and he mounted the
office stairs, blushing, but resolved.

“Is the editor in?” he asked of a gentleman who was opening
letters at a desk.

“You wish to see Mr. Drove?” said the gentleman addressed,
with a complacent smirk. “That is my name, sir. I am the
publisher and responsible editor.”

He gave Martin a careless nod, and, moistening his thumb on
his lips, proceeded to count a small roll of small bills with a consequential
air, calculated to impress the visitor.

“I called to see if I could do anything for you, in the way of
furnishing articles for the Streamer.”

“Ah, yes. Take a seat. What — a — description of articles
did you propose to furnish?” asked Mr. Drove, regarding Martin
with the same complacent smirk, with his chin out and his eyes
half-closed.

“I thought of offering you a poem first, as a specimen of what
I can do,” replied Martin, taking “Alice” from his pocket.
“Would you like to glance your eye over it, sir?”

“Certainly,” said the responsible editor. He took the poem,
and studied it for some seconds, winking and nodding, with an

expression of great critical acumen. “What is that word?” he
asked at length, having stuck fast in the first line. “Leaky? —
leaky palace? `In this grand old leaky palace,' — is that it?”

“The word is leafy,” said Martin, with a revulsion of feeling.

“Leafy! O, yes; leafy is better. `In this grand old leafy
palace, deep whitening the — the —'”

“`Deep within,'” suggested Martin.

“`Deep within the comely grove,'” pursued the editor, with
difficulty. “`Comely grove,' — is that it?”

“Perhaps,” said Martin, flushed and nervous, “it will be as
well for me to read it to you.”

“As you say,” replied Mr. Drove. “Your manuscript is a
little blind, and I should want to get accustomed to it to make it
out readily. You may read it, if you please.”

Martin accordingly cleared his throat, and went through with
the poem of Alice; not with much spirit, however, for it seemed
to him all the time as if he was reading to a post.

“Very pretty,” replied the responsible editor, winking and
nodding again at the conclusion. “Quite a pleasing production.
It 's rather long for our columns, however, I am afraid. You
could n't make two short poems of it, could you?”

“About as easy as you could make two small statues of one
large one, by cutting it in two,” said Martin, in a quiet tone, but
with an incensed look.

“Ah! well — never mind. The length will be no great
objection,” the responsible editor hastened to reply. “If you
would like to leave the poem with me, I will give it to my assistant,
who generally attends to such things, and have it published
— probably — in our next number.”

“Very good,” replied Martin. “One thing, however, necessity

compels me to mention. I am a good deal in want of funds, and
if you could let me have something on the poem this morning, I
would esteem it a great favor.”

“How much did you a—anticipate getting for it?” inquired the
responsible editor.

“I never sold a poem in my life. I don't know what such
things are worth,” said Martin, frankly. “You can take it, if
you will, and pay me what it is worth to you, — if it is nothing
more than ten, or even five dollars.”

The responsible editor nodded, winked, and looked sagacious.

“We have never been in the habit of paying for poetry,” he
said, after taking some moments to contemplate the matter.
“We pay liberally for prose; but poetry is an article it would be
no object for us to buy.”

“Excuse me,” returned Martin, with dignity, folding his manuscript.
“I gathered from your prospectus that you would be glad
to purchase original poetry; but it seems that I was mistaken.”

“O, we pay for poetry occasionally — now and then,” said the
other. “We had a prize-poem at the beginning of the present
volume, for which we paid handsomely. It was called the
`Streamer of the Free,' and was a very fine production. If you
could write us something of that kind, — patriotic, you know, — I
an't sure but I might buy it of you, and use it at the beginning
of the next volume.”

“As a prize-poem?” suggested Martin.

“Well, — yes, possibly,” the editor went on, too well satisfied
with himself to perceive any irony in the remark. “It 's a good
thing for a young writer's reputation, you know, to be the author
of a prize production. You have never written much for the
press, have you?”

“Not a great deal. I should like to make a beginning with
you,” said Martin, a little choked. “What kind of prose articles
would be most acceptable?”

“Sketches, tales, romances, — anything in the story line, pithy
and dramatic. Sketches, of from a column to a column and a half
would suit us best.”

“May I ask what you pay for such contributions?”

“That depends something on the author's ability and reputation,”
replied the editor, with a sagacious look. “Our average
price is a dollar a column.”

“A dollar a column?” repeated Martin, aghast.

“That 's considered a fair price by newspaper writers,” pursueb
the editor. “You see,” — opening a copy of the Streamer,
— “our columns are rather short, and leaded. I suppose you
can write up four or five such columns in a day, easy enough.”

Martin was struck with the suggestion. The necessity of
funds rendered his perceptions clear, and he reflected that the
average price for four or five columns of matter would be four or
five dollars, of money. Mean as the remuneration seemed, he was
not in a position to despise it.

“If I bring you in a sketch to-morrow,” said he, “will you
decide upon it by the day after?”

“My assistant attends to such things,” returned the editor,
“and he is sometimes a little slow about reading manuscript; but
we will do the best we can with you.”

Thereupon Martin, promising to furnish a prose sketch for the
Streamer on the following morning, put “Alice” in his pocket
and his hat on his head, and withdrew. His spirits were not
quite so gay, on descending the office-stairs, as when he mounted
them; but his determination was as strong as ever to earn a

livelihood with his pen. It was a relief to know that he was not
dependent on the Streamer alone. There were other Boston
newspapers, called “literary,” which paid for original contributions.
The Stars and Stripes, the Standard of the Free, the
Free Banner, the Yankee Standard and the Literary Portfolio,
were probably no less liberal with their contributors than the
Streamer. Martin had received an impression that, of these, the
Portfolio was the most respectable; and straightway to the office
thereof he resorted, with the poem of Alice. He entered what
seemed at first to be a mere cloud of cigar-smoke, packed away
in a room; but, on looking about him, he discovered two men sitting
by a table in the sickly light which struggled through the
obscure atmosphere from a window beyond. One of the men
was at work with a cigar in his mouth and a pair of scissors in
his hand, making clippings from a newspaper, while the other
appeared to be engaged in reading a manuscript. Martin paused
before a pile of newspapers that littered the floor, removed his
hat, and inquired if the editor was in. The man with the cigar
and scissors said he was; and Martin, somewhat embarrassed at
doing his delicate errand in presence of a third party, stammered,
blushed, and produced the poem of Alice.

“Will you leave it, and call this afternoon or to-morrow?”
asked the editor, in a ghastly tone of voice, as if he had weak
lungs.

“If you have leisure to look it over now, I will wait,” replied
Martin, in some trepidation.

The editor made no reply, but, holding his cigar in his mouth,
read the poem, sleepily, through puffs of smoke. The author's
cheeks and forehead began to tingle and glow. He felt an impulse
to snatch his divine composition from the pollution of such

hands, and rescue it from the profane inspection of such eyes.
But reason restrained him; he stifled his irritation, and stood by,
studying to be patient, while the poem, which should have been
read to the music of singing brooks and rustling leaves, by a soul
in harmony with nature, was examined by the dull intellect of
one whose spirit seemed blasted by the poison in the midst of
which he counterfeited life.

“Read it, Killings,” said the editor, in the same exhausted
tone, passing it over to his companion.

Without another word, he resumed his clipping, having laid his
cigar on a book; while Killings went over the poem, and Martin
endeavored to forget himself in the columns of a newspaper, which
he had picked up from the floor.

“What do you think of it?” asked the editor, faintly, plying
his scissors.

“Very fair,” replied Killings, in a voice which, by contrast
with the other, appeared so full of animation that it made Martin
start. “Very fair, indeed.”

“Would you like to have it published?” asked the editor, still
without looking up.

“I would,” said Martin, over the newspaper.

“If you will leave it, I 'll have it announced next week for the
week after. It is worth a good notice, an't it, Killings?”

Killings thought it was, decidedly, and appeared quite patronizing
towards Martin. But the latter felt a painful consciousness
that “Alice” ought to bring him something besides compliments
and puffs. He therefore made an effort, and asked — affecting a
business air — what price was commonly paid for such productions.

The editor responded, in stereotyped phrase, that they had never

paid much for poetry; that their paper had been but recently
established, and was not able as yet to pay much for matter of any
kind. Contributions of real merit, however, they were always glad
to secure; it was for their interest to do so, whenever they could.
Most of their writers had furnished matter, so far, gratuitously;
and, when they paid anybody, they would feel under obligations
to give these the first chance. This was understood with their contributors;
and, if he would like to join them on the same conditions,
the proprietors would be glad to have him. Their business
was increasing rapidly, and the prospect was that they would soon
be able to pay as liberally as anybody for original matter.

Having delivered himself of these sentiments, with sluggish
deliberation, amid puffs of smoke, and in a voice so miserably
low that Martin could follow him only with the strictest attention,
the editor opened a fresh newspaper, — if anything in that office
could be properly called fresh, — and proceeded to glance over its
columns.

Martin replied that he could not, in his present circumstances,
contribute to the Portfolio on such terms, and took his leave, with
a good deal of nausea and not much ceremony. To his surprise,
Killings followed him out, and accosted him in the entry.

“You know me, I suppose,” said that gentleman, leering complacently
at the young author. “You know of me, at any rate.
My name is Killings.”

“Mr. Killings,” repeated Martin, doubtfully.

“I am the Killings,” pursued his new friend, putting out his
lips, wrinkling his forehead, and bowing oddly with his hands on
his sides. “Of course you have heard of Killings, the panorama
man.”

“Ah, yes,” said Martin, brightening.

“You make a business of writing, I presume?” suggested Killings,
with another contortion of his face, expressive of conscious
importance. “Yes, certainly; then perhaps you would like to do
a little job for me?”

Martin answered eagerly that he would. Thereupon the sprite
that had charge of the Panorama Man's face shifted the scene
suddenly, and showed him with puffed-out cheeks, great eyes and
gathered brows, contemplative.

“I want,” said Killings, with wise deliberation, after mature
thought on the subject, — “I want — something — something
quaint — and fanciful! You catch the idea. I 'm satisfied you
have the talent to do just what I want. That — that 's a very
pretty poem of yours, sir,” added Killings, with a sudden change
to the patronizing manner, doing a broad smile for Martin's gratification.
“I — I was a good deal pleased with it.”

Martin replied that he was glad to hear him say so, and
inquired what subject he desired him to treat upon.

“I want a song,” said Killings, caricaturing his face again to
express profundity of design. “Something taking and popular.
You have seen my panorama?”

Martin was sorry to confess he had not enjoyed that entertainment.

“You must go and see it. I 'll give you a couple of tickets.
You can take that young lady, you know,” said Killings, looking
frightfully funny. “I want you to get some idea from the panorama
for the song. You can call it `The Great Killings and
his Panorama,' or something like that. If it has the right twang
to it, I 'll have it set to music, and published in a popular form.
You have probably seen some of my songs?”

On receiving a negative reply, the great Killings returned to

the editorial room, and brought out a number of sheets of music,
to which he called Martin's attention. There were four distinct
songs, dedicated to the modest Killings, with admiration, esteem,
love, gratitude, and several other qualities of the heart, in various
degrees, from the positive to the superlative, by their humble
composers. The design of each seemed to be to exalt and glorify
the popular Killings, and to popularize his panorama.

“If you can write me a song as good as either of these, I 'll
pay you liberally for it. You can do it, I know.”

Martin glanced at “Sunset on the Rhone; Words suggested
by a Scene in Killings' Panorama, and respectfully dedicated
to that great public benefactor;” and replied, smiling, that
he believed he could. He also added — impelled by an instinctive
desire to earn something — that he would try; upon which
the sublime Killings expressed his approbation.

“Do you ever write prose?” that personage afterwards
inquired.

“O, yes,” replied Martin.

“Sketches?”

“I am about to try my hand at them.”

“You have probably seen some sketches of this kind going the
rounds,” said Killings, taking a roll of newspaper-strips from his
breast-pocket. “Here 's one — `How the Witty Killings come
it over the Old Maids,' — published in the Stars and Stripes.
Here 's another, from the Portfolio, — `Turning the Tables; or,
Killings and the Practical Joker,' one of the best things Bob
Buster ever wrote. `How Killings sold the Landlord' is very
good, too, written by old Obadiah. This is one of the most
popular things that 's been published — `Fun among the Old
Fogies; or, the immortal Killings and his Panorama at Beetle-

borough.' Would n't you like to write something of that sort?
I 'll pay you liberally, besides what you get from the newspaper
it 's published in.”

Martin replied that he did not think such compositions would
be at all to his taste; alleging that he preferred to elaborate
imaginary scenes.

“All the better; I don't care to give you any incidents.”

“But, if I should make you the hero of a sketch, you would
expect me to start with some actual occurrence?”

“That 's perfectly immaterial. Write just such a sketch as you
please, tell the story on to a great joker, who of course gets the
start of everybody, and bring it to me. If it 's up to the mark,
I 'll insert my own name instead of the fictitious one, and pay
you for it before it is published. Now, that 's an omject,” said
Killings, through his nose; “an't it?”

Martin replied that it was so, and that he would give the subject
his serious attention.

“When you get anything written, bring it in,” resumed the
generous Killings. “You 'll find me here during the day. By the
way,” — speaking through his nose in a low tone, confidentially,
— “I rather expect there 'll be a change in the management of
the Portfolio soon; if there should, it 'll promably be for your
advantage. I 've got a good deal of money invested in it, and
I 've some ideas I want to carry out, when the time comes.
Don't say anything; but think of what I 've told you. Mum 's
the word.”

So saying, the immortal Killings made a number of grotesque
grimaces, expressive of unfathomable depth of thought, accompanied
with extraordinary sagacity, patted Martin on the shoulder,
touched his nose significantly, and returned to the smoky

room. As for Martin, he went down into the cold, wet street, a
good deal disgusted, a good deal amused, and not a little astonished;
and there, drinking in the damp east wind, he experienced
a sense of freedom and refreshment, as men are wont to do escaping
after long confinement in close walls.

Although he still had the poem of “Alice” on his hands, Martin
did not feel discouraged. In attempting to dispose of it, he had
made two engagements to write; and, gathering hopes of a livelihood
from his success, he resolved to make one more effort to sell
his verses, and see what the result would be. He accordingly
proceeded to the office of the Stars and Stripes, and, with some
diffidence, introduced “Alice” to the publisher. The latter — a
proud, stiff, wooden sort of a man, with an expression of face
which gave one the idea that he smelt something disagreeable —
turned his neck in his dickey, received the manuscript, and gave
it a hurried reading.

“Your article will be accepted,” said he, with difficult articulation,
as if he was still oppressed with the disagreeable odor, and
could not use his organs of speech with freedom.

Martin felt a great repugnance to mentioning the necessity
which compelled him to require pay for his poem; but, as there
was no alternative, he did not hesitate to follow up the publisher's
decision with that important statement.

“Very well; if that is the case,” replied Mr. Duckdown,
abruptly, showing as much impatience as a wooden man could be
expected to show, “you can take the poem and go away; we
don't want it. We have no end to poetry sent to us for nothing,
and it is ridiculous to talk of buying it.”

Mr. Duckdown returned to the newspaper he had been reading,
looking as if the unpleasant smell had become stifling, and

relief depended upon the absence of his visitor. Martin accordingly
stalked out of the office, with a hot face and sharply-compressed
lips, and went home, satisfied to postpone all further
experience with the weekly press for an indefinite period.

Alice sat by her friend's side that day while he wrote a sketch
designed for the Streamer of the Free. The room was gloomy
and cold; the lamp-stand he used for a desk was inconveniently
narrow; Mr. Toplink's ink was pale and watery; the beds,
the wash-stands, the dingy walls, and the rag-carpet — appropriately
named — which covered the floor, were not inspiring
objects; and certain unhappy thoughts, which would intrude
themselves upon Martin's mind, sadly ruffled the feathers of
the bird of fancy, and hindered its flight. Yet he somehow
labored through a sketch entitled “White Hairs and Auburn
Tresses; or, the Old Man and his Youthful Bride;” which he
finished after dinner, and which Alice pronounced pretty and
touching.

In the evening he invited Mr. Toplink — who was delighted to
have that pleasure — to go with him to see Killings' Panorama.
He was a good deal interested in that wonderful work of art, and
found no difficulty in selecting a subject for the proposed song;
which he composed, in part, during the performance. He did not
suit himself, however, in consequence of the annoyance occasioned
by Mr. Toplink's conversation. That sociable young gentleman,
having seen the panorama before, undertook the part of interpreter,
and talked in hoarse whispers during the entire entertainment,
not much to the gratification of any person except himself.
His delight seemed unbounded when his memory enabled him to
anticipate the lecturer, and inform Martin what phrases would be
used to describe the castle or the forest, and what joke would be

perpetrated about the gored horse, at the bull-fight, taking a horn
and getting high.

The lecturer was the great Killings himself — the eloquent
funny, handsome, witty, mad wag Killings, as the paid puffs in
the newspapers called him. His style of lecturing was unique.
It was not altogether pleasant to Martin, although Mr. Toplink
considered it a model. He talked much through his nose, and his
voice rose and fell rather too regularly upon the waves of a monotonous
sing-song to be agreeable. His language was exceedingly
florid in all places where the subject would admit of ornament,
and often where it would not. A portion of the audience
appeared to consider him a great orator, while the majority
regarded him as simply ridiculous. Accordingly, whenever the
former cheered in earnest, the latter cheered in fun; and Killings,
always gratified, acknowledged the honors done him with magnificent
bows.

“Here,” he would say, using his rod to indicate a scene on the
canvas, “here you perceive the justly-celebrated cataract of
Val Corno; a luxuriant spot, as you observe; where the waters
come careering down in mad sport from their wild mountain
homes, and, leaping sublimely from rock to rock, plunge headlong
amid clouds of mist and spray, spanned by the most exquisitely
beautiful rainbows, of gorgeous dyes, into a boiling and foaming
Phlegethon below. Here,” he would add, after the applause following
this burst of eloquence had subsided, “I have spent many
a pleasant hour, pondering the sublimity of the scenery, and revelling
in poetic visions, or conversing with the poor peasants, to
whom I never failed to give a generous alms, when they related to
me the wild and picturesque legends of their native valley, by which
means I always managed to be a great favorite with the peasantry

wherever I went; and I confess that I have been as much
pleased with their simple attentions, as by the tributes of honor
and respect which nobility and royalty have heaped upon my
humble head;” at which allusion to his triumphs in foreign lands
the modest Killings made it a point to bow very low, and cough
deferentially.

But Killings was no less humorous than sublime. Mr. Toplink
declared that, a little more, and that inimitable joker would be the
death of him. His companion, however, probably through envy
of the great man's success, declared that he could see nothing but
coarseness and vulgarity in the clownish grimaces into which
Killings screwed his face for the gratification of the public, and
which appeared to be his principal attraction.

Martin finished his song that night before he slept; and on the
following morning he set out to call on the famous Killings, and
visit the office of the Streamer of the Free. He first left his manuscript
of “White Hairs and Auburn Tresses” in the hands of
Mr. Drove, then hastened to find his patron in the smoky editorial
room of the Portfolio.

Mr. Killings received the song with a grimace expressive of
pleasant surprise, and invited Martin to sit down, after shaking
hands with him cordially.

“Pretty fair,” said he, having read the stanzas twice very
carefully. “How did you like the exhibition?” looking up with
a sudden change of countenance, like a harlequin.

“I was interested,” replied Martin.

“And the lecture? But never mind; spare my blushes,” said
the witty Killings, facetiously. “The girl who played the piano
and sang, — how was you pleased with her?”

“Very well, indeed. I am fond of music,” answered Martin.

“And how would you like to hear her sing this song of yours?
It would n't sound bad, would it?” said Killings, with another
grimace. “I think I shall have her try it; and if it 's popular,
you may see it published in the course of a few weeks. You can
put your name to the words, if you like; it 'll be a good thing for
your reputation. And how would you like to have me introduce
the song to the audience, with a complimentary allusion to the
talented and promising young author — eh?” cried Killings, with
ludicrous contortions of face.

Martin said he preferred that his name should not be
known in connection with the song; and that Mr. Killings could
make any such allusions to the author as he chose, with that
understanding.

“I like your modesty no less than your genius,” answered
the noble Killings, shaking Martin's hand again with great cordiality.
“I think we shall be fast friends. I like to deal with such
fellows as you. Now, there are hundreds of young writers who
would be glad to make regular engagements to furnish me with
songs, — but I have n't found one that pleased me so well as you
do. If you 'll agree to write what I want during the coming
season,” the generous Killings went on, talking through his nose,
“I 'll pay you handsomely; I 'll make it an omject for you.
What do you say?”

Martin was beginning to feel that he had done Killings injustice.
He thought the eccentric manners of that remarkable man
might have prejudiced him, and that, beneath his disagreeable
egotism and affectations, there existed, after all, a true heart.
He accordingly expressed a willingness to undertake the business
he proposed.

“That 's the way I like to hear you talk,” resumed the proprietor

of the panorama, affectionately laying his hands on Martin's
shoulders, and putting his long nose into his face. “I consider it
a fortunate circumstance which has thrown us together. I shall
probably be paying you a great deal of money during the next
twelve months, and you will be furnishing me what I want in
return.”

“This song suits you, then,” observed Martin, gratified and
encouraged.

“It does very well,” returned Killings. “These things don't
cost you much effort, I suppose.”

“Not much. If an idea strikes me, I find no difficulty in
composing.”

“And I suppose that, this being your first attempt, you did not
intend to charge me anything for it?”

The magnanimous Killings regarded Martin with a look of unconscious
simplicity exceedingly beautiful to behold. Upon which
the young man, ashamed of bantering for a trifle, but forced by
circumstances to appear thus mean, stammered forth something
about the necessity of raising a few dollars to pay his board bill
that very day.

“I don't think I 've got any small bills about me, just now,”
said the great-hearted Killings, laying his hand thoughtfully upon
his trousers-pocket. “I 'll tell you what I 'll do, though,”
brightening. “Say nothing about this song; but bring me in
another to-morrow morning,” — talking through his nose, —
“with a sketch such as I spoke about, and I 'll have some money
for you. Now, that 's fair, an't it?” with a grin which tightened
the skin all over his face, until it appeared diversified — as
geographers say — with sallow spots and streaks.

It was Martin's disposition to let those he dealt with have their

own way in all trifling matters of business. The magnanimous
Killings, therefore, had his way; and Martin went home, somewhat
disappointed, it is true, but, nevertheless, quite hopeful
of the great things his noble patron would do for him by
and by.