The Complete 12 Novels of Mark Twain. Mark Twain
he had two or three papers accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page, and, behold, his vocation was open to him. He would make his mark in literature.
Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself called into the immortal ranks of the masters of literature. It is such a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow foundation.
At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York for a career. With his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an editorial position upon a metropolitan newspaper; not that he knew anything about newspaper work, or had the least idea of journalism; he knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure. The drudgery of the newspaper office was too distasteful, and besides it would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine writer. He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder.
To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be full. It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn’t want genius, but mere plodding and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently in the Astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into the Dorking Convention, then in session, make a sketch of the men and women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine, and see what he could get a line for it.
One day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him, to take charge of a provincial daily newspaper, and he went to consult Mr. Gringo — Gringo who years ago managed the Atlas — about taking the situation.
“Take it of course,” says Gringo, “take anything that offers, why not?”
“But they want me to make it an opposition paper.”
“Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it’s going to elect the next president.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Philip, stoutly, “its wrong in principle, and it ought not to succeed, but I don’t see how I can go for a thing I don’t believe in.”
“O, very well,” said Gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt, “you’ll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you can’t afford a conscience like that.”
But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to fail. And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening large enough for his dignified entrance into the literary world.
It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip was one morning walking down Broadway with Henry Brierly. He frequently accompanied Henry part way down town to what the latter called his office in Broad Street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity every day. It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed in the largest sort of operations, about which there was a mysterious air. His liability to be suddenly summoned to Washington, or Boston or Montreal or even to Liverpool was always imminent. He never was so summoned, but none of his acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the Bank of Commerce.
The two were intimate at that time, — they had been classmates — and saw a great deal of each other. Indeed, they lived together in Ninth Street, in a boardinghouse, there, which had the honor of lodging and partially feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone their several ways into fame or into obscurity.
It was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that Henry Brierly suddenly said, “Philip, how would you like to go to St. Jo?”
“I think I should like it of all things,” replied Philip, with some hesitation, “but what for.”
“Oh, it’s a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, railroad men, engineers, contractors. You know my uncle is a great railroad man. I’ve no doubt I can get you a chance to go if you’ll go.”
“But in what capacity would I go?”
“Well, I’m going as an engineer. You can go as one.”
“I don’t know an engine from a coal cart.”
“Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying a rod, and putting down the figures. It’s easy enough. I’ll show you about that. We’ll get Trautwine and some of those books.”
“Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?”
“Why don’t you see? We lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up, know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there’s heaps of money in it. We wouldn’t engineer long.”
“When do you go?” was Philip’s next question, after some moments of silence.
“Tomorrow. Is that too soon?”
“No, its not too soon. I’ve been ready to go anywhere for six months. The fact is, Henry, that I’m about tired of trying to force myself into things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while, and see where I will land. This seems like a providential call; it’s sudden enough.”
The two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down to the Wall street office of Henry’s uncle and had a talk with that wily operator. The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western venture. It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are settled in New York, that they would start with the rest of the company next morning for the west.
On the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and suits of India-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed anywhere.
The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for Philip would not take such an important step without informing his friends. If they disapprove, thought he, I’ve done my duty by letting them know. Happy youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an hour’s notice.
“By the way,” calls out Philip from his bedroom, to Henry, “where is St. Jo.?”
“Why, it’s in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think. We’ll get a map.”
“Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I was afraid it was nearer home.”
Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and glowing anticipations of his new opening. He wouldn’t bother her with business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to the comfort of her advancing years.
To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some New York capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer him a business opening. He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter.
It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might never see her again; he went to seek his fortune. He well knew the perils of the frontier, the savage state of society, the lurking Indians and the dangers of fever. But there was no real danger to a person who took care of himself. Might he write to her often and, tell her of his life. If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. If he was unsuccessful, or if he never returned — perhaps it would be as well. No time or distance, however, would ever lessen his interest in her. He would say goodnight, but not goodbye.
In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before New York had breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves of the metropolis, our young adventurers made their way to the Jersey City railway station of the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked journey, over what a writer of a former day