16. CHAPTER XVI.
PHILOSOPHY.
Abel Newt believed in his lucky star. He had managed
Uncle Savory—couldn't he manage the world?
“My son,” said Mr. Boniface Newt, “you are now about to
begin the world.” (Begin? thought Abel.) “You are now
coming into my house as a merchant. In this world we must
do the best we can. It is a great pity that men are not considerate,
and all that. But they are not. They are selfish.
You must take them as you find them. You, my son, think
they are all honest and good.”—Do I? quoth son, in his soul.
—“It is the bitter task of experience to undeceive youth from
its romantic dreams. As a rule, Abel, men are rascals; that
is to say, they pursue their own interests. How sad! True;
how sad! Where was I? Oh! men are scamps—with some
exceptions; but you must go by the rule. Life is a scrubrace—melancholy,
Abel, but true. I talk plainly to you, but I
do it for your good. If we were all angels, things would be
different. If this were the Millennium, every thing would
doubtless be agreeable to every body. But it is not—how
very sad! True, how very sad! Where was I? Oh! it's
all devil take the hindmost. And because your neighbors are
dishonest, why should you starve? You see, Abel?”
It was in Mr. Boniface Newt's counting - room that he
preached this gospel. A boy entered and announced that
Mr. Hadley was outside looking at some cases of dry goods.
“Now, Abel,” said his father, “I'll return in a moment.”
He stepped out, smiling and rubbing his hands. Mr. Hadley
was stooping over a case of calicoes; Blackstone, Hadley,
& Merrimack—no safer purchasers in the world. The countenance
of Boniface Newt beamed upon the customer as if he saw
good notes at six months exuding from every part of his person.
“Good-morning, Mr. Hadley. Charming morning, Sir —
beautiful day, Sir. What's the word this morning, Sir?”
“Nothing, nothing,” returned the customer. “Pretty print
that. Just what I've been looking for” (renewed rubbing of
hands on the part of Mr. Newt)—“very pretty. If it's the
right width, it's just the thing. Let me see—that's about
seven - eighths.” He shook his head negatively. “No, not
wide enough. If that print were a yard wide, I should take
all you have.”
“Oh, that's a yard,” replied Mr. Newt; “certainly a full
yard.” He looked around inquiringly, as if for a yard-stick.
“Where is the yard-stick?” asked Mr. Hadley.
“Timothy!” said Mr. Newt to the boy, with a peculiar look.
The boy disappeared and reappeared with a yard-stick, while
Mr. Newt's face underwent a series of expressions of subdued
anger and disgust.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Hadley, laying the yard-stick upon
the calicoes; “yes, as I thought, seven-eighths; too narrow—
sorry.”
There were thirty cases of those goods in the loft. Boniface
Newt groaned in soul. The unconscious small boy, who
had not understood the peculiar look, and had brought the
yard-stick, stood by.
“Mr. Newt,” said Hadley, stopping at another case, “that
is very handsome.”
“Very, very; and that is the last case.”
“You have no other cases?”
“No.”
“Oh! well, send it round at once; for I am sure—”
“Mr. Newt,” said the unconscious boy, smiling with the
satisfaction of one who is able to correct an error, “you are
mistaken, Sir. There are a dozen more cases just like that up
stairs.”
“Ah! then I don't care about it,” said Mr. Hadley, passing
on. The head of the large commission-house of Boniface Newt
& Co. looked upon the point of apoplexy.
“Good-morning, Mr. Newt; sorry that I see nothing farther,”
said Mr. Hadley, and he went out.
Mr. Newt turned fiercely to the unconscious boy.
“What do you mean, Sir, by saying and doing such things?”
asked he, sharply.
“What things, Sir?” demanded the appalled boy.
“Why, getting the yard-stick when I winked to you not to
find it, and telling of other cases when I said that one was
the last.”
“Why, Sir, because it wasn't the last,” said the boy.
“For business purposes it was the last, Sir,” replied Mr.
Newt. “You don't know the first principles of business. The
tongue is always the mischief-maker. Hold your tongue, Sir,
hold your tongue, or you'll lose your place, Sir.”
Mr. Boniface Newt, ruffled and red, went into his office,
where he found Abel reading the newspaper and smoking a
cigar. The clerks outside were pale at the audacity of Newt,
Jun. The young man was dressed extremely well. He had
improved the few weeks of his residence in the city by visits
to Frost the tailor, in Maiden Lane; and had sent his measure
to Forr, the bootmaker in Paris, artists who turned out the
prettiest figures that decorated the Broadway of those days.
Mr. Abel Newt, to his father's eyes, had the air of a man of
superb leisure; and as he sat reading the paper, with one leg
thrown over the arm of the office-chair, and the smoke languidly
curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt profoundly,
but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight prescience
of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of
Newt.
As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the
hand still holding the newspaper, and, without removing the
cigar, said, through the cloud of smoke he blew,
“Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life.”
The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered,
“Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such
d—d rascals, because they force every body else to be so too.
[ILLUSTRATION]
The Gospel Of Mammon.
[Description: 538EAF. Page 089. In-line Illustration. Image of a young man and an old man talking. The young man sits with his leg over the arm of a chair and a newspaper in his hand. The older man is standing; he has a stern look on his face.]
But what can you do? It's all very fine to talk, but we've
got to live. I sha'n't be such an ass as to run into the street
and say, `I gave ten cents a yard for those goods, but you
must pay me twenty.' Not at all. It's other men's business
to find that out if they can. It's a great game, business is,
and the smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going
to get the largest price we can. People are gouging, and
shinning, and sucking all round. It's give and take. I am
not here to look out for other men, I'm here to take care of
myself—for nobody else will. It's very sad, I know; it's very
sad, indeed. It's absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was
I? Oh! I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than
the truth wavering. It's perfectly dreadful, my son, from some
points of view—Christianity, for instance. But what on earth
are you going to do? The only happy people are the rich
people, for they don't have this eternal bother how to make
money. Don't misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that
you must always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is
not bound always to tell the whole truth. The very law itself
says that no man need give evidence against himself. Besides,
business is no worse than every other calling. Do you suppose
a lawyer never defends a man whom he knows to be
guilty? He says he does it to give the culprit a fair trial.
Fiddle-de-dee! He strains every nerve to get the man off.
A lawyer is hired to take the side of a company or a corporation
in every quarrel. He's paid by the year or by the case.
He probably stops to consider whether his company is right,
doesn't he? he works for justice, not for victory? Oh, yes!
stuff! He works for fees. What's the meaning of a retainer?
That if, upon examination, the lawyer finds the retaining party
to be in the right, he will undertake the case? Fiddle! no!
but that he will undertake the case any how and fight it
through. So 'tis all round. I wish I was rich, and I'd be out
of it.”
Mr. Boniface Newt discoursed warmly; Mr. Abel Newt
listened with extreme coolness. He whiffed his cigar, and
leaned his head on one side as he hearkened to the wisdom
of experience; observing that his father put his practice into
words and called it philosophy.
