(1874.)
:: “Ich hab’ mein Sach auf Nichts gestellt,
Juchhe! Drum ist’s so wohl mir in der Welt; Juchhe!”—Gôthe.
“He got so subtle that to be Nothing was all his glory.” Shelley,
“Peter Bell the Third”
It is now some time since the _Daily News_, which, perhaps with more
honor than profit, and not seldom at great risk of its life, had been
for many years a really leading Liberal journal, fighting gallantly
always in the van, often in forlorn hopes, took to heart a certain
very-obvious truth. It awoke fully to the fact that while a captain in
the forlorn hope or vanguard is constantly in great peril, and has but
few supporters, one with the main body is much less exposed and has many
more to help him. Weary and discouraged, it resolved to fall back from
the front and join the mass of the army, the myriads of the commonplace
and the timorous, the legions of the rich and respectable, the countless
hosts of the snobbery of Bumbledom. But in making this “strategic
movement,” it is well aware that honor equal to the danger is attached
to the forlorn hope and the vanguard, and it clung to the honor while
renouncing the danger, and continued to call itself a leading Liberal
journal when it had quite given up the lead—nay, continues thus to vaunt
itself still. This is how some malicious people explain the altered
position of the Daily News and its growing number of supporters, or, in
the language of periodicals, its increasing circulation. Now, say these
impatient and intemperate persons, a paper is free to serve Bumble (as
nearly all papers do), or to serve Progress, the enemy of Bumble; but it
has no right, while serving the one, to claim the merit of serving the
other. This _Daily News_, they go on, which still dares to call itself
Liberal, is now just as liberal as the jester’s Garrick, who used to set
out with generous intentions, and was scared back at the corner of the
street by the ghost of a ha’penny. In its case it is the ghost of a
penny, the ghost of the representative penny of all the pennies ready to
buy vapid twaddle, but not earnest thought.
For my own part, however, I find the _Daily News_ still really liberal,
and, in fact, extremely liberal. It is liberal in long special telegrams
and interminable Jenkins letters about the most insignificant movements
and actions of royal personages. It is equally liberal in reticence,
slightly tempered by sneers, as to all advanced movements, all unpopular
principles and their champions. It is liberal in the space it gives to
all fashionable frivolities, sports and pastimes, to all the bagatelles
of life. If it has not a paragraph to spare for a Radical meeting, it
has always columns at the command of boat races, yacht races, horse
races, cricket and polo matches, and the like important events, as well
as other columns for the gossip of clubs and the babble of society. It
is liberal in hopefulness that wrong may be right, falsehood truth, evil
good. It is very liberal in soft phrases, and in “passages that lead to
nothing.” Nothing, indeed, is the great end of its endeavor; for what
alteration can be needed by a world in which the circulation of the
_Daily News_ is continually increasing? Unless, perchance, as the
circulation is already “world-wide,” the world will have to be extended
in order to accommodate it. But this concerns Father God or Mother
Nature, not mere mortals. All these liberalities I could amply
illustrate did space permit; as it is, I can give but an instance each
to the first two. The Prince of Wales being in France, amusing himself
like any other man who has money and leisure, “The Prince of Wales in
France—Special,” heads its placards in the largest letters. On the other
hand, I heard one of our three or four greatest writers, Garth
Wilkinson, declare at a public meeting that he had written several
letters to it on a subject then agitating the public mind, but that he
could as easily get a letter into the moon as into the _Daily News_. Yet
the subject was medical; and Garth Wilkinson is not only one of our
greatest writers and thinkers, but also an M.D. and F.R.S., who has
practised for I know not how much more than a quarter of a century. To
refuse his letters on that matter was like refusing to hear Carlyle on
Cromwell or Darwin on Natural Selection. Why, then, did the _Daily News_
reject them? For the simply sufficient reason that they advocated the
unpopular side of the question.
Yes, it is still liberal and beyond measure liberal in these and many
other respects. It has still great care of the people—to keep aloof from
them; it loves them more than ever—at a distance. It still belongs to
the Left—in the rear. It is still of the Mountain, only it has descended
to provision itself; as the sage rhyme runs,
“The mountain sheep were sweeter,
But the valley sheep were fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.”
It is still Radical, having a rooted love of ease and hatred of
disturbance. It is still revolutionary, but has resolved that henceforth
revolutions shall be made with rose-water, and omelettes without
breaking of....
While thus freely acknowledging that in many things the _Daily News_ is
now more liberal than ever it was, I must also record my admiration for
its strenuous endeavors to assume an air of aristocratic refinement and
repose. From its serene indifference to the troubles of vulgar humanity,
from the languid lisp and drawl of its voice, from its perpetual
allusions to the luxuries and enjoyments of the wealthy and noble, one
readily divines that its staff, like the staff of my Lord Chamberlain or
other court lackey, can move only in the highest circles; but whether
its members are admitted into these as gentlemen or as gentlemen’s
gentlemen, I must leave for those familiar with such circles to declare.
This is certain, that they flit about amidst a lordly festival in the
gay and careless fashion of men who have no thought save of enjoying
themselves; not like poor devils who have duties which, though better
paid, are as onerous and strictly subservient to the gathering as those
of the waiters or the footmen. It must surely be by a mere afterthought,
and purely for their own amusement, that they throw off a description of
the scene and an account of what occurred there. By the bye, it is
rumored that the staff has been thoroughly changed of late years. The
old members were able enough, but they were too coarse, too loud, too
violent, too opiniative, too much given to discussing important
questions as if they really cared for the same. Their manners especially
could not be endured One entered the Editor’s sanctum (which had then
just been refurnished under the supervision of the Count of Monte
Cristo) in his wet boots, although embroidered slippers were provided at
the foot of the stairs. Another exploded with a “Damned old idiot!” on
reading the charge of one of our Right Reverend Fathers in God. Another
was caught smoking a clay pipe over a pint of beer, although narghilés
and hookahs and the choicest cigarettes, with unlimited supplies of the
most costly wines and liqueurs, are always set out for the staff and
such visitors as are admitted to the inner offices. The _Daily News_
wrote to my Lord Chief Justice demanding that this fellow should be sent
without trial to keep company with Arthur Orton, and for all I know the
Chief Justice humbly obeyed. Another was seen walking arm-in-arm with
the Editor of the _Times_, and was of course instantly dismissed, the
_Daily News_ writing to warn the man of the other journal.
This, I am assured, is historical fact, to which the Editor of the
_Times_ will bear witness, if he be not ashamed to avow what may seem to
hurt his dignity. For these and the like offences the old members have
been all dismissed.
It is said to be a peculiarity of the _Daily News_ that all the leading
articles are manufactured on the premises, if I may venture on a shop
phrase in such a connection. I have spoken of the luxury of the Editor’s
sanctum, which is a large and noble apartment. The leader-writers are
borne to the office in closed carriages, with double or triple windows
and india-rubber tires, lest some rude oath, or nasty smell, or even the
loud noise of the streets should shock them into hysterics, or at least
so unstring their nerves as to render writing impossible for the day. In
the sumptuous boudoir-sanctum, lounging, smoking, and sipping, they
receive on silver salvers telegrams from all parts of the rolling globe,
with innumerable communications and documents, written and printed; and
such of these as they are pleased to look at tin Epicurean gods:
“For they lie beside their nectar,
and the bolts are hurled
Far below them in the valleys.”
They lie a good deal beside their nectar; but their bolts are anything
but thunderbolts. Thunderbolts! The mere word would make these gasp and
shudder. They are not thunderbolts, they are not rockets, they are not
even squibs; they are bonbons and genuine _confetti_, not your
_confetti_ of the Carnival.
“*There* they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centered in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning, tho the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill−used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil.”
Naturally these lofty beings smile; for what have they to do with the
cares and woes, the hopes and fears of ordinary mortals? Besides,
battles and shipwrecks, disasters and convulsions, make the best of
copy; and the music centred in the doleful song is a hymn of triumph,
with the glorious refrain, “Our circulation is still increasing! Our
world-wide circulation continues to increase!” And surely the ill-used
race of men that till the soil should be appeased and amply satisfied by
the showers of bonbons and sweetmeats the _Daily News_ is always
flinging down. It has more important duties to attend to than fighting
the battles and righting the wrongs of an ignorant, passionate,
unreasonable, wretched rabble, considerably addicted to dirt,
drunkenness, and vice. For thirty hours at least in every twenty-four it
is in attendance on some Royalty or another, or at the sports and
entertainments of “Society, with a capital S.” It is said that the
“copy” of these superlative writers, who always wear kid gloves while
writing, is written with golden pens and tinted and perfumed ink, on
perfumed and tinted paper. It is moreover said that the journal itself
is soon to be printed on vellum, in the illuminated style, with
arabesque borders. It is also rumored that the _Court Journal_ and the
_Morning Post_, finding themselves quite outdone by the _Daily News_,
and their occupation gone, will shortly cease to appear.
I must not omit to mention that I have been told on authority, which I
incline to consider good, that in the said gorgeous sanctum is
conspicuous a table of commandments, wrought in letters of fine gold,
which commandments are these:
I. Thou shalt never be in earnest about anything, and shalt abhor
enthusiasm.