ON REVELATIONS.
Revelations, again, as we found to be the case with editing, do not properly constitute a department of the art of letters. Though they are of far more importance than any other branch of contemporary journalism, yet it is impossible to compare their publication to a creative act of pure literature.
It may be urged that such Revelations as are written in the office of the newspaper publishing them are not only literature, but literature of a very high order. They are, on the face of it, extremely difficult to compose. If they are to have any chance of deceiving the public, the writer must thoroughly know the world which he counterfeits; he must be able to copy its literary style, its air, its errors. It is even sometimes necessary for him to attempt the exquisitely subtle art of forgery.
The objection is well found; but it is not of this kind of Revelation that I propose to speak. It belongs to the higher branches of our art, and is quite unsuited to a little elementary manual.
The Revelation I speak of here is the ordinary type of private communication, domestic treason, or accidental discovery, dealing, as a rule, with public affairs, and brought to the office spontaneously by servants, colonial adventurers, or ministers of religion.
Nine Revelations out of ten are of this kind; and the young journalist who may desire to rise in his great calling must make himself thoroughly familiar with the whole process by which they are to be procured and published.
A small amount of additional matter has, indeed, sometimes to be furnished, but it is almost insignificant, and is, moreover, of so conventional a nature, that it need not trouble us for a moment. Some such phrase as “We have received the following communication from a source upon which we place the firmest reliance,” will do very well to open with, and at the end: “We shall be interested to see what reply can be given to the above,” is a very useful formula. Thus the words “To be continued,” added at the end are often highly lucrative. They were used by the Courrier des Frises (a first-class authority on such matters), when it recently published a number of private letters, written (alas!) in the English tongue, and concerning the noblest figure in English politics.
But though there is little to be done in the way of writing, there is a considerable mental strain involved in judging whether a particular Revelation will suit the proprietor of the newspaper upon which one is employed, and one must not unfrequently be prepared to suffer from exhausting terrors for some weeks after its publication.
Difficult as is the art of testing Revelation, the rules that govern it are few and simple. The Revelator, if a domestic servant, wears a round black bowler hat and a short jacket, and a pair of very good trousers stolen from his master; he will be clean shaven. If an adventurer or minister of religion, he will wear a soft felt hat and carry a large muffler round his throat. Either sort walk noiselessly, but the first in a firm, and the second in a shuffling manner. I am far from saying that all who enter newspaper offices under this appearance bear with them Revelations even of the mildest kind, but I do say that whenever Revelations come, they are brought by one of these two kinds of men.
I should add that the Revelator like the moneylender, the spy, and every other professional man whose livelihood depends upon efficiency is invariably sober. If any man come to you with a Revelation and seem even a trifle drunk, dismiss him without inquiry, though not before you have admonished him upon his shame and sin, and pointed out the ruin that such indulgence brings upon all save the wealthy.
When a man arrives who seems at all likely to have a Revelation in his pocket, and who offers it for sale, remember that you have but a few moments in which to make up your mind; put him into the little room next to the sub-editor, take his MS., tell him you will show it to your chief, and, as you leave him, lock the door softly on the outside.
The next moment may decide your whole career. You must glance at the Revelation, and judge in that glance whether the public will believe it even for two full hours. The whole difference between a successful and an unsuccessful journalist lies in that power of sudden vision; nor will experience alone achieve it, it must be experience touched with something like genius.
Libellous matter you can delete. Matter merely false will not be remembered against you; but if that rare and subtle character which convinces the mob be lacking, that is a thing which no one can supply in the time between the Revelator’s arrival and the paper’s going to press.
Finally, when you have made your decision, return, unlock, pay, and dismiss. Never pay by cheque. Remember how short is the time at your disposal. Remember that if your paper does not print a really good Revelation when it is offered, some other paper will. Remember the Times, the Chronicle, and Major Esterhazy. Remember Mr. Gladstone’s resignation.
... Remember the “Maine.”
A few practical instances will help us to understand these abstract rules.
Consider, for instance, the following—one of the wisest acts of Dr. Caliban’s whole life.
Dr. Caliban was busy writing a leader for the Sunday Englishman upon “Hell or Immortality”; for it was Saturday night, he had just received the weekly papers, and, as he well said, “A strong Sunday paper has this advantage, that it can do what it likes with the weeklies.”
He was, I say in the midst of Hell or Immortality, when he was interrupted by a note. He opened it, read it, frowned, and passed it to me, saying:—
“What do you make of this?”
The note ran:—
“I have just been dismissed from the Spectator for sneezing in an indelicate manner. I have a Revelation to make with regard to the conduct of that paper. Please see me at once, or it may be too late. I have with me a letter which the Spectator will publish next week. It throws a searching light upon the Editor’s mind, and lays bare all the inner workings of the paper. Price 40s.”
I told Dr. Caliban, that in my opinion, on the one hand, there might be something in it; while on the other hand, that there might not.
Dr. Caliban looked at me thoughtfully and said:
“You think that?”
He touched an electric bell. As this did not ring, he blew down a tube, and receiving no answer, nor indeed hearing the whistle at the other end, he sent a messenger, who, by some accident, failed to return to the editorial office. Dr. Caliban himself went down and brought up the stranger. He was a young man somewhat cadaverous. He repeated what he had said in his note, refused to bargain in any way, received two sovereigns from Dr. Caliban’s own purse, sighed deeply, and then with a grave face said:
“It feels like treason.”
He pressed his lips hard together, conquered himself, and left us with the utmost rapidity.
When Dr. Caliban and I were alone together, he opened the sealed envelope and read these words, written on a little slip of foolscap:
“The following letter is accepted by the Spectator, and will be printed next week.” To this slip was pinned a rather dirty half-sheet of notepaper, and on this was the following letter:
Balcarry Castle,
County Mayo.
Jan. 19th, 1903.
To the Editor of the Spectator.
Dear Sir,
Among your humorous Irish stories perhaps the following will be worthy to find a place. A dear uncle of mine, my father’s half brother, and the husband of the talented E. J. S., was bishop of Killibardine, a prelate of great distinction and considerable humour.
I well remember that somewhere in the summer of 1869, his valet having occasion to call unexpectedly upon a relative (butler to the Duke of Kerry), the latter observed “Indade, an’ shure now an’ is that yourself, Pat, Pat asthor, at all, at all,” to which the witty fellow answered, with the true Irish twinkle in his eye, “Was your grandfather a monkey?”
I am very faithfully yours,
The MacFfin.
Dr. Caliban was heartily amused by the tale, and told me that he had met the MacFfin some years ago at Lady Marroway’s.
“Nevertheless,” he added, I don’t think it would be fair to comment on the little story ... I had imagined that something graver was toward ...”
He never spoke again of the small outlay he had made, and I afterwards found that it had been included in the general expenses of the paper. I have never forgotten the lesson, nor since that date have I ever accepted MSS. and paid for it without making myself acquainted to some extent with the subject. A little such foresight upon that occasion would have convinced us that a letter of this kind would never have found a place in a review of the calibre of the Spectator.
Contrast with Dr. Caliban’s wise and patriotic conduct upon this occasion the wickedness and folly of the Evening German in the matter of the Cabinet Crisis.
For some time the saner papers, which see the Empire as it is, had been issuing such placards as “He must go,” “Make room for Joseph” and other terse and definite indications of a new policy.
The Evening German had for several days headed its leading article, “Why don’t he resign?”
A member of the unscrupulous gang who ever lie in wait for whatever is innocent and enthusiastic called, just before press, upon the editor of the Evening German, passing himself off as the valet of the minister whose resignation was demanded. He produced a small sheet of MSS., and affirmed it to be the exact account of an interview between the minister and his doctor, which interview the valet had overheard, “concealed,” as he put it “behind an arras.” He said it would explain the situation thoroughly. He received no less than 25 guineas, and departed.
Now let the student read what follows, and ask himself by what madness a responsible editor came to print a thing so self-evidently absurd.
WHY HE DOES NOT RESIGN!
We have received upon an unimpeachable authority the verbatim account of an interview between him and his medical adviser, which we think thoroughly explains the present deadlock in Imperial affairs. We are assured upon oath that he was in bed when the doctor called just before noon yesterday, and that the following dialogue took place:—
Minister (in bed)—Good morning, Doctor, I am glad to see you. What can I do for you?... I mean, I am glad to see you. Pray excuse the inadvertence of my phrase, it is one that I have lately had to use not a little.
Doctor—Pray let me look at your tongue and feel your pulse. So. We are getting along nicely. At what hour were you thinking of rising?
Minister—At twelve, my usual hour. I see no reason for lying in bed, Doctor. (There was a despairing tone in this phrase). I am well enough, Doctor, well enough. (Here he gazed sadly out of the window into St. James’s Park). I am a Minister, but I cannot minister to a mind diseased (this rather bitterly). There is nothing the matter with me.
Doctor (cheerily)—My dear Mr. ——, do not talk so. You will be spared many, many useful years, I hope. Indeed, I am sure. There is, as you say, nothing the matter—nothing organically the matter; this lassitude and nervous exhaustion from which you suffer is a distressing, but a common symptom of mental activity. (Here the doctor dived into a black bag). Let me sound the chest.
Minister—Will it hurt? (This was said rather anxiously).
Doctor—Not a bit of it. I only wish to make assurance doubly sure—as we say in the profession. (He put the stethoscope to the chest of the Cabinet Minister). Now, draw a deep breath ... no, deeper than that ... a really deep breath.
Minister (gasping)—I can’t.
Doctor—Tut, tut.... Well, it’s all a question of lungs. (Here he moved the stethoscope again). Now sing.
Minister—La! La!... La!
Doctor—Nothing wrong with the lungs. Only a little feeble perhaps. Do you take any exercise?
Minister (wearily)—Oh! yes ... I walk about.... I used to walk a lot in Ireland.... I’m not like Ch——n; he never takes any exercise (bitterly); but then, he was brought up differently. (Sadly) Oh Doctor! I am so tired!... My back aches.
Doctor—Well, Mr. ——, a little rest will do you all the good in the world. You have the Easter recess in which to take a thorough rest. Do not lie in bed all day; get up about five and drive to your club. Whatever you do, don’t write or think, and don’t let them worry you with callers. (The Doctor here prepared to leave).
Minister (hopelessly)—Doctor ... there is something I want to ask you.... Can’t I give it up?
Doctor (firmly)—No, Mr. ——, no. Upon no account. I have told your uncle and your cousins so fifty times. It is a point upon which I must be firm. Politics are a necessity to you all. I would not answer for you if it were not for politics. (Sympathetically) You are none of you strong.
Minister (heaving a deep sigh)—No. I am not strong.... Alas!... Chaplin is. But then, Chaplin’s built differently.... I wish you would let me give it up, Doctor?
Doctor (kindly)—No, my dear Mr. ——, No! Pray put such thoughts out of your head. Every man must occupy his brain and body. Most men discover or choose an occupation, but I have not been a family doctor for thirty years without distinguishing these from such rare organisms as yours—and your family’s. The House of Commons is the saving of you. (The Doctor here paused, gazed anxiously at Mr. ——, and said slowly) Perhaps, though, you take your work too seriously. It is often so with highly strung men. Do as little as you can.
Minister—I do ... but still it wearies me inexpressibly..
Doctor—Not so much as writing a book would, or travel, or country walks.
Minister (shaking his head)—I never felt so tired after “It May be True,” nor even after “I Greatly Doubt It,” as I do now (smiling a little). They sold well.
Doctor—And why? Because you were engaged in politics. Believe me, dear Mr. ——, without that one regular employment you would do little or nothing. It is the balance-wheel that regulates your whole system. Change the rules, and, if you will, limit debate to a minimum, but do not think of giving up the one thing that keeps up your circulation. More men die from inanition than I care to tell you.
Minister—Very well, Doctor ... (weakly and quietly) it is nearly one; I must sleep ... Good-bye.
The Doctor here went out on tip-toe. The Minister slept. There was a great silence.
The Evening German suffered severely, and would have been ruined but for the prompt action of the Frankfort House; and the whole incident shows as clearly as possible what perils surround the most tempting, but the most speculative, sort of journalistic enterprise.
The student may tell me—and justly—that I have offered him none but negative examples. I will complete his instruction by printing one of the best chosen Revelations I know.
At the time when a number of letters addressed to Mr. Kruger by various public men were captured, and very rightly published, a certain number were, for reasons of State, suppressed. To Dr. Caliban, reasons of State were no reasons; he held that no servant of the people had a right to keep the people in ignorance.
Within a week, a detective in his employ had brought a little sheaf of documents, which, judged by internal evidence alone, were plainly genuine.
They were printed at once. They have never since been challenged.
I.
497, Jubilee Row,
B’ham,
19.7.’99.
Dear Sir.—We must respectfully press for the payment of our account. The terms upon which the ammunition was furnished were strictly cash, and, as you will see by the terms of our letter of the 15th last, we cannot tolerate any further delay. If we do not hear from you relative to same by next mail, we shall be compelled to put the matter into the hands of our solicitors.
Yours, &c.,
John Standfast,
Pro Karl Biffenheimer and Co.
II.
Yacht Fleur de Lys.
Prince ne Daigne.
Palerme,
Sicile.
Ci, la feste de l’Assomption de la T.S.V.
(Vieux Style)
L’an de N.S.J.C. MCM.
(1900).
Monsieur Mon Frère.—Nous vous envoyons nos remerciemens pour vos souhaits et vous assurons de la parfaicte amictié qui liera toujours nos couronnes alliées. Faictes. Continuez.
Agréez, Monsieur Mon Frère, l’assurance de notre consideration Royale la plus distinguée.
Orléans,
pour le Roy,
Chétif.
Vu, pour copie conforme,
Le Seneschal, Bru.
III.
Offices of the Siècle,
Paris,
Chef-lieu of the
department of the Seine,
France.
6, Thermidor, 108.
My good Kruger.—It is evidently necessary that I should speak out to you in plain English. I can’t go into a long dissertation, but if you will read the books I send herewith, The Origin of Species, Spencer’s Sociology, Grant Allen’s Evolution of the Idea of God, &c., you will see why I can’t back you up. As for your contemptible offer, I cast it back at you with disdain. My name alone should have protected me from such insults. I would have you know that my paper represents French opinion in England, and is now owned by an international company. I am the irremovable editor.
Yours with reserve,
Yves Guyot.
P.S.—I have been a Cabinet Minister. I send you a circular of our new company. It is a good thing. Push it along.
IV.
The Chaplaincy,
Barford College,
Old St. Winifred’s Day,
1900.
My dear Mr. Kruger.—Your position is at once interesting and peculiar, and deserves, as you say, my fullest attention. On the one hand (as you well remark) you believe you have a right to your independence, and that our Government has no moral right to interfere in your domestic affairs. You speak warmly of Mr. Chamberlain and describe him as lacking in common morality or (as we put it) in breeding. I think you are hardly fair. Mr. Chamberlain has his own morality, and in that summing up of all ethics which we in England call “manners,” he is indistinguishable from other gentlemen of our class. He has had a great deal to bear and he has latterly borne it in silence. It is hardly the part of a generous foe to taunt him now. I fear you look upon these matters a little narrowly and tend to accept one aspect as the absolute. The truth is that international morality must always be largely Utilitarian, and in a very interesting little book by Beeker it is even doubted whether what we call “ethics” have any independent existence. This new attitude (which we call “moral anarchism”) has lately cast a great hold upon our younger men and is full of interesting possibilities. If you meet Milner you should discuss the point with him. I assure you this school is rapidly ousting the old “comparative-positive” in which he and Curzon were trained. There is a great deal of self-realization going on also. Lord Mestenvaux (whom you have doubtless met—he was a director of the Johannesberg Alcohol Concession) is of my opinion.
Believe me, my dear Mr. Kruger, with the fullest and warmest sympathy for such of your grievances as may be legitimate, and with the ardent prayer that the result of this deplorable quarrel may turn out to be the best for both parties,
Your affectionate Friend of old days,
Joshia Lambkin, M.A.,
Fellow and Chaplain.
V.
(Telegram.)
Send orders payable Amsterdam immediate, Liberal party clamouring ... (name illegible) risen to ten thousand, market firm and rising. Waste no money on comic paper. Not Read.
(Unsigned.)
Finally this damning piece of evidence must close the terrible series.
VI.
To the Rev. Ebenezer Biggs, Capetown.
The House of Commons,
April 10th, 1899.
My dear Sir.—You put me in a very difficult position, for, on the one hand, I cannot, and would not, work against the interests of my country, and, on the other hand, I am convinced that Mr. Chamberlain is determined to plunge that country into the war spoken of by John in Revelations ix. Anything I can do for peace I will, but for some reason or other the Times will not insert my letters, though I write to them twice and sometimes thrice in one day. Sir Alfred Milner was once very rude to me. He is a weak man morally, mainly intent upon “getting on;” he has agreed since his youth with every single person of influence (except myself) whom he happened to come across, and is universally liked. I fear that no one’s private influence can do much. The London Press has been bought in a lump by two financiers. Perhaps a little waiting is the best thing. There is sure to be a reaction, and after all, Mr. Chamberlain is a man of a very low order. His mind, I take it, is not unlike his face. He thinks very little and very clearly ... I have really nothing more to say.
Always your sincere friend,
Edward Bayton.
No one knew better than Dr. Caliban that a Revelation is but weakened by comment. But the war was at its height, and he could not read without disgust such words, written in such a place by such a man.
He added the note:
“We understand that the law officers of the Crown are debating whether or no the concluding sentences of this disgraceful letter can be made to come within 26 Edward III., cap. 37, defining high treason. It is certainly not a physical attack upon the Person, Consort, or offspring of the Crown, nor is it (strictly speaking) giving aid to the Queen’s enemies. On the other hand, it is devoutly hoped that the attack on Mr. Chamberlain can be made to fall under 32 Henry VIII., 1, whereby it is felony to strike or ‘provoke’ the King’s servants within the precincts of the Palace. The infamous screed was certainly written in a palace, and Mr. Chamberlain is as certainly a servant of the Queen. He certainly was provoked—nay nettled. The latter clauses of the act, condemning those who attack the doctrine of Transubstantiation to be roasted alive, have, of course, fallen into desuetude. The earlier, milder, and more general clauses stand, and should be enforced.”
Let me not be misunderstood. I think it was an error to pen that comment. Strong expressions, used in a time of high party feeling, may look exaggerated when they survive into quieter times. But if it was an error, it was the only error that can be laid to the charge of a just and great man in the whole course of forty years, during which period he occasionally edited as many as five journals at a time.
SPECIAL PROSE.