CORRUPTING THE PRESS
by Ambrose Bierce
When Joel Bird was up for Governor of Missouri,
Sam Henly was editing the Berrywood Bugle; and
no sooner was the nomination made by the State
Convention than he came out hot against the party.
He was an able writer, was Sam, and the lies he
invented about our candidate were shocking! That,
however, we endured very well, but presently Sam
turned squarely about and began telling the truth.
This was a little too much; the County Committee
held a hasty meeting, and decided that it must
be stopped; so I, Henry Barber, was sent for to
make arrangements to that end. I knew something
of Sam: had purchased him several times, and I
estimated his present value at about one thousand
dollars. This seemed to the committee a reasonable
figure, and on my mentioning it to Sam he said
"he thought that about the fair thing; it should
never be said that the Bugle was a hard paper
to deal with." There was, however, some delay in
raising the money; the candidates for the local
offices had not disposed of their autumn hogs yet,
and were in financial straits. Some of them
contributed a pig each, one gave twenty bushels
of corn, another a flock of chickens; and the man
who aspired to the distinction of County Judge paid
his assessment with a wagon. These things had to be
converted into cash at a ruinous sacrifice, and in
the meantime Sam kept pouring an incessant stream
of hot shot into our political camp. Nothing I
could say would make him stay his hand; he invariably
replied that it was no bargain until he had the
money. The committeemen were furious; it required
all my eloquence to prevent their declaring the
contract null and void; but at last a new, clean
one thousand-dollar note was passed over to me,
which in hot haste I transferred to Sam at his
residence.
That evening there was a meeting of the committee:
all seemed in high spirits again, except Hooker
of Jayhawk. This old wretch sat back and shook
his head during the entire session, and just before
adjournment said, as he took his hat to go, that
p'r'aps 'twas orl right and on the squar'; maybe
thar war'n't any shenannigan, but he war
dubersome--yes, he war dubersome. The old curmudgeon
repeated this until I was exasperated beyond
restraint.
"Mr. Hooker," said I, "I've known Sam Henly ever
since he was so high, and there isn't an honester
man in old Missouri. Sam Henly's word is as good
as his note! What's more, if any gentleman thinks
he would enjoy a first-class funeral, and if he will
supply the sable accessories, I'll supply the corpse.
And he can take it home with him from this meeting."
At this point Mr. Hooker was troubled with leaving.
Having got this business off my conscience I slept
late next day. When I stepped into the street I saw
at once that something was "up." There were knots of
people gathered at the corners, some reading eagerly
that morning's issue of the Bugle, some gesticulating,
and others stalking moodily about muttering curses,
not loud but deep. Suddenly I heard an excited clamor--a
confused roar of many lungs, and the trampling of
innumerable feet. In this babel of noises I could
distinguish the words "Kill him!" "Wa'm his hide!"
and so forth; and, looking up the street, I saw what
seemed to be the whole male population racing down it.
I am very excitable, and, though I did not know whose
hide was to be warmed, nor why anyone was to be killed,
I shot off in front of the howling masses, shouting
"Kill him!" and "Warm his hide!" as loudly as the
loudest, all the time looking out for the victim.
Down the street we flew like a storm; then I turned
a corner, thinking the scoundrel must have gone up
that street; then bolted through a public square;
over a bridge; under an arch; finally back into the
main street; yelling like a panther, and resolved to
slaughter the first human being I should overtake.
The crowd followed my lead, turning as I turned,
shrieking as I shrieked, and--all at once it came
to me that I was the man whose hide was to be
warmed!
It is needless to dwell upon the sensation this
discovery gave me; happily I was within a few yards
of the committee rooms, and into these I dashed,
closing and bolting the doors behind me, and
mounting the stairs like a flash. The committee
was in solemn session, sitting in a nice, even row
on the front benches, each man with his elbows on
his knees, and his chin resting in the palms of
his hands--thinking. At each man's feet lay a
neglected copy of the Bugle. Every member fixed
his eyes on me, but no one stirred, none uttered a
sound. There was something awful in this preternatural
silence, made more impressive by the hoarse murmur
of the crowd outside, breaking down the door. I
could endure it no longer, but strode forward and
snatched up the paper lying at the feet of the
chairman. At the head of the editorial columns, in
letters half an inch long, were the following
amazing head-lines:
"Dastardly Outrage! Corruption Rampant in Our
Midst! The Vampires Foiled! Henry Barber at his
Old Game! The Rat Gnaws a File! The Democratic
Hordes Attempt to Ride Roughshod Over a Free
People! Base Endeavor to Bribe the Editor of
this Paper with a Twenty-Dollar Note! The Money
Given to the Orphan Asylum."
I read no farther, but stood stockstill in the
center of the floor, and fell into a reverie.
Twenty dollars! Somehow it seemed a mere trifle.
Nine hundred and eighty dollars! I did not know
there was so much money in the world. Twenty--no,
eighty--one thousand dollars! There were big,
black figures floating all over the floor. Incessant
cataracts of them poured down the walls, stopped,
and shied off as I looked at them, and began to
go it again when I lowered my eyes. Occasionally
the figures 20 would take shape somewhere about
the floor, and then the figures 980 would slide
up and overlay them. Then, like the lean kine of
Pharaoh's dream, they would all march away and
devour the fat naughts of the number 1,000. And
dancing like gnats in the air were myriads of
little caduceus-like, phantoms, thus--$$$$$. I
could not at all make it out, but began to
comprehend my position. Directly Old Hooker,
without moving from his seat, began to drown
the noise of countless feet on the stairs by
elevating his thin falsetto:
"P'r'aps, Mr. Cheerman, it's orl on the squar'.
We know Mr. Henly can't tell a lie; but I'm
powerful dubersome that thar's a balyance dyue
this yer committee from the gent who hez the
flo'--if he ain't done gone laid it yout fo'
sable ac--ac--fo' fyirst-class funerals."
I felt at that moment as if I should like to
play the leading character in a first-class
funeral myself. I felt that every man in my
position ought to have a nice, comfortable
coffin, with a silver door-plate, a foot-warmer,
and bay-windows for his ears. How do you suppose
you would have felt?
My leap from the window of that committee room,
my speed in streaking it for the adjacent forest,
my self-denial in ever afterward resisting the
impulse to return to Berrywood and look after
my political and material interests there--these
I have always considered things to be justly
proud of, and I hope I am proud of them.
~~~~~~~ THE END ~~~~~~~
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