[CHAPTER IX.]
IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” RELATES THE ADVENTURES OF ITS SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.
We have now to place before our readers an account of our proceedings respecting Antony Cowlrick, falsely accused of the murder of a man (name unknown) at No. 119, Great Porter Square. It is lengthy, but we have resolved not to curtail it, and we shall continue it in our editions to-day and to-morrow until it is completed.
We preface our statement with an assurance that in the steps we took we were actuated no less by a feeling of pity for Antony Cowlrick and a wish to clear him completely in the eyes of the public, than by our desire to obtain information which might aid in throwing light upon the circumstances surrounding this mysterious murder. Fully conscious as we are of the requirements of that advanced journalism which purists openly censure and privately patronise, and which is an absolute necessity of the age, we have been careful to keep within the circle of our legitimate right and duty, and not to abuse the liberty of the press.
It is not to be denied that there exists a growing desire to probe more closely the life amongst which we live and move, and to lay bare the arteries of a social system in which we one and all act our parts. Thus it is that many persons (chiefly women), who a few years ago would never have been heard of by the public, are now the theme of comment and discussion in all classes of society—that their portraits are exposed for sale in shop-windows—and that they are stared at and pointed at in the theatres and other places of public resort. The greater number of these poor creatures see no distinction between the terms notoriety and celebrity; notorious, shamefully notorious—they certainly are; worthily celebrated they can never become, let them pose as they will on the stage or in the private rooms of the photographer. These and other new aspects of society are a condition of the times. We are not now content in the columns of our newspapers to deal with public matters in the abstract; we insist upon knowing something of the character and motives of those whose good or bad fortune it is to be prominently concerned in the wonderful and varied drama of To-Day. Thus there is open to the journalist a new and interesting province for his labours, and he who does not shrink from his duty, and does his spiriting gently and with discretion, will be the most likely to be followed and appreciated by that greatest of all critics—the Public.
Anticipating the release of Antony Cowlrick, we detailed a Special Reporter to seek an interview with him when he left the Martin Street Police Court, and to endeavour to obtain such information respecting himself as might prove interesting to our readers. The task was a delicate and difficult one, and we entrusted it to a gentleman, a member of our staff, whose generous instincts and sympathetic nature have won for him an unusual meed of respect. It has not yet become the fashion for newspaper writers in England to append their names to their contributions. The question whether the time has arrived for the introduction of this system is worthy of serious consideration. By the present system of anonymity, not only is opportunity afforded for slandering and stabbing in the dark, but undoubted injustice is inflicted upon many a conscientious and enthusiastic worker, who brings to his labours such study, education, and culture, as in any other department of life would make his name famous. Those behind the scenes are familiar with the names of journalists whose knowledge of character, quickness of comprehension, and readiness to seize the salient and most striking features in the pictures of life they are employed to portray, are little less than marvellous. Such workers as these are the true painters and historians of the day, and supply more food for the mental life of the world than the combined efforts of the labourers in every other department of art and science. But the world knows them not; they are deprived of the highest reward an art-worker can receive.
“You are discharged,” said the magistrate to Antony Cowlrick.
The gaolers fell back. Antony Cowlrick mechanically passed his hands over his wrists. There was a certain pathos in the action. The handcuffs were no longer there, but they had left upon the wrists a degradation that would not soon be forgotten.
“I ask your worship to say,” said Mr. Goldberry, addressing the magistrate, “that this man, falsely accused, leaves the court without a stain upon his character.”
“I cannot say that,” replied the magistrate; “we know nothing of his character.”