Journalism in Tennessee

by Mark Twain

 The editor of the Memphis Avalanche swoops thus mildly down upon a

correspondent who posted him as a Radical:–“While he was writing

the first word, the middle, dotting his i’s, crossing his t’s, and

punching his period, he knew he was concocting a sentence that was

saturated with infamy and reeking with falsehood.”–Exchange.

I was told by the physician that a Southern climate would improve my

health, and so I went down to Tennessee, and got a berth on the Morning

Glory and Johnson County War-Whoop as associate editor. When I went on

duty I found the chief editor sitting tilted back in a three-legged chair

with his feet on a pine table. There was another pine table in the room

and another afflicted chair, and both were half buried under newspapers

and scraps and sheets of manuscript. There was a wooden box of sand,

sprinkled with cigar stubs and “old soldiers,” and a stove with a door

hanging by its upper hinge. The chief editor had a long-tailed black

cloth frock-coat on, and white linen pants. His boots were small and

neatly blacked. He wore a ruffled shirt, a large seal-ring, a standing

collar of obsolete pattern, and a checkered neckerchief with the ends

hanging down. Date of costume about 1848. He was smoking a cigar, and

trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled his

locks a good deal. He was scowling fearfully, and I judged that he was

concocting a particularly knotty editorial. He told me to take the

exchanges and skim through them and write up the “Spirit of the Tennessee

Press,” condensing into the article all of their contents that seemed of

interest.

I wrote as follows:

SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS

The editors of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake evidently labor under a

misapprehension with regard to the Dallyhack railroad. It is not

the object of the company to leave Buzzardville off to one side.

On the contrary, they consider it one of the most important points

along the line, and consequently can have no desire to slight it.

The gentlemen of the Earthquake will, of course, take pleasure in

making the correction.

John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the Higginsville

Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of Freedom, arrived in the city

yesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.

We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs Morning Howl has

fallen into the error of supposing that the election of Van Werter

is not an established fact, but he will have discovered his mistake

before this reminder reaches him, no doubt. He was doubtless misled

by incomplete election returns.

It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville is endeavoring

to contract with some New York gentlemen to pave its well-nigh

impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah

urges the measure with ability, and seems confident of ultimate

success.

I passed my manuscript over to the chief editor for acceptance,

alteration, or destruction. He glanced at it and his face clouded. He

ran his eye down the pages, and his countenance grew portentous. It was

easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang up and said:

“Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak of those

cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going to stand such

gruel as that? Give me the pen!”

I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, or plow

through another man’s verbs and adjectives so relentlessly. While he was

in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him through the open window,

and marred the symmetry of my ear.

“Ah,” said he, “that is that scoundrel Smith, of the Moral Volcano–he

was due yesterday.” And he snatched a navy revolver from his belt and

fired–Smith dropped, shot in the thigh. The shot spoiled Smith’s aim,

who was just taking a second chance and he crippled a stranger. It was

me. Merely a finger shot off.

Then the chief editor went on with his erasure; and interlineations.

Just as he finished them a hand grenade came down the stove-pipe, and the

explosion shivered the stove into a thousand fragments. However, it did

no further damage, except that a vagrant piece knocked a couple of my

teeth out.

“That stove is utterly ruined,” said the chief editor.

I said I believed it was.

“Well, no matter–don’t want it this kind of weather. I know the man

that did it. I’ll get him. Now, here is the way this stuff ought to be

written.”

I took the manuscript. It was scarred with erasures and interlineations

till its mother wouldn’t have known it if it had had one. It now read as

follows:

SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS

The inveterate liars of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake are evidently

endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrous people another

of their vile and brutal falsehoods with regard to that most

glorious conception of the nineteenth century, the Ballyhack

railroad. The idea that Buzzardville was to be left off at one side

originated in their own fulsome brains–or rather in the settlings

which they regard as brains. They had better, swallow this lie if

they want to save their abandoned reptile carcasses the cowhiding

they so richly deserve.

That ass, Blossom, of the Higginsville Thunderbolt and Battle Cry of

Freedom, is down here again sponging at the Van Buren.

We observe that the besotted blackguard of the Mud Springs Morning

Howl is giving out, with his usual propensity for lying, that Van

Werter is not elected. The heaven-born mission of journalism is to

disseminate truth; to eradicate error; to educate, refine, and

elevate the tone of public morals and manners, and make all men more

gentle, more virtuous, more charitable, and in all ways better, and

holier, and happier; and yet this blackhearted scoundrel degrades

his great office persistently to the dissemination of falsehood,

calumny, vituperation, and vulgarity.

Blathersville wants a Nicholson pavement–it wants a jail and a

poorhouse more. The idea of a pavement in a one-horse town composed

of two gin-mills, a blacksmith shop, and that mustard-plaster of a

newspaper, the Daily Hurrah! The crawling insect, Buckner, who

edits the Hurrah, is braying about his business with his customary

imbecility, and imagining that he is talking sense.

“Now that is the way to write–peppery and to the point. Mush-and-milk

journalism gives me the fan-tods.”

About this time a brick came through the window with a splintering crash,

and gave me a considerable of a jolt in the back. I moved out of range

–I began to feel in the way.

The chief said, “That was the Colonel, likely. I’ve been expecting him

for two days. He will be up now right away.”

He was correct. The Colonel appeared in the door a moment afterward with

a dragoon revolver in his hand.

He said, “Sir, have I the honor of addressing the poltroon who edits this

mangy sheet?”

“You have. Be seated, sir. Be careful of the chair, one of its legs is

gone. I believe I have the honor of addressing the putrid liar, Colonel

Blatherskite Tecumseh?”

“Right, Sir. I have a little account to settle with you. If you are at

leisure we will begin.”

“I have an article on the ‘Encouraging Progress of Moral and Intellectual

Development in America’ to finish, but there is no hurry. Begin.”

Both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. The chief

lost a lock of his hair, and the Colonel’s bullet ended its career in the

fleshy part of my thigh. The Colonel’s left shoulder was clipped a

little. They fired again. Both missed their men this time, but I got my

share, a shot in the arm. At the third fire both gentlemen were wounded

slightly, and I had a knuckle chipped. I then said, I believed I would

go out and take a walk, as this was a private matter, and I had a

delicacy about participating in it further. But both gentlemen begged me

to keep my seat, and assured me that I was not in the way.

They then talked about the elections and the crops while they reloaded,

and I fell to tying up my wounds. But presently they opened fire again

with animation, and every shot took effect–but it is proper to remark

that five out of the six fell to my share. The sixth one mortally

wounded the Colonel, who remarked, with fine humor, that he would have to

say good morning now, as he had business uptown. He then inquired the

way to the undertaker’s and left.

The chief turned to me and said, “I am expecting company to dinner, and

shall have to get ready. It will be a favor to me if you will read proof

and attend to the customers.”

I winced a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but I was

too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in my ears to

think of anything to say.

He continued, “Jones will be here at three–cowhide him. Gillespie will

call earlier, perhaps–throw him out of the window. Ferguson will be

along about four–kill him. That is all for today, I believe. If you

have any odd time, you may write a blistering article on the police–give

the chief inspector rats. The cowhides are under the table; weapons in

the drawer–ammunition there in the corner–lint and bandages up there in

the pigeonholes. In case of accident, go to Lancet, the surgeon,

downstairs. He advertises–we take it out in trade.”

He was gone. I shuddered. At the end of the next three hours I had been

through perils so awful that all peace of mind and all cheerfulness were

gone from me. Gillespie had called and thrown me out of the window.

Jones arrived promptly, and when I got ready to do the cowhiding he took

the job off my hands. In an encounter with a stranger, not in the bill

of fare, I had lost my scalp. Another stranger, by the name of Thompson,

left me a mere wreck and ruin of chaotic rags. And at last, at bay in

the corner, and beset by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs,

politicians, and desperadoes, who raved and swore and flourished their

weapons about my head till the air shimmered with glancing flashes of

steel, I was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when the chief

arrived, and with him a rabble of charmed and enthusiastic friends. Then

ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no human pen, or steel one

either, could describe. People were shot, probed, dismembered, blown up,

thrown out of the window. There was a brief tornado of murky blasphemy,

with a confused and frantic war-dance glimmering through it, and then all

was over. In five minutes there was silence, and the gory chief and I

sat alone and surveyed the sanguinary ruin that strewed the floor around

us.

He said, “You’ll like this place when you get used to it.”

I said, “I’ll have to get you to excuse me; I think maybe I might write

to suit you after a while; as soon as I had had some practice and learned

the language I am confident I could. But, to speak the plain truth, that

sort of energy of expression has its inconveniences, and a, man is liable

to interruption.

“You see that yourself. Vigorous writing is calculated to elevate the

public, no doubt, but then I do not like to attract so much attention as

it calls forth. I can’t write with comfort when I am interrupted so much

as I have been to-day. I like this berth well enough, but I don’t like

to be left here to wait on the customers. The experiences are novel,

I grant you, and entertaining, too, after a fashion, but they are not

judiciously distributed. A gentleman shoots at you through the window

and cripples me; a bombshell comes down the stovepipe for your

gratification and sends the stove door down my throat; a friend drops in

to swap compliments with you, and freckles me with bullet-holes till my

skin won’t hold my principles; you go to dinner, and Jones comes with his

cowhide, Gillespie throws me out of the window, Thompson tears all my

clothes off, and an entire stranger takes my scalp with the easy freedom

of an old acquaintance; and in less than five minutes all the blackguards

in the country arrive in their war-paint, and proceed to scare the rest

of me to death with their tomahawks. Take it altogether, I never had

such a spirited time in all my life as I have had to-day. No; I like

you, and I like your calm unruffled way of explaining things to the

customers, but you see I am not used to it. The Southern heart is too

impulsive; Southern hospitality is too lavish with the stranger. The

paragraphs which I have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences

your masterly hand has infused the fervent spirit of Tennesseean

journalism, will wake up another nest of hornets. All that mob of

editors will come–and they will come hungry, too, and want somebody for

breakfast. I shall have to bid you adieu. I decline to be present at

these festivities. I came South for my health, I will go back on the

same errand, and suddenly. Tennesseean journalism is too stirring for

me.”

After which we parted with mutual regret, and I took apartments at the

hospital.


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