Tom talked of himself as on the staff of "The Firefly"--such was
the name of the newspaper whose editor sometimes paid him--a
weekly of great pretense, which took upon itself the mystery of
things, as if it were God's spy. It was popular in a way, chiefly
in fashionable circles. As regarded the opinions it promulgated,
I never heard one, who understood the particular question at any
time handled, say it was correct. Its writers were mostly young
men, and their passion was to say clever things. If a friend's
book came in their way, it was treated worse or better than that
of a stranger, but with impartial disregard for truth in either
case; yet many were the authors who would go up endless back
stairs to secure from that paper a flattering criticism, and then
be as proud of it as if it had been the genuine and unsought
utterance of a true man's conviction; and many were the men,
immeasurably the superiors of the reviewers, and in a general way
acquainted with their character, who would accept as conclusive
upon the merits of a book the opinions they gave, nor ever
question a mode of quotation by which a book was made to show
itself whatever the reviewer chose to call it. A scandalous rumor
of any kind, especially from the region styled "high life," often
false, and always incorrect, was the delight both of the paper
and of its readers; and the interest it thus awoke, united to the
fear it thus caused, was mainly what procured for such as were
known to be employed upon it the _entree_ of houses where,
if they had had a private existence only, their faces would never
have been seen.
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