To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling!--'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death."
There is no more to be said in that particular line of reflection; the
speech is flawless in its gruesome power, and every piercing word
seems to leap from a shuddering soul. The other utterance which is fit
to be matched with Shakspere's was written by Charles Lamb.
"Whatsoever thwarts or puts me out of my way brings death into my
mind. All partial evils, like humours, run into that capital
plague-sore. I have heard some profess an indifference to life. Such
hail the end of their existence as a port of refuge, and speak of the
grave as of some soft arms in which they may slumber as on a pillow.
Some have wooed death--but 'Out upon thee,' I say, 'thou foul, ugly
phantom! I detest, abhor, execrate thee, as in no instance to be
excused or tolerated, but shunned as a universal viper, to be branded,
proscribed, and spoken evil of! In no way can I be brought to digest
thee, thou thin, melancholy _Privation_. Those antidotes prescribed
against the fear of thee are altogether frigid and insulting, like
thyself.'"
Poor Charles's wild humour flickers over this page like lambent flame;
yet he was serious at heart without a doubt, and his whirling words
rouse an echo in many a breast to this day. But both Shakspere and
Lamb had their higher moments. Turn to "Cymbeline," and observe the
glorious triumph of the dirge which rings like the magnificent
exultation of Beethoven's Funeral March--
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great--
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat--
To thee the reed is as the oak;
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust."
Here in rhythmic form we have the thought of the mighty apostle--"O
Death, where is thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?" Shakspere
was too intensely human to be absolved from mortal weakness; but, in
the main, he took the one view which I should be glad to see cherished
by all. His words sometimes make us pause, as we pause when the violet
flashes of summer lightning fleet across the lowering dome of the sky;
but, in the end, he always has his words of cheer, and we gather heart
from reading the strongest and most perfect writer the earth has
known. Turn where we will, we find that all of our race--emperor,
warrior, poet, clown, fair lady, innocent child--are given to dwelling
on the same thought. It is our business to seek out those who have
spoken with resignation and dauntlessness, and to leave aside all
those who have only affectations of bravery or affectations of horror
to give us. Here is a beautiful word:--
"The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet;
Approaching ever, soft of hands and feet,
She beckons us, and strife and song have been.
A summer night, descending cool and green
And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
And hopeful fancies look upon and greet
This last of all your lovers, and to meet
Her kiss mysterious all your spirit lean!
The ways of Death are soothing and serene!"
Even Shakspere hardly bettered that!
I should not like to see men begin to encourage the recklessness of
the desperado, nor should I like to see women affect the brazen
abandonment of the Amazon. I only care to see our fellow-creatures
rise above pettiness, so that they may accept all God's ordinances
with unvarying gratitude. Is it not pitiful to see a grown man
trembling and waving his hand with angry disgust when the holy course
of Nature is spoken of with gravity and composed resolution? I have
seen a stout, strong man who had amassed enormous wealth fly into
pettish rage like a spoiled child when a friend spoke to him about the
final disposal of his riches. Like a silly girl, this powerful
millionaire went into tremors when the inevitable was named in his
ear, for he had imbibed all the cowardly conventions that tend to
poison our existence. He died a hundred deaths in his time, and much
of his life was passed in such misery as only cultivated poltroonery
can breed. Wicked wags knew that they could frighten him at any
moment; they would greet him cordially, and then suddenly assume an
air of deep concern. The poor plutocrat's face changed instantly, and
he would ask, "What is the matter?" The joker then made answer, "You
are a little flushed. You should rest." This was enough. The truant
imagination of the unhappy butt went far afield in search of terrors;
neither food, nor wine, nor the pleasures of the theatre could tempt
him, and he remained in a state of limpness until the natural buoyancy
of his spirits asserted itself. What a life! How much better would it
have been for this rich man had he trained himself to preserve General
Gordon's composure, even if he had bought that composure at the price
of his whole colossal fortune! Riches were useless to him, the sun
failed to cheer him, and his end was in truth a release from one
incessant torture.
Turn from this hare-hearted citizen, and think of our hero, the pride
of England, the flower of the human race--Charles Gordon. With his
exquisite simplicity, Gordon confesses in one of his letters that he
used to feel frightened when he went under fire, for the superstitious
dread of death had been grafted on his mind when he was young. But he
learned the fear of God and lost all other fear; he accustomed himself
to the idea of parting with the world and its hopes and labours, and
in all the long series of letters which he sent home from the Soudan
during his period of rule we find him constantly speaking quietly,
joyously about the event which carries horror to the hearts of weak
men--"My Master will lay me aside and use some other instrument when I
have fulfilled His purpose. I have no fear of death, for I know I
shall exchange much weariness for perfect peace." So spoke the hero,
the just and faithful Knight of God. He was simple, with the
simplicity of a flawless diamond; he was reverent, he was faithful
even to the end, and he was incredibly dauntless. Why? Because he had
faced the last great problem with all the force of his noble manhood,
and the thought of his translation to another world woke in his
gallant soul images of beauty and holiness. Why should the meanest and
most unlearned of us all not strive to follow in the footsteps of the
hero? Millions on millions have passed away, and they now know all
things; the cessation of human life is as common and natural as the
drawing of our breath; why then should we invest a natural, blessed,
beautiful event with murky lines of wrath and dread? The pitiful
wretch who flaunts his braggart defiance before the eyes of men and
shrieks his feeble contempt of the inevitable is worthy only of our
quiet scorn; but the grateful soul that bows humbly to the stroke of
fate and accepts death as thankfully as life is in all ways worthy of
admiration and vivid respect. We are prone to talk of our "rights,"
and some of us have a very exalted idea of the range which those
precious "rights" should cover. One of our poets goes so far as to
inquire in an amiable way, "What have we done to thee, O Death?" He
insinuates that Death is very unkind to ply the abhorred shears over
such nice, harmless creatures as we are. Let us, for manhood's sake,
have done with puerility; let us recognise that our "rights" have no
existence, and that we must perforce accept the burdens of life,
labour, and death that are laid upon us. We can do no good by
nourishing fears, by encouraging silly conventionalities, by shirking
the bald facts of life; and we should gently, joyfully, trustfully
look our fate in the face and fear nothing. Life will never be the
joyous pilgrimage that it ought to be until men have learned to crush
their pride, their doubts, their terrors, and have also learned to
regard the beautiful sleep as a holy and fitting reward only to be
rightly enjoyed by those who live purely, righteously, hopefully in
the sight of God and man.
XXV.
JOURNALISM.
When the mystic midnight passes, the bustle of Fleet Street slackens;
but on each side of the thoroughfare hundreds of workers with hand and
brain are toiling with eager intensity. In tall buildings here and
there the lights glitter on every floor, and throw their long shafts
through the gloom; not much activity is plainly visible, and yet
somehow the merest novice feels that there is a throb in the air, and
that some mysterious forces are working around him. Hurrying
messengers dash by, stray cabs rush along with a low rumble and sharp
clash of hoofs. But it is not in the street that the minds and bodies
of men are obviously in action; go inside one of the mighty palatial
offices, and you find yourself in the midst of such a hive of
marvellous industry as the world has never seen before. On one journal
as many as four hundred and fifty or five hundred men are all
labouring for dear life; every one is at high pressure, from the
silent leader-writer to the fussy swift-footed messenger. In that one
building is concentrated a great estate, which yields a revenue that
exceeds that of some principalities; it is a large nerve-centre, and
myriads of fibres connect it with every part of the globe; or, say, it
is like some miraculous eye, which sees in all directions and is
indifferent to distance. Go into one quiet, soft-carpeted room, and
certain small glittering machines flash in the bright light. "Click,
click--click, click!"--long strips of tape are softly unwound and fall
in slack twisted piles. One of those machines is printing off a long
letter from Berlin, another is registering news from Vienna, and by a
third news from Paris comes as easily and rapidly as from Shoreditch;
subdued men take the tapes, expand and make fluent the curt, halting
phrases of the foreign correspondents, and pass the messages swiftly
away to the printers. From America, Australia, India, China, the items
of news pour in, and are scrutinised by severe sub-editors; and those
experts calculate to a fraction of an inch what space can be
judiciously spared for each item. If Parliament is sitting, the relays
of messengers arrive with batches of manuscript; and, when an
important debate is proceeding, the steady influx of hundreds of
scribbled sheets is enormous. A four hours' speech from such an orator
as Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Chamberlain contains, say, thirty thousand
words. Imagine the area of paper covered by the reporters! But such a
speech would rarely come in late at night, and the men can usually
handle an important oration by an eminent speaker in a way that is
leisurely by comparison. The slips are distributed with lightning
rapidity; each man puts his little batch into type, the fragments are
placed in their queer frame, and presently the readers are poring over
the long, damp, and odorous proof-sheets. There is no very great hurry
in the early part of the evening; but, as the small hours wear away,
the strain is feverish in its poignancy. There is no noise, no
confusion; each man knows his office, and fulfils it deftly. But such
great issues are involved, that the nervousness of managers, printers,
sub-editors--every one--may easily be understood. Suppose that a very
important division is to be taken in Parliament; the minutes roll by,
and the news is still delayed. Some kind of comment must be made on
the result of the debate, and an able, swift writer scrawls off his
column of phrases with furious speed. Then that article must be put
into type; a model of the type must be taken on a sheet of
papier-mâché, the melted metal must be poured into the paper mould,
the resulting curved block must be clamped on to a cylinder of the
waiting machine, and all this must be done with strict regard to the
value of seconds. A delay of half a minute might prevent the manager
from sending his piles of journals away by the early train, and that
would be a calamity too fearful to be dreamed of. In one great
newspaper-office ten machines are all set going together, and an
eleventh is kept ready in case of accident. The ten whizzing cylinders
print off the papers, and an impression of a quarter of a million is
soon thrown out, folded, and piled ready for distribution. But imagine
what a loss of one minute means! Truly the agitation of the officials
at an awkward pinch is singularly excusable, and many a hard word is
levelled at pertinacious talkers who insist on thrusting themselves
upon the House at a time when the country is waiting with wild
eagerness for momentous tidings. The long line of carts waits in the
street, the speedy ponies rattle off, and soon the immense building is
all but still. Comfortable people who have their journal punctually
handed in at a convenient hour in the morning are apt to think lightly
of the raging effort, the inconceivably complicated organisation, the
colossal expense needed to produce that sheet which is flung away at
the close of each day. A blunder of the most trivial kind might throw
everything out of gear; but stern discipline and ubiquitous precaution
render the blunder almost an impossibility. Sometimes you may observe
in a paper like the _Times_ one column which bristles with
typographical errors. All the slips are clustered in one place, and
the reason is that the few minutes necessary for proper revision could
not be spared. Good workmen are set on at the last moment, and an
attempt is made to set up the final scraps of matter with as few
errors as possible; but little mistakes will creep in, and people who
do not know the startling exigencies of the printer's trade are apt to
express scornful wonder. Very comic have been the errors made during
the recent furious and prolonged debates, for the frantic conflicts in
the House were extended far into the small hours. One excited orator,
in closing a debate, dropped into poetry, and remarked that a certain
catastrophe came "like a bolt from the blue"; a daily journal of vast
circulation described the event as coming "like a bolt from the
flue"--which was a very sad instance of bathos. The amazing thing is
that such blunders should be so rare as to be memorable.
What a strange population who toil thus at night for our pleasure and
instruction, and who reverse the order of ordinary people's lives!
They are worth knowing, these swift, dexterous, laborious people.
First of all comes the great personage--the editor. In old days simple
persons imagined the conductor of the _Times_ perched upon a majestic
throne, whence he hurled his bolts in the most light-hearted manner.
We know better now; yet it must be owned that the editor of a great
journal is a very important personage indeed. The true editor is born
to his function; if he has not the gift, no amount of drilling will
ever make him efficient. Many of the outside public still picture the
editor as wielding his pen valiantly, and stabbing enemies or
heartening friends with his own hands. As a matter of fact, the
editor's function is not to write; the best of the profession never
touch a pen, excepting to write a brief note of instruction or to send
a private letter. The editor is the brain of the journal; and, in the
case of a daily paper, his business is not so much to instruct the
public as to find out what the public want to say, and say it for them
in the clearest and most forcible way possible. Imagine a general
commanding amid the din of a great battle. He must remember the number
of his forces, the exact disposition of every battalion, the peculiar
capabilities of his principal subordinates, and he must also note
every yard of the ground. He hears that a battalion has been repulsed
with heavy slaughter at a point one mile away, and the officer in
command cannot repeat his assault without reinforcements. He must
instantly decide as to whether the foiled battalion is merely to hold
its ground or to advance once more. Orderlies reach him from all
points of the compass; he must note where the enemy's fire slackens or
gains power; he must be ready to use the field-telegraph with
unhesitating decision, for a minute's hesitation may lose the battle
and ruin his force. In short, the general plays a vast game which
makes the complications of chess seem simple. The editor, in his
peaceful way, has to perform daily a mental feat almost equal in
complexity to that of the warrior. Public opinion usually has strong
general tendencies; but there are hundreds of cross-currents, and the
editor must allow for all. Suppose that a public agitation is begun,
and that a great national movement seems to be in progress; then the
editor must be able to tell instinctively how far the movement is
likely to be strong and lasting. If he errs seriously, and regards an
agitation as trivial which is really momentous, then his journal
receives a blow which may cripple its influence during months. One
great paper was ruined some twenty years ago by a blunder, and about
one hundred thousand pounds were deliberately thrown away through
obstinate folly. The perfect editor, like the great general, seizes
every clue that can guide him, and makes his final movement with alert
decision. No wonder that the work of editing wears men out early. The
great _Times_ editor, Mr. Delane, went about much in society; he
always appeared to be calm, untroubled, inscrutable, though the
factions were warring fiercely and bitterness had reached its height.
He scarcely ever missed his mark; and, when he strolled into his
office late in the evening, his plan was ready for the morrow's
battle. At five the next morning his well-known figure, wrapped in the
queer long coat, was to be seen coming from the square; he might have
destroyed a government, or altered a war policy, or ruined a
statesman--all was one to him; and he went away ready to lay his plans
for the next day's conflict. Delane's power at one time was almost
incalculable, and he gained it by unerringly finding out exactly what
England wanted. England might be wrong or right--that was none of
Delane's business; he cared only to discover what his country wished
for from day to day. An amazing function is that of an editor.
Then we have the leader-writer. The British public have decided that
their newspaper shall furnish them daily with three or four little
addresses on various topics of current interest; and these grave or
gay sermons are composed by practised hands who must be ready to write
on almost any subject under the sun at a minute's notice. In a certain
class of old-fashioned literature the newspaper-writer is represented
as a careless, dissipated Bohemian, who lived with rackety
inconsequence. That tribe of writers has long vanished from the face
of the earth. The last of the sort that I remember was a miserable old
man who haunted the British Museum. No one knew where he lived; but
his work, such as it was, usually went in with punctuality, and he
drank the proceeds. He died in a stall of a low public-house, and was
buried by the parish. No one but his editor and one or two cronies
knew his real name, and he appeared to be utterly friendless. But the
modern leader-writer must beware of strong liquors. Usually he is a
keen, reposeful man who has his brain cool at all hours. The immense
drinking-bouts of old times could never be indulged in now; and
indeed, if a journalist once begins to take stimulants as stimulants,
his end is not far off. Let us mention the kind of feats which must be
performed. A powerful minister makes a speech after eleven o'clock at
night; the leader-writer receives proof-sheets; he must grasp the
whole scope of the speech in a flash, and then proceed with the mere
mechanical work of writing. Twelve hundred words will take about an
hour and twenty minutes to set down, and then the MS. must be rushed
piece by piece to the composing-room. Again, supposing that news of
some great disaster arrives late. An article must be swiftly done, and
the writer must have a theory ready that will hold water. Work like
this needs a quick wit, a copious vocabulary, and an absolutely steady
hand. Moreover, the leader-writer must unhappily be invariably ready
to write "nothings" so that they may look like "somethings." News is
scarce, foreign nations show a culpable lack of desire to kill each
other, no moving accident has occurred--and the paper must be filled.
Then the leader-writer must take some trivial subject and weave round
it a web of graceful and amusing phrases. One brilliant scholar once
wrote a most charming and learned article about pigs; and I have seen
a column of grave nonsense spun out on the subject of an unhappy cat
which fixed its head in a salmon-tin!
This hurried writing on trifling matters brings on a certain looseness
of style and thought; but the public will have it, and the demand
creates the supply of a flimsy, pleasant, literary article. The best
leaders are now written by fine scholars. In travelling over the
country I have been amused by simple people who imagined that the
articles in a journal were produced by one secret and utterly
mysterious being. These good folk are mightily surprised on finding
that the admired leaders are done by a troop of men who are not
exactly commonplace, but who are not much wiser or better than their
fellows.
UNWIN BROTHERS PRINTERS CHILWORTH AND LONDON.