"Perhaps _your_ making my reputation, may be a question open to debate,"

answered Ruth, stung by his tone; "I feel this morning, however, disinclined to discuss the question; so, if you please, we will waive it. You have always told me that you were constantly beset by the most talented contributors for patronage, so that of course you will not find it difficult to supply my place, when I leave you."

"But you shall _not_ leave," said Mr. Tibbetts, turning very pale about the mouth, and closing his lips firmly.

"_Shall not!_" repeated Ruth, rising, and standing erect before him.

"_Shall_ not, Mr. Tibbetts? I have yet to learn that I am not free to go, if I choose."

"Well, you are _not_," said Mr. Tibbetts; "that is a little mistake of yours, as I will soon convince you. Discontinue writing for 'The Pilgrim,' and I will immediately get out a cheap edition of your articles, and spoil the sale of your book;" and he folded his arms, and faced Ruth as if he would say, "Now writhe if you like; I have you."

Ruth smiled derisively, then answered in a tone so low that it was scarcely audible, "Mr. Tibbetts, you have mistaken your auditor. I am not to be frightened, or threatened, or _insulted_," said she, turning toward the door. "Even had I not myself the spirit to defy you, as I now do, for I will never touch pen to paper again for 'The Pilgrim,'

you could not accomplish your threat; for think you my publishers will tamely fold their arms, and see _their_ rights infringed? No, sir, you have mistaken both them and me;" and Ruth moved toward the door.

"Stay!" exclaimed Mr. Tibbetts, placing his hand on the latch; "when you see a paragraph in print that will sting your proud soul to the quick, know that John Tibbetts has more ways than one of humbling so imperious a dame."

"That will be hardly consistent," replied Ruth, in the same calm tone, "with the thousand-and-one commendatory notices of 'Floy'--the boasts you have made of the almost exclusive right to the _valuable services of so bright a literary star_."

"Of course you will not see such a paragraph in _my_ paper," replied Mr.

Tibbetts. "I am aware, most logical of women, that I stand committed before the public _there_; but I have many an editorial friend, scattered over the country, who would loan me _their_ columns for this purpose."

"As you please," said Ruth. "It were a _manly_ act; but your threat does not move _me_."

"I'll have my revenge!" exclaimed Tibbetts, as the last fold of Ruth's dress fluttered out the door.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

Those of my readers who are well acquainted with journalism, know that some of our newspapers, nominally edited by the persons whose names appear as responsible in that capacity, _seldom_, perhaps _never_ contain an article from their pen, the whole paper being "made up" by some obscure individual, with more brains than pennies, whose brilliant paragraphs, metaphysical essays, and racy book reviews, are attributed (and tacitly fathered) by the comfortably-fed gentlemen who keep these, their factotums, in some garret, just one degree above starving point.

In the city, where board is expensive, and single gentlemen are "taken in and done for," under many a sloping attic roof are born thoughts which should win for their originators fame and independence.

Mr. Horace Gates, a gentlemanly, slender, scholar-like-looking person, held this nondescript, and unrecognized relation to the Irving Magazine; the nominal editor, Ruth's brother Hyacinth, furnishing but one article a week, to deduct from the immense amount of labor necessary to their weekly issue.

"Heigho," said Mr. Gates, dashing down his pen; "four columns yet to make up; I am getting tired of this drudgery. My friend Seaten told me that he was dining at a restaurant the other day, when my employer, Mr.

Hyacinth Ellet, came in, and that a gentleman took occasion to say to Mr. E., how much he admired _his_ article in the last Irving Magazine, on 'City Life.' _His_ article! it took me one of the hottest days this season, in this furnace of a garret, with the beaded drops standing on my suffering forehead, to write that article, which, by the way, has been copied far and wide. His article! and the best of the joke is (Seaten says) the cool way in which Ellet thanked him, and pocketed all the credit of it! But what's this? here's a note from the very gentleman himself:

"MR. GATES:

"SIR,--I have noticed that you have several times scissorized from the exchanges, articles over the signature of 'Floy,' and inserted them in our paper. It is my wish that all articles bearing that signature should be excluded from our paper, and that no allusion be made to her, in any way or shape, in the columns of the Irving Magazine. As you are in our business confidence, I may say, that the writer is a sister of mine, and that it would annoy and mortify me exceedingly to have the fact known; and it is my express wish that you should not, hereafter, in any way, aid in circulating her articles.

"Yours, &c., HYACINTH ELLET."

"What does that mean?" said Gates; "_his_ sister? why don't he want her to write? I have cut out every article of hers as fast as they appeared; confounded good they are, too, and I call myself a judge; they are better, at any rate, than half our paper is filled with. This is all very odd--it stimulates my curiosity amazingly--_his_ sister? married or unmarried, maid, wife, or widow? She can't be poor when he's so well off; (gave $100 for a vase which struck his fancy yesterday, at Martini's.) I don't understand it. 'Annoy and mortify him exceedingly;'

what _can_ he mean? I must get at the bottom of that; she is becoming very popular, at any rate; her pieces are traveling all over the country--and here is one, to my mind, as good as anything _he_ ever wrote. Ha! ha! perhaps that's the very idea now--perhaps he wants to be the only genius in the family. Let him! if he can; if she don't win an enviable name, and in a very short time too, I shall be mistaken. I wish I knew something about her. Hyacinth is a heartless dog--pays me princ.i.p.ally in fine speeches; and because I am not in a position just now to speak my mind about it. I suppose he takes me for the pliant tool I appear. By Jupiter! it makes my blood boil; but let me get another and better offer, Mr. Ellet, and see how long I will write articles for you to father, in this confounded hot garret. '_His_ sister!' I will inquire into that. I'll bet a box of cigars she writes for daily bread--Heaven help her, if she does, poor thing!--it's hard enough, as I know, for a _man_ to be jostled and snubbed round in printing-offices. Well, well, it's no use wondering, I must go to work; what a pile of books here is to be reviewed! wonder who reads all the books? Here is Uncle Sam's Log House. Mr. Ellet writes me that I must simply announce the book without comment, for fear of offending southern subscribers. The word 'slave' I know has been tabooed in our columns this long while, for the same reason. Here are poems by Lina Lintney--weak as diluted water, but the auth.o.r.ess once paid Mr. Ellet a compliment in a newspaper article, and here is her 'reward of merit,'

(in a memorandum attached to the book, and just sent down by Mr. Ellet;) 'give this volume a first-rate notice.' Bah! what's the use of criticism when a man's opinion can be bought and sold that way? it is an imposition on the public. There is 'The Barolds' too; I am to 'give that a capital notice,' because the auth.o.r.ess introduced Mr. Ellet into fashionable society when a young man. The grammar in that book would give Lindley Murray convulsions, and the construction of the sentences drive Blair to a mad-house. Well, a great deal the dear public know what a book is, by the reviews of it in this paper. Heaven forgive me the lies I tell this way on compulsion.

"The humb.u.g.g.e.ry of this establishment is only equalled by the gullibility of the dear public. Once a month, now, I am ordered to puff every 'influential paper in the Union,' to ward off attacks on the Irving Magazine, and the bait takes, too, by Jove. That little 'Tea-Table Tri-Mountain Mercury,' has not muttered or peeped about Hyacinth's 'toadyism when abroad,' since Mr. Ellet gave me orders to praise 'the typographical and literary excellence of that widely-circulated paper.' Then, there is the editor of 'The Bugbear,' a cut-and-thrust-bludgeon-pen-and-ink-desperado, who makes the mincing, aristocratic Hyacinth quake in his patent-leather boots. I have orders to toss him a sugar-plum occasionally, to keep his plebeian mouth shut; something after the French maxim, 'always to praise a person for what they _are not_;'--for instance, 'our very _gentlemanly_ neighbor and contemporary, the discriminating and refined editor of The Bugbear, whose very readable and spicy paper,' &c., &c. Then, there is the _religious_ press. Hyacinth, having rather a damaged reputation, is anxious to enlist them on his side, particularly the editor of 'The Religious Platform.' I am to copy at least one of his editorials once a fortnight, or in some way call attention to his paper. Then, if Hyacinth chooses to puff actresses, and call Mme. ---- a 'splendid personation of womanhood,' and praise her equivocal writings in his paper, which lies on many a family table to be read by innocent young girls, he knows the caustic pen of that religious editor will never be dipped in ink to reprove him. That is the way it is done. Mutual admiration-society--bah! I wish _I_ had a paper. Wouldn't I call things by their right names? Would I know any s.e.x in books? Would I praise a book because a woman wrote it? Would I abuse it for the same reason?

Would I say, as one of our most able editors said not long since to his reviewer, 'cut it up root and branch; what right have these women to set themselves up for authors, and reap literary laurels?' Would I unfairly insert all the adverse notices of a book, and never copy one in its praise? Would I pa.s.s over the wholesale swindling of some aristocratic scoundrel, and trumpet in my police report, with heartless comments, the name of some poor, tempted, starving wretch, far less deserving of censure, in G.o.d's eye, than myself? Would I have my tongue or my pen tied in any way by policy, or interest, or clique-ism? No--sir! The world never will see a paper till mine is started. Would I write long descriptions of the wardrobe of foreign _prima donnas_, who bring their cracked voices, and reputations to our American market, and 'occupy suites of rooms lined with satin, and damask, and velvet,' and goodness knows what, and give their reception-soirees, at which they '_affably notice_' our toadying first citizens? By Jupiter! why _shouldn't_ they be 'affable'? Don't they come over here for our money and patronage? Who cares how many 'bracelets' Signora ---- had on, or whose 'arm she leaned gracefully upon,' or whether her 'hair was braided or curled'? If, because a lord or a duke once 'honored her' by insulting her with infamous proposals, some few brainless Americans choose to deify her as a G.o.ddess, in the name of George Washington and common sense, let it not be taken as a national exponent. There are some few Americans left, who prefer ipecac in h.o.m.oeopathic doses."

CHAPTER LXXV.

"Hark! Nettie. Go to the door, dear," said Ruth, "some one knocked."

"It is a strange gentleman, mamma," whispered Nettie, "and he wants to see you."

Ruth bowed as the stranger entered. She could not recollect that she had ever seen him before, but he looked very knowing, and, what was very provoking, seemed to enjoy her embarra.s.sment hugely. He regarded Nettie, too, with a very scrutinizing look, and seemed to devour everything with the first glance of his keen, searching eye. He even seemed to listen to the whir--whir--whir of the odd strange lodger in the garret overhead.

"I don't recollect you," said Ruth, hesitating, and blushing slightly; "you have the advantage of me, sir?"

"And yet you and I have been writing to each other, for a week or more,"

replied the gentleman, with a good-humored smile; "you have even signed a contract, ent.i.tling me to your pen-and-ink services."

"Mr. Walter?" said Ruth, holding out her hand.

"Yes," replied Mr. Walter, "I had business this way, and I could not come here without finding you out."

"Oh, thank you," said Ruth, "I was just wishing that I had some head wiser than mine, to help me decide on a business matter which came up two or three days ago. Somehow I don't feel the least reluctance to bore you with it, or a doubt that your advice will not be just the thing; but I shall not stop to dissect the philosophy of that feeling, lest in grasping at the shadow, I should lose the substance," said she, smiling.

While Ruth was talking, Mr. Walter's keen eye glanced about the room, noting its general comfortless appearance, and the little bowl of bread and milk that stood waiting for their supper. Ruth observed this, and blushed deeply. When she looked again at Mr. Walter, his eyes were glistening with tears.

"Come here, my darling," said he to Nettie, trying to hide his emotion.

"I don't know you," answered Nettie.

"But you will, my dear, because I am your mamma's friend."

"Are you Katy's friend?" asked Nettie.

"Katy?" repeated Mr. Walter.

"Yes, my _sister_ Katy; she can't live here, because we don't have supper enough; pretty soon mamma will earn more supper, won't you mamma?

Shan't you be glad when Katy comes home, and we all have enough to eat?" said the child to Mr. Walter.

Mr. Walter pressed his lips to the child's forehead with a low "Yes, my darling;" and then placed his watch chain and seals at her disposal, fearing Ruth might be painfully affected by her artless prattle.

Ruth then produced the different publishers' offers she had received for her book, and handed them to Mr. Walter.

"Well," said he, with a gratified smile, "I am not at all surprised; but what are you going to reply?"

"Here is my answer," said Ruth, "_i. e._ provided your judgment endorses it. I am a novice in such matters, you know, but I cannot help thinking, Mr. Walter, that my book will be a success. You will see that I have acted upon that impression, and refused to sell my copyright."

"You don't approve it?" said she, looking a little confused, as Mr.

Walter bent his keen eyes on her, without replying.