马克吐温最佳短篇小说 04 Journalism In Tennessee

 　　The editor of the Memphis Avalanche 1 swoops 2 thus mildly down upon a correspondent who posted him as a Radical 3: "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 4 a sentence that was saturated 5 with infamy 6 and reeking 7 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 8 on the Morning-Glory and Johnson County War whoop 9 as associate editor.When I went on duty I found the chief editor sitting tilted 11 back ina three-legged chair with his feet on a pine table. There was another pine table in the room and another afflicted 12 chair, andboth were half buried under newspapers and scraps 13 and sheets of manuscript. There was a wooden box of sand, sprinkled withcigar-stubs and "old soldiers," and a stove with a door hanging by its upper hinge. The chief editor had a long-tailed black clothfrock-coat on, and white linen 14 pants. His boots were small and neatly 15 blacked. He wore a ruffled 16 shirt, a large seal ring, astanding collar of obsolete 17 pattern, and a checkered 18 neckerchief with the ends hanging down. Date of costume about 1848. He wassmoking a cigar, and trying to think of a word, and in pawing his hair he had rumpled 19 his locks a good deal. He was scowlingfearfully, and I judged that he was concocting a particularly knotty 20 editorial. He told me to take the exchanges and skim throughthem 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 laborunder a misapprehension with regard to the Ballyhack railroad. Itis not the object of the company to leave Buzzardville off to oneside. On the contrary, they consider it one of the most importantpoints along the line, and consequently can have no desire toslight it. The gentlemen of the Earthquake will, of course,take pleasure in making the correction.
　　"John W. Blossom, Esq., the able editor of the HigginsvilleThunderbolt and Battle-Cry of Freedom, arrived in the cityyesterday. He is stopping at the Van Buren House.
　　"We observe that our contemporary of the Mud Springs MorningHowl has fallen into the error of supposing that the election ofVan Werter is not an established fact, but he will havediscovered his mistake before this reminder 21 reaches him, nodoubt. He was doubtless misled by incomplete election returns.
　　"It is pleasant to note that the city of Blathersville isendeavoring to contract with some New York gentlemen to pave itswellnigh impassable streets with the Nicholson pavement. The Daily Hurrah 22 urges the measure with ability, and seemsconfident 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 23 grew portentous 24.It was easy to see that something was wrong. Presently he sprang upand said:
　　"Thunder and lightning! Do you suppose I am going to speak ofthose cattle that way? Do you suppose my subscribers are going tostand such gruel 25 as that? Give me the pen!"I never saw a pen scrape and scratch its way so viciously, orplough through another man's verbs and adjectives so relentlessly 26.While he was in the midst of his work, somebody shot at him throughthe open window, and marred 27 the symmetry of my ear.
　　"Ah," said he, "that is that scoundrel Smith, of the MoralVolcano--he was due yesterday." And he snatched a navy revolverfrom his belt and fired. Smith dropped, shot in the thigh 28. The shotspoiled Smith's aim, who was just taking a second chance, and hecrippled a stranger. It was me. Merely a finger shot off.
　　Then the chief editor went on with his erasures andinterlineations. Just as he finished them a hand-grenade came downthe stove-pipe, and the explosion shivered the stove into athousand fragments. However, it did no further damage, except thata vagrant 29 piece knocked a couple of my teeth out.
　　"That stove is utterly 30 ruined," said the chief editor.
　　I said I believed it was.
　　"Well, no matter--don't want it this kind of weather. I know theman that did it. I'll get him. Now, here is the way this stuffought to be written."I took the manuscript. It was scarred with erasures andinterlineations till its mother wouldn't have known it if it hadhad one. It now read as follows:
　　"SPIRIT OF THE TENNESSEE PRESS"The inveterate 31 liars 32 of the Semi-Weekly Earthquake areevidently endeavoring to palm off upon a noble and chivalrouspeople another of their vile 33 and brutal 34 falsehoods with regard tothat most glorious conception of the nineteenth century, theBallyhack railroad. The idea that Buzzardville was to be left offat one side originated in their own fulsome 35 brains--or rather inthe settlings which they regard as brains. They had betterswallow this lie if they want to save their abandoned reptilecarcasses the cowhiding they so richly deserve.
　　"That ass 10, Blossom, of the Higginsville Thunderbolt andBattle-Cry of Freedom, is down here again sponging at the VanBuren.
　　"We observe that the besotted blackguard of the Mud SpringsMorning Howl is giving out, with his usual propensity 36 forlying, that Van Werter is not elected. The heaven-born mission ofjournalism is to disseminate 38 truth: to eradicate 39 error; toeducate, refine, and elevate the tone of public morals andmanners, and make all men more gentle, more virtuous 40, morecharitable, and in all ways better, and holier, and happier; andyet this black-hearted scoundrel degrades his great officepersistently to the dissemination 41 of falsehood, calumny,vituperation, and vulgarity.
　　"Blathersville wants a Nicholson pavement--it wants a jail and apoor-house more. The idea of a pavement in a one-horse towncomposed of two gin-mills, a blacksmith-shop, and thatmustard-plaster of a newspaper, the Daily Hurrah! The crawlinginsect, Buckner, who edits the Hurrah, is braying 42 about thisbusiness with his customary imbecility, and imagining that he istalking sense.""Now that is the way to write--peppery and to the point.Mush-and-milk journalism 37 gives me the fan-tods."About this time a brick came through the window with a splinteringcrash, and gave me a considerable of a jolt 43 in the back. I movedout of range--I began to feel in the way.
　　The chief said: "That was the Colonel, likely. I've been expectinghim for two days. He will be up now right away."He was correct. The Colonel appeared in the door a momentafterwards with a dragoon revolver in his hand.
　　He said: "Sir, have I the honor of addressing the poltroon 44 whoedits this mangy sheet?""You have. Be seated, sir. Be careful of the chair, one of its legsis gone. I believe I have the honor of addressing the putrid 45 liar,Colonel Blatherskite Tecumseh?""Right, sir. I have a little account to settle with you. If you areat leisure we will begin.""I have an article on the 'Encouraging Progress of Moral andIntellectual Development in America' to finish, but there is nohurry. Begin."Both pistols rang out their fierce clamor at the same instant. Thechief lost a lock of his hair, and the Colonel's bullet ended itscareer in the fleshy part of my thigh. The Colonel's left shoulderwas clipped a little. They fired again. Both missed their men thistime, but I got my share, a shot in the arm. At the third fire bothgentlemen were wounded slightly, and I had a knuckle 46 chipped. Ithen said I believed I would go out and take a walk, as this was aprivate matter, and I had a delicacy 47 about participating in itfurther. But both gentlemen begged me to keep my seat, and assuredme that I was not in the way.
　　They then talked about the elections and the crops while theyreloaded, and I fell to tying up my wounds. But presently theyopened fire again with animation 48, and every shot took effect--butit is proper to remark that five out of the six fell to my share.The sixth one mortally wounded the Colonel, who remarked, with finehumor, that he would have to say good-morning now, as he hadbusiness up-town. He then inquired the way to the undertaker's andleft.
　　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 willread proof and attend to the customers."I winced 49 a little at the idea of attending to the customers, but Iwas too bewildered by the fusillade that was still ringing in myears to think of anything to say.
　　He continued: "Jones will be here at three--cowhide him. Gillespiewill call earlier, perhaps--throw him out of the window. Fergusonwill be along about four--kill him. That is all for to-day, Ibelieve. If you have any odd time, you may write a blisteringarticle on the police--give the chief inspector 50 rats. The cowhidesare under the table; weapons in the drawer--ammunition there in thecorner--lint and bandages up there in the pigeon-holes. In case ofaccident, go to Lancet, the surgeon, down-stairs. He advertises--wetake it out in trade."He was gone. I shuddered 51. At the end of the next three hours Ihad been through perils 52 so awful that all peace of mind and allcheerfulness were gone from me. Gillespie had called and thrownme out of the window. Jones arrived promptly 53, and when I gotready to do the cowhiding he took the job off my hands. In anencounter with a stranger, not in the bill of fare, I had lost myscalp. Another stranger, by the name of Thompson, left me a merewreck and ruin of chaotic 54 rags. And at last, at bay in the corner,and beset 55 by an infuriated mob of editors, blacklegs, politicians,and desperadoes, who raved 56 and swore and flourished their weaponsabout my head till the air shimmered 57 with glancing flashes ofsteel, I was in the act of resigning my berth on the paper when thechief arrived, and with him a rabble 58 of charmed and enthusiasticfriends. Then ensued a scene of riot and carnage such as no humanpen, or steel one either, could describe. People were shot, probed,dismembered, blown up, thrown out of the window. There was a brieftornado of murky 59 blasphemy 60, with a confused and frantic 61 war-danceglimmering through it, and then all was over. In five minutes therewas silence, and the gory 62 chief and I sat alone and surveyed thesanguinary ruin that strewed 63 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 itsinconveniences, 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 64. 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 65 distributed. A gentleman shoots at you through the window and cripples me; a bomb-shell comes down the stove-pipe for your gratification and sends the stove-door down my throat; a friend drops in to swap 66 compliments with you, and freckles 67 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 68; Southern hospitality is too lavish 69 with the stranger. The paragraphs which I have written to-day, and into whose cold sentences your masterly hand has infused the fervent 70 spirit of Tennessean 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. Tennessean journalism is too stirring for me."After which we parted with mutual 71 regret, and I took apartments at the hospital.