In order to become a successful Journalist of a certain sort, it is
only necessary that a man should in early life provide himself with
a front as brazen as the trumpet which he blows to announce to the
world his merits and his triumphs. It is, of course, essential that
he should rid himself of any trace of sensitiveness that may remain to
him after a youth about which the only thing certain is its complete
obscurity, in order that no hint may be sufficiently broad to fit
in with the tolerant breadth of his impudence, and no affront
sufficiently pointed to pierce the skin with which Nature and his
own industry have furnished him. Literary culture must be eschewed,
for with literary culture come taste and discrimination--qualities
which might fatally obstruct the path of this journalistic aspirant.
For it must be assumed that in some of its later developments
journalism has entirely cast off the reticence and the modesty which
successive generations of censors have constantly held to have been
characteristic of an age that is past. Indeed, while it is established
that in 1850 the critics of the day fixed their thoughts with pleasure
on the early years of the century, though they found nothing but abuse
for the journalism of their own time, it is curious to note that many
of those who hurl the shafts of ridicule and contempt at the present
period have only words of praise for 1850. Without, however, going so
far as these stern descendants of CATO, it may be affirmed that the
porpoise-hided Jack of all Journalisms, as we know him, never had
a greater power, nor exercised it over a larger scope with smaller
scruple than to-day.
It has been already said that the youth of the Jack of all Journalisms
is lost in obscurity. It is obvious that he cannot have acquired his
readiness of pen without much practice, but where the practice was
obtained is a puzzle to which each of his enemies has a different key.
Some say of him that he spent a year or two at a University, where
he was noted for the unfailing regularity with which he sought the
society of the wealthy, imbibed strong drinks, and omitted to pay
his debts. It is also alleged that he started a colourable University
imitation of the journal which happened at that particular time to be
the most highly coloured in London, and that, after struggling through
two numbers of convulsive scurrility, the infant effort withered under
the frown of the Authorities, who at the same time sent its founder
down. Others, however, declare him to have been the offspring of a
decayed purveyor of spurious racing intelligence, who naturally sent
his son to shift for himself after he had lost his last shirt in
betting against one of his own prophecies. Others again aver, and
probably with equal accuracy, that he was at no time other than
what he is when the world first becomes aware of his existence--the
blatant, cringing, insolent, able and disreputable wielder of a pen
which draws much of its sting and its profit from the vanities and
fears of his fellow-creatures. Be that as it may, he somehow becomes
a power. He attaches himself to many journals, the editors of which he
first pesters, afterwards serves, and always despises. He may perhaps
have dabbled in music, and caused a penniless friend who is musical to
write for small pay songs which he honours by attaching his own name
to them as their composer. Woe betide the unhappy aspirant to the
honours of public singing who ignores the demand of this quasi-musical
Turpin that she should sing his songs. For, having become in the
meantime a musical critic, he will devote all his talents to the
congenial task of abusing her voice in his organ--which is naturally
the more powerful instrument of the two. Should she, however, submit
to his extortionate requests, he will deem himself entitled to
embitter the rest of her existence with his patronising commendation.
However, before reaching this pitch, he will have made his mark as an
interviewer and a picturesque social reporter. In the former capacity
he will have hunted momentary celebrities into the sanctity of their
rooms, whence, after exchanging two words with them, he will have
emerged with two columns of conversation. In the latter capacity, he
will create for himself and the readers of his paper a social circle,
the members of which, bear the same relation to Society proper as a
lurcher does to a pure-bred greyhound. For there are many so-called
social sets which are select merely because few desire to enter and
many to leave them, and to these the Jack of all Journalisms is often
a prophet and a leader pointing the way to the promised land. Thus
we learn, with surprise, at first, and afterwards with the yawn that
comes of the constant repetition of an ascertained fact, that the
receptions of Lady TIFFIN are a model of all that is elegant and
_recherché_, whilst the dresses and jewels of Mrs. JIFFS are always
a subject of enthusiastic admiration to those amongst whom she moves;
and it is only in moments of peculiar moroseness that we remember that
neither of these two ladies is qualified by position or refinement for
anything more than a passing smile. Yet to many, the mere fact that
they are mentioned in paragraphs, is proof positive of their descent
from the VERE DE VERES.
Moreover, the Jack of Journalisms will, at one time or another, have
risen from the position of one who chronicles second-rate shows in
remote corners of his paper, to be the recognised dramatic critic of
a powerful organ. He thus acquires an extraordinary influence which
he consolidates amongst outsiders by occasional lapses into a fury
of critical honesty and abuse. It may be said of him, indeed, that,
"Hell hath no fury like a critic scorned," for if he should, on any
occasion, have taken umbrage at the treatment accorded to him by an
actor or a manager, he will never allow the offence to fade, so long
as he can fashion insinuations, misconstrue motives, or manufacture
failure with his pen.
[Illustration]
In appearance the Jack of all Journalisms is not altogether pleasing.
His early struggles against irresponsive editors have left their
mark upon him, for having been compelled to seek consolation for
disappointment by indulging in strong drinks, he never completely
loses the habit which tells, of course, both upon his dress and
temper. Though success, by bringing the pleasures of the table within
his reach, has increased the rotundity of his figure, it has never
been able to make his collars snowy or his conversation refined. He is
often found upon the Committees of new Clubs which start with a blare
of journalistic trumpets upon a chequered existence, only to perish
in contempt a few years afterwards. But while they last he attends
them in the hope of picking up a friend who may be valuable, or some
gossip which he may turn to account. As a rule, he affects the society
of those who are intellectually dull in order that he may pass with
them for a man of immense culture and unfathomable sagacity. Over
the third long drink provided for him by an admiring associate of
this sort, he will grow eloquent, and his conversation will sparkle
with reminiscences of leading articles he may once have written, and
anticipations of others that he proposes to write. Those who hear him
on such occasions will opine that he is a man of genius, who is only
prevented by the carelessness of a Gallio from becoming a statesman of
the first rank.
A little later he will rise still higher, and will become the almost
recognised medium through which really fashionable intelligence
is converted into common knowledge. In this position he will allow
nothing to escape him, and if one of the highest persons in the land
should invite six friends to dinner, their names will on the following
morning be known to the Jack of all Journalisms. It is unnecessary to
say that in the course of this career he acquires, not only notoriety,
but enemies, who watch eagerly for the false step that shall bring
him to the ground. In spite of his craft, he is inevitably driven
from boldness into rashness, and after waging a fruitless war against
rascals more accomplished than himself, he, with a courage that
scarcely atones for his imprudence, enters the witness-box, and,
a flood of light having been thrown upon his past career, he finds
himself for two nights blazoned in enormous letters on the posters
of the evening papers, and is compelled, in the end, to submit to an
adverse verdict, and to retire, "it may be for years or it may be
for ever," from the open practice of a profession in which he had so
distinguished himself.
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