MR. MASTHEAD, JOURNALIST
by Ambrose Bierce
While I was in Kansas I purchased a weekly
newspaper--the Claybank Thundergust of Reform.
This paper had never paid its expenses; it had
ruined four consecutive publishers; but my
brother-in-law, Mr. Jefferson Scandril, of
Weedhaven, was going to run for the Legislature,
and I naturally desired his defeat; so it
became necessary to have an organ in Claybank
to assist in his political extinction. When the
establishment came into my hands, the editor
was a fellow who had "opinions," and him I at
once discharged with an admonition. I had some
difficulty in procuring a successor; every man
in the county applied for the place. I could
not appoint one without having to fight a
majority of the others, and was eventually
compelled to write to a friend at Warm Springs,
in the adjoining State of Missouri, to send
me an editor from abroad whose installment at
the helm of manifest destiny could have no
local significance.
The man he sent me was a frowsy, seedy fellow,
named Masthead--not larger, apparently, than
a boy of sixteen years, though it was difficult
to say from the outside how much of him was
editor and how much cast-off clothing; for in
the matter of apparel he had acted upon his
favorite professional maxim, and "sunk the
individual;" his attire--eminently eclectic,
and in a sense international--quite overcame
him at all points. However, as my friend had
assured me he was "a graduate of one of the
largest institutions in his native State," I
took him in and bought a pen for him. My
instructions to him were brief and simple.
"Mr. Masthead," said I, "it is the policy
of the Thundergust first, last, and all the
time, in this world and the next, to resent the
intrusion of Mr. Jefferson Scandril into politics."
The first thing the little rascal did was to
write a withering leader denouncing Mr. Scandril
as a "demagogue, the degradation of whose
political opinions was only equaled by the
disgustfulness of the family connections of
which those opinions were the spawn!"
I hastened to point out to Mr. Masthead that
it had never been the policy of the Thundergust
to attack the family relations of an offensive
candidate, although this was not strictly true.
"I am very sorry," he replied, running his
head up out of his clothes till it towered
as much as six inches above the table at
which he sat; "no offense, I hope."
"Oh, none in the world," said I, as carelessly
as I could manage it; "only I don't think it
a legitimate--that is, an effective, method of
attack."
"Mr. Johnson," said he--I was passing as Johnson
at that time, I remember--"Mr. Johnson, I think
it is an effective method. Personally I
might perhaps prefer another line of argument
in this particular case, and personally perhaps
you might; but in our profession personal
considerations must be blown to the winds of
the horizon; we must sink the individual. In
opposing the election of your relative, sir,
you have set the seal of your heavy displeasure
upon the sin of nepotism, and for this I respect
you; nepotism must be got under! But in the
display of Roman virtues, sir, we must go the
whole hog. When in the interest of public
morality"--Mr. Masthead was now gesticulating
earnestly with the sleeves of his coat--"Virginius
stabbed his daughter, was he influenced by
personal considerations? When Curtius leaped
into the yawning gulf, did he not sink the
individual?"
I admitted that he did, but feeling in a
contentious mood, prolonged the discussion by
leisurely loading and capping a revolver; but,
prescient of my argument, Mr. Masthead avoided
refutation by hastily adjourning the debate.
I sent him a note that evening, filling-in a
few of the details of the policy that I had
before sketched in outline. Amongst other
things I submitted that it would be better
for us to exalt Mr. Scandril's opponent than
to degrade himself. To this Mr. Masthead
reluctantly assented--"sinking the individual,"
he reproachfully explained, "in the dependent
employee--the powerless bondsman!" The next
issue of the Thundergust contained, under the
heading, "Invigorating Zephyrs," the following
editorial article:
"Last week we declared our unalterable opposition
to the candidacy of Mr. Jefferson Scandril, and
gave reasons for the faith that is in us. For the
first time in its history this paper made a clear,
thoughtful, and adequate avowal and exposition
of eternal principle! Abandoning for the present
the stand we then took, let us trace the antecedents
of Mr. Scandril's opponent up to their source. It
has been urged against Mr. Broskin that he spent
some years of his life in the lunatic asylum at
Warm Springs, in the adjoining commonwealth of
Missouri. This cuckoo cry--raised though it is
by dogs of political darkness--we shall not stoop
to controvert, for it is accidentally true; but
next week we shall show, as by the stroke of an
enchanter's wand, that this great statesman's
detractors would probably not derive any benefits
from a residence in the same institution, their
mental aberration being rottenly incurable!"
I thought this rather strong and not quite to the
point; but Masthead said it was a fact that our
candidate, who was very little known in Claybank,
had "served a term" in the Warm Springs asylum,
and the issue must be boldly met--that evasion
and denial were but forms of prostration beneath
the iron wheels of Truth! As he said this he
seemed to inflate and expand so as almost to
fill his clothes, and the fire of his eye somehow
burned into me an impression--since effaced--that
a just cause is not imperiled by a trifling
concession to fact. So, leaving the matter quite
in my editor's hands I went away to keep some
important engagements, the paragraph having
involved me in several duels with the friends
of Mr. Broskin. I thought it rather hard that
I should have to defend my new editor's policy
against the supporters of my own candidate,
particularly as I was clearly in the right and
they knew nothing whatever about the matter in
dispute, not one of them having ever before so
much as heard of the now famous Warm Springs
asylum. But I would not shirk even the humblest
journalistic duty; I fought these fellows and
acquitted myself as became a man of letters and
a politician. The hurts I got were some time
healing, and in the interval every prominent
member of my party who came to Claybank to speak
to the people regarded it as a simple duty to
call first at my house, make a tender inquiry
as to the progress of my recovery and leave a
challenge. My physician forbade me to read a
line of anything; the consequence was that
Masthead had it all his own way with the paper.
In looking over the old files now, I find that
he devoted his entire talent and all the space
of the paper, including what had been the
advertising columns, to confessing that our
candidate had been an inmate of a lunatic
asylum, and contemptuously asking the opposing
party what they were going to do about it.
All this time Mr. Broskin made no sign; but when
the challenges became intolerable I indignantly
instructed Mr. Masthead to whip round to the
other side and support my brother-in-law. Masthead
"sank the individual," and duly announced, with
his accustomed frankness, our change of policy.
Then Mr. Broskin came down to Claybank--to thank
me! He was a fine, respectable-looking gentleman,
and impressed me very favorably. But Masthead was
in when he called, and the effect upon him was
different. He shrank into a mere heap of old
clothes, turned white, and chattered his teeth.
Noting this extraordinary behavior, I at once
sought an explanation.
"Mr. Broskin," said I, with a meaning glance at
the trembling editor, "from certain indications
I am led to fear that owing to some mistake we
may have been doing you an injustice. May I ask
you if you were really ever in the Lunatic asylum
at Warm Springs, Missouri?"
"For three years," he replied, quietly, "I was
the physician in charge of that institution.
Your son"--turning to Masthead, who was flying
all sorts of colors--"was, if I mistake not,
one of my patients. I learn that a few weeks
ago a friend of yours, named Norton, secured
the young man's release upon your promise to
take care of him yourself in future. I hope
that home associations have improved the poor
fellow. It's very sad!"
It was indeed. Norton was the name of the man
to whom I had written for an editor, and who
had sent me one! Norton was ever an obliging
fellow.
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