Various - "Scientific American Supplement, No. 561, October 2, 1886"

George Puttenham - "The Arte of English Poesie"

Chevalier Johnstone - "The Campaign of 1760 in Canada"

E. S. Roscoe and Helen Clergue - "George Selwyn: His Letters and His Life"

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Becky Saletan, publisher of the adult trade division, will leave next week in a sign of further unraveling at the publisher.

Houghton Mifflin Publisher Resigns
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
Mr. Friedlaender was a book-loving lawyer and financial adviser whose collection of early printed books caused a stir in bibliophilic circles when it went to auction.

Samuel Hopkins Adams - The Clarion

S >> Samuel Hopkins Adams >> The Clarion




"'The proprietor of this scheme which drives penniless women to the
street or to suicide is John M. Gibbs, principal owner of the Boston
Store.'"

Words failed Shearson; also motive power, almost. For reckonable seconds
he stood stricken. Then slowly he got under way and rolled through the
door. Once, on the stairs, they heard from him a protracted rumbling
groan. "Ruin," was the one distinguishable word.

It left an echo in Hal's brain, an echo which rang hollowly amongst
misgivings.

"_Is_ it ruin to try and run a newspaper without taking a percentage of
that kind of profits, Mac?" he asked.

"Well, a newspaper can't be too squeamish about its ads." was the
cautious answer.

"Do all newspapers carry that kind of stuff?"

"Not quite. Most of them, though. They need the money."

"What's the matter with business in this town? Everything seems to be
rotten."

Ellis took refuge in a proverb. "Business is business," he stated
succinctly.

"And it's as bad everywhere as here? This is all new to me, you know. I
rather expected to find every concern as decently and humanly run as
Certina."

One swift, suspicious glance Ellis cast upon his superior, but Hal's
face was candor itself. "Well, no," he admitted. "Perhaps it isn't as
bad in some cities. The trouble here is that all the papers are
terrorized or bribed into silence. Until we began hitting out with our
little shillalah, nobody had ever dared venture a peep of disapproval.
So, business got to thinking it could do as it pleased. You can't really
blame business much. Immunity from criticism isn't ever good for the
well-known human race."

Hal took the matter of the "Sewing Aid" swindle home with him for
consideration. Hitherto he had considered advertising only as it
affected or influenced news. Now he began to see it in another light, as
a factor in itself of immense moral moment and responsibility. It was
dimly outlined to his conscience that, as a partner in the profit, he
became also a partner in the enterprise. Thus he faced the question of
the honesty or dishonesty of the advertising in his paper. And this is a
question fraught with financial portent for the honorable journalist.




CHAPTER XXII

PATRIOTS


Worthington's Old Home Week is a gay, gaudy, and profitable institution.
During the six days of its course the city habitually maintains the
atmosphere of a three-ringed circus, the bustle of a county fair, and
the business ethics of the Bowery. Allured by widespread advertising and
encouraged by special rates on the railroads, the countryside for a
radius of one hundred miles pours its inhabitants into the local
metropolis, their pockets filled with greased dollars. Upon them
Worthington lavishes its left-over and shelf-cluttering merchandise, at
fifty per cent more than its value, amidst general rejoicings. As Festus
Willard once put it, "There is a sound of revelry by night and larceny
by day." But then Mr. Willard, being a manufacturer and not a retailer,
lacks the subtler sympathy which makes lovely the spirit of Old Home
hospitality.

This year the celebration was to outdo itself. Because of the centennial
feature, no less a person than the President of the United States, who
had spent a year of his boyhood at a local school, was pledged to
attend. In itself this meant a record crowd. Crops had been good locally
and the toil-worn agriculturist had surplus money wherewith to purchase
phonographs, gold teeth, crayon enlargements of self and family, home
instruction outfits for hand-painting sofa cushions, and similar prime
necessities of farm life. To transform his static savings into dynamic
assets for itself was Worthington's basic purpose in holding its gala
week. And now this beneficent plan was threatened by one individual, and
he young, inexperienced, and a new Worthingtonian, Mr. Harrington
Surtaine. This unforeseen cloud upon the horizon of peace, prosperity,
and happiness rose into the ken of Dr. Surtaine the day after the
appearance of the sewing-girl editorial.

Dr. Surtaine hadn't liked that editorial. With his customary air of
long-suffering good nature he had told Hal so over his home-made apple
pie and rich milk, at the cheap and clean little luncheon place which he
patronized. Hal had no defense or excuse to offer. Indeed, his reference
to the topic was of the most casual order and was immediately followed
by this disconcerting question:

"What about the Rookeries epidemic, Dad?"

"Epidemic? There's no epidemic, Boyee."

"Well, there's something. People are dying down there faster than they
ought to. It's spread beyond the Rookeries now."

This was no news to the big doctor. But it was news to him that Hal knew
it.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I've been down there and ran right upon it."

The father's affection and alarm outleapt his caution at this. "You
better keep away from there, Boyee," he warned anxiously.

"If there's no epidemic, why should I keep away?"

"There's always a lot of infection down in those tenements," said Dr.
Surtaine lamely.

"Dad, when you made your report for the 'Clarion' did you tell us all
you knew?"

"All except some medical technicalities," said the Doctor, who never
told a lie when a half-lie would serve.

"I've just had a talk with the health officer, Dr. Merritt."

"Merritt's an alarmist."

"He's alarmed this time, certainly."

"What does he think it is?"

"It?" said Hal, a trifle maliciously. "The epidemic?"

"Epidemic's a big word. The sickness."

"How can he tell? He's had no chance to see the cases. They still
mysteriously disappear before he can get to them. By the way, your Dr.
De Vito seems to have a hand in that."

"Hal, I wish you'd get over your trick of seeing a mystery in
everything," said his father with a mild and tempered melancholy. "It's
a queer slant to your brain."

"There's a queer slant to this business of the Rookeries somewhere, but
I don't think it's in my brain. Merritt says the Mayor is holding him
off, and he believes that Tip O'Farrell, agent for the Rookeries, has
got the Mayor's ear. He wants to force the issue by quarantining the
whole locality."

"And advertise to the world that there's some sort of contagion there!"
cried Dr. Surtaine in dismay.

"Well, if there is--"

"Think of Old Home Week," adjured his father.

"The whole thing would be stamped out long before then."

"But not the panic and the fear of it. Hal, I do hope you aren't going
to take this up in the 'Clarion.'"

"Not at present. There isn't enough to go on. But we're going to watch,
and if things get any worse I intend to do something. So much I've
promised Merritt."

The result of this conversation was that Dr. Surtaine called a special
meeting of the Committee on Arrangements for Old Home Week. In
conformity with the laws of its genus, the committee was made up of the
representative business men of the city, with a clergyman or two for
compliment to the Church, and most of the newspaper owners or editors,
to enlist the "services of the press."

Its chairman was thoroughly typical of the mental and ethical attitude
of the committee. He felt comfortably assured that as he thought upon
any question of local public import, so would they think. Nevertheless,
he didn't intend to tell them all he knew. Such was not the purpose of
the meeting. Its real purpose, not to put too fine a point on it, was to
intimidate the newspapers, lest, if the "Clarion" broke the politic
silence, others might follow; and, as a secondary step, to furnish funds
for the handling of the Rookeries situation. Since Dr. Surtaine designed
to reveal as little as possible to his colleagues, he naturally began
his speech with the statement that he would be perfectly frank with
them.

"There's more sickness than there ought to be in the Rookeries
district," he proceeded. "It isn't dangerous, but it may prove
obstinate. Some sort of malarious affection, apparently. Perhaps it may
be necessary to do some cleaning up down there. In that case, money may
be needed."

"How much?" somebody asked.

"Five thousand dollars ought to do it."

"That's a considerable sum," another pointed out.

"And this is a serious matter," retorted the chairman. "Many of us
remember the disastrous effect that rumors of smallpox had on Old Home
Week, some years back. We can't afford to have anything of that sort
this time. An epidemic scare might ruin the whole show."

Now, an epidemic to these hard-headed business men was something that
kept people away from their stores. And the rumor of an epidemic might
accomplish that as thoroughly as the epidemic itself. Therefore, without
questioning too far, they were quite willing to spend money to avert
such disaster. The sum suggested was voted into the hands of a committee
of three to be appointed by the chair.

"In the mean time," continued Dr. Surtaine, "I think we should go on
record to the effect that any newspaper which shall publish or any
individual who shall circulate any report calculated to inspire distrust
or alarm is hostile to the best interests of the city."

"Well, what newspaper is likely to do that?" demanded Leroy Vane, of
the "Banner."

"If it's any it'll be the 'Clarion,'" growled Colonel Parker, editor of
the "Telegram."

"The newspaper business in this town is going to the dogs since the
'Clarion' changed hands," said Carney Ford, of the "Press," savagely.
"Nobody can tell what they're going to do next over there. They're
keeping the decent papers on the jump all the time, with their
yellowness and scarehead muckraking."

"A big sensational story about an epidemic would be great meat for the
'Clarion,'" said Vane. "What does it care for the best interests of the
town?"

"As an editor," observed Dr. Surtaine blandly, "my son don't appear to
be over-popular with his confreres."

"Why should he be?" cried Parker. "He's forever publishing stuff that
we've always let alone. Then the public wants to know why we don't get
the news. Get it? Of course we get it. But we don't always want to print
it. There's such a thing as a gentleman's understanding in the newspaper
business."

"So I've heard," replied the chairman. "Well, gentlemen, the boy's
young. Give him time."

"I'll give him six months, not longer, to go on the way he's been
going," said John M. Gibbs, with a vicious snap of his teeth.

"Does the 'Clarion' really intend to publish anything about an
epidemic?" asked Stickler, of the Hotel Stickler.

"Nothing is decided yet, so far as I know. But I may safely say that
there's a probability of their getting up some kind of a sensational
story."

"Can't you control your own son?" asked some one bluntly.

"Understand this, if you please, gentlemen. Over the Worthington
'Clarion' I have no control whatsoever."

"Well, there's where the danger lies," said Vane. "If the 'Clarion'
comes out with a big story, the rest of us have got to publish something
to save our face."

"What's to be done, then?" cried Stickler. "This means a big loss to the
hotel business."

"To all of us," amended the chairman. "My suggestion is that our special
committee be empowered to wait upon the editor of the 'Clarion' and talk
the matter over with him."

Embodied in the form of a motion this was passed, and the chair
appointed as that committee three merchants, all of whom were members of
the Publication Committee of the Retail Union; and, as such, exercised
the most powerful advertising control in Worthington. Dr. Surtaine still
pinned his hopes to the dollar and its editorial potency.

Unofficially and privately these men invited to go with them to the
"Clarion" office Elias M. Pierce, who had not been at the meeting. At
first he angrily refused. He wished to meet that young whelp Surtaine
nowhere but in a court of law, he announced. But after Bertram
Hollenbeck, of the Emporium, the chairman of the subcommittee, had
outlined his plan, Pierce took a night to think it over, and in the
morning accepted the invitation with a grim smile.

Forewarned by his father, who had begged that he consider carefully and
with due regard to his own future the proposals to be set before him,
Hal was ready to receive the deputation in form. Pierce's presence
surprised him. He greeted all four men with equally punctilious
politeness, however, and gave courteous attention while Hollenbeck spoke
for his colleagues. The merchant explained the purpose of the visit; set
forth the importance to the city of the centennial Old Home Week, and
urged the inadvisability of any sensationalism which might alarm the
public.

"We have sufficient assurance that there's nothing dangerous in the
present situation," he said.

"I haven't," said Hal. "If I had, there would be nothing further to be
said. The 'Clarion' is not seeking to manufacture a sensation."

"What is the 'Clarion' seeking to do?" asked Stensland, another of the
committee.

"Discover and print the news."

"Well, it isn't news until it's printed," Hollenbeck pointed out
comfortably. "And what's the use of printing that sort of thing, anyway?
It does a lot of people a lot of harm; but I don't see how it can
possibly do any one any good."

"Oh, put things straight," said Stensland. "Here, Mr. Editor; you've
stirred up a lot of trouble and lost a lot of advertising by it. Now,
you start an epidemic scare and kill off the biggest retail business of
the year, and you won't find an advertiser in town to stand by you. Is
that plain?"

"Plain coercion," said Hal.

"Call it what you like," began the apostle of frankness, when Hollenbeck
cut in on him.

"No use getting excited," he said. "Let's hear Mr. Surtaine's views.
What do you think ought to be done about the Rookeries?"

In anticipation of some such question Hal had been in consultation with
Dr. Elliot and the health officer that morning.

"Open up the Rookeries to the health authorities and to private
physicians other than Dr. De Vito. Call Tip O'Farrell's blockade off.
Clean out and disinfect the tenements. If necessary, quarantine every
building that's suspected."

"Why, what do you think the disease is?" cried Hollenbeck, taken aback
by the positiveness of Hal's speech.

"Do _you_ tell _me_. You've come here to give directions."

"Something in the nature of malaria," said Hollenbeck, recovering
himself. "So there's no call for extreme measures. The Old Home Week
Committee will look after the cleaning-up. As for quarantine, that would
be a confession. And we want to do the thing as quietly as possible."

"You've come to the wrong shop to buy quiet," said Hal mildly.

"Now listen to _me_." Elias M. Pierce sat forward in his chair and
fixed his stony gaze on Hal's face. "This is what you'll do with the
'Clarion.' You'll agree here and now to print nothing about this alleged
epidemic."

Hal turned upon him a silent but benign regard. The recollection of that
contained smile lent an acid edge to the magnate's next speech.

"You will further promise," continued Pierce, "to quit all your
muckraking of the business interests and business men of this town."

Still Hal smiled.

"And you will publish to-morrow a full retraction of the article about
my daughter and an ample apology for the attack upon me."

The editorial expression did not change.

"On those conditions," Pierce concluded, "I will withdraw the criminal
proceedings against you, but not the civil suit. The indictment will be
handed down to-morrow."

"I'm ready for it."

"Are you ready for this? We have two unbiased witnesses--unbiased, mind
you--who will swear that the accident was Miss Cleary's own fault.
And--" there was the hint of an evil smile on the thin lips, as they
released the final words very slowly--"and Miss Cleary's own affidavit
to that effect."

For the moment the words seemed a jumble to Hal. Meaning, dire and
disastrous, informed them, as he repeated them to himself.
Providentially his telephone rang, giving him an excuse to go out. He
hurried over to McGuire Ellis.

"I'm afraid it's right, Boss," said the associate editor, after hearing
Hal's report.

"But how can it be? I saw the whole thing."

"E.M. Pierce is rich. The nurse is poor. That is, she has been poor.
Lately I've had a man keeping tabs on her. Since leaving the hospital,
she's moved into an expensive flat, and has splurged out into good
clothes. Whence the wherewithal?"

"Bribery!"

"Without a doubt."

"Then Pierce has got us."

"It looks so," admitted Ellis sorrowfully.

"But we can't give in," groaned Hal. "It means the end of the 'Clarion.'
What is there to do?"

"Play for time," advised the other. "Go back there with a stiff upper
lip and tell 'em you won't be bulldozed or hurried. Then we'll have a
council."

"Suppose they demand an answer."

"Refuse. See here, Hal. I know Pierce. He'd never give up his revenge,
for any good he could do to the cause of the city by holding off the
'Clarion' on this Old Home Week business if there weren't something
else. Pierce isn't built that way. That bargain offer is mighty
suspicious. There's a weak spot in his case somewhere. Hold him off, and
we'll hunt for it."

None could have guessed, from the young editor's bearing, on his return,
that he knew himself to be facing a crucial situation. With the utmost
nonchalance he insisted that he must have time for consideration.
Influenced by Pierce, who was sure he had Hal beaten, the committee
insisted on an immediate reply to their ultimatum.

"You go up against this bunch," advised Stensland, "and it's dollars to
doughnuts the receiver'll have your 'Clarion' inside of six months."

Hal leaned indolently against the door. "Speaking of dollars and
doughnuts," he said, "I'd like to tell you gentlemen a little story. You
all know who Babson is, the biggest stock-market advertiser in the
country. Well, Babson's vanity is to be a great man outside of his own
line. He owns a big country place down East, near the old town of
Singatuck; one of the oldest towns on the coast. Babson is as new as
Singatuck is old. The people didn't care much about his patronizing
ways. Nevertheless, he kept doing things to 'brace the town up,' as he
put it. The town needed it. It was about bankrupt. The fire department
was a joke, the waterworks a farce, and the town hall a ruin. Babson
thought this gave him a chance to put his name on the map. So he said to
his local factotum, 'You go down to the meeting of the selectmen next
week, shake a bagful of dollars in front of those old doughnuts, and
make 'em this proposition: I'll give five thousand dollars to the fire
department, establish a water system, rebuild the town hall, pay off the
town debt and put ten thousand dollars into the treasury if they'll
change the name of the town from Singatuck to Babson.'

"The factotum went to the meeting and presented the proposition. Now
Singatuck is proud of its age and character with a local pride that is
quite beyond the Babson dollars or the Babson type of imagination. His
proposition aroused no debate. There was a long silence. Then an old
moss-farmer who hadn't had money enough to buy himself a new tooth for
twenty years arose and said: 'I move you, Mister Chairman, that this
body thank Mr. Babson kindly for his offer and tell him to go to hell.'

"The motion was carried unanimously, and the meeting proceeded to the
consideration of other business. I cite this, gentlemen, merely as
evidence that the disparity between the dollar and the doughnut isn't as
great as some suppose."

The third member of the committee, who had thus far spoken no word,
peered curiously at Hal from above a hooked nose. He was Mintz, of
Sheffler and Mintz.

"Do I get you righd?" he observed mildly; "you're telling us to go where
the selectmen sent Misder Babson."

"Plumb," replied Hal, with his most amiable expression. "So far as any
immediate decision is concerned."

"Less ged oud," said Mr. Mintz to his colleagues. They got out. Mintz
was last to go. He came over to Hal.

"I lyg your story," he said. "I lyg to see a feller stand up for his
bizniz against the vorlt. I'm a Jew. I hope you lose--but--goot luck!"

He held out his hand. Hal took it. "Mr. Mintz, I'm glad to know you,"
said he earnestly.

Nothing now remained for the committee to do but to expend their
allotted fund to the best purpose. Their notion of the proper method was
typically commercial. They thought to buy off an epidemic. Many times
this has been tried. Never yet has it succeeded. It embodies one of the
most dangerous of popular hygienic fallacies, that the dollar can
overtake and swallow the germ.




CHAPTER XXIII

CREEPING FLAME


For sheer uncertainty an epidemic is comparable only to fire on
shipboard. The wisest expert can but guess at the time or place of its
catastrophic explosion. It may thrust forth here and there a tongue of
threat, only to subside and smoulder again. Sometimes it "sulks" for so
protracted a period that danger seems to be over. Then, without warning,
comes swift disaster with panic in its train.

But one man in all Worthington knew, early, the true nature of the
disease which quietly crept among the Rookeries licking up human life,
and he was well trained in keeping his own counsel. In this crisis,
whatever Dr. Surtaine may have lacked in scrupulosity of method, his
intentions were good. He honestly believed that he was doing well by his
city in veiling the nature of the contagion. Scientifically he knew
little about it save in the most general way; and his happy optimism
bolstered the belief that if only secrecy could be preserved and the
fair repute of the city for sound health saved, the trouble would
presently die out of itself. He looked to his committee to manage the
secrecy. Unfortunately this particular form of trouble hasn't the habit
of dying out quietly and of itself. It has to be fought and slain in the
open.

As Dr. Surtaine's committee hadn't the faintest notion of how to handle
their five-thousand-dollar appropriation, they naturally consulted the
Honorable Tip O'Farrell, agent for and boss of the Rookeries. And as the
Honorable Tip had a very definite and even eager notion of what might be
done with that amount of ready cash, he naturally volunteered to handle
the fund to the best advantage, which seemed quite reasonable, since he
was familiar with the situation. Therefore the disposition of the money
was left to him. Do not, however, oh high-minded and honorable reader,
be too ready to suppose that this was the end of the five thousand
dollars, so far as the Rookeries are concerned. Politicians of the
O'Farrell type may not be meticulous on points of finance. But they are
quite likely to be human. Tip O'Farrell had seen recently more misery
than even his toughened sensibilities could uncomplainingly endure. Some
of the fund may have gone into the disburser's pocket. A much greater
portion of it, I am prepared to affirm, was distributed in those
intimate and effective forms of beneficence which, skillfully enough
managed, almost lose the taint of charity. O'Farrell was tactful and he
knew his people. Many cases over which organized philanthropy would have
blundered sorely, were handled with a discretion little short of
inspired. Much wretchedness was relieved; much suffering and perhaps
some lives saved.

The main issue, nevertheless, was untouched. The epidemic continued to
spread beneath the surface of silence. O'Farrell wasn't interested in
that side of it. He didn't even know what was the matter. What money he
expended on that phase of the difficulty was laid out in perfecting his
system of guards, so that unauthorized doctors couldn't get in, or
unauthorized news leak out. Also he continued to carry on an irregular
but costly traffic in dead bodies. Meantime, the Special Committee of
the Old Home Week Organization, thus comfortably relieved of
responsibility and the appropriation, could now devote itself
single-mindedly to worrying over the "Clarion."

According to Elias M. Pierce, no mean judge of men, there was nothing to
worry about in that direction. That snake, he considered, was scotched.
It might take time for said snake, who was a young snake with a head
full of poison (his uncomplimentary metaphor referred, I need hardly
state, to Mr. Harrington Surtaine), to come to his serpentine senses;
but in the end he must realize that he was caught. The committee wasn't
so smugly satisfied. Time was going on and there was no word, one way or
the other, from the "Clarion" office.

Inside that office more was stirring than the head of it knew about. On
a warmish day, McGuire Ellis, seated at his open window, had permitted
the bland air of early June to lull him to a nap, which was rudely
interrupted by the intrusion of a harsh point amongst his waistcoat
buttons. Stumbling hastily to his feet he confronted Dr. Miles Elliot.

"Wassamatter?" he demanded, in the thick tones of interrupted sleep.
"What are you poking me in the ribs for?"

"McBurney's point," observed the visitor agreeably. "Now, if you had
appendicitis, you'd have yelped. You haven't got appendicitis."

"Much obliged," grumped Mr. Ellis. "Couldn't you tell me that without a
cane?"

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