“Sir,” said Mr. BEZZLE, “I once was young, but now am old.  I see the error of my editorial ways, and have resolved to mend ’em.  My columns are not to be bought, sir.  My dramatic critic is not to be suborned.  I am determined to tear down the flaunting lie with which THESPIS has so long concealed her blushless face, and to show the deluded public the cothurnus bespattered, and the sock and buskin draggled in the mire.  Perish my theatrical advertising columns when I cease to tell the truth!  There is the sum twice told:  I pays my money and I takes my choice.  Never mind the change.”  And with these words Mr. BEZZLE stalked off, his face crimson with a rush of aesthetics to the head.

From the theatre Mr. BEZZLE went to the house of a celebrated publisher, who received him with open arms, and conducted him to a counter where all the newest and most expensive books were displayed.  “We are just settled in our new quarters,” explained the publisher, “and any little thing you might say about us in your valuable paper would be—­I don’t ask it, you know—­but it would be—­upon my word it would.  See here, Mr. BEZZLE, I want you to pick out from this counter just what you want, and—­”

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. BEZZLE, leaping at the publisher with eyes that fairly blazed with the radiance of rectitude, “who do you take me for?” If Mr. BEZZLE had been less violent he would probably have said, “Whom do you take me for,” and so have spared himself the ignominy of sinking to the ungrammatical level of the Common Herd.  But the fact is, his proud spirit was chafed and fretted at the spectacle of sordid self-seeking that everywhere met his gaze, and excess of sentiment made him forgetful of syntax.  “Mark me, my friend, I am not to be bought,” he continued in unconscious blank verse.  “I shall take my pick, sir, and you will take this check.”  And he handed the amazed publisher a check for five hundred dollars.  “I sicken, sir,” he continued, “of this qualmish air of half-truth that I have breathed so long.  I am going to read these books, and say what I think of ’em, and five hundred dollars is dirt cheap for the privilege.  I had sooner that every ’New Publications’ ad. should die out of my newspaper than that my literary columns should be contaminated with a Lie!  Never mind the change, sir.  If anything is left over, send it to the proprietor of the new penny paper that is struggling to keep its head above water.  Don’t say that it came from me.  Say that it came from a converted roper-in.”  And Mr. BEZZLE stalked out of the office in such a tempest of morality that the publisher felt as though a tidal wave of virtue had swept over him.

After this, Mr. BEZZLE’S dream became a trifle confused; but he thought that this noble course of conduct was greatly approved by the public, that its eminent practicability commended it to all classes of people, and that theatres, publishers, and others quadrupled their advertisements.  “Ah!” sighed Mr. BEZZLE, rubbing his hands, but still asleep, “what a sweet thing virtue is!  Honesty is the best policy after all!”