When my spurious intelligence was dated from London, I had to draw on a fertile memory for popular rumours concerning revolutionary doctrine, and express a conviction that things were not going very well with John Bull, politically or socially, hinting, also, at the prospect of an early Irish rebellion—and, generally, manufacture similar “news” of a kind that is peculiarly grateful to the jaundiced palates of our English-hating, jealousy-mad cousins over the way.
When Min came to know of this practice of mine, she did not like it. She wrote to me to say that it was acting untruthfully to pretend to correspond from a place when I was not actually there.
The habit was certainly reprehensible, I admit, as I admitted to her; but, then, what can a writer do if blessed with a vivid imagination?
Besides, I had a precedent in Goldsmith’s Citizen of the World, you know; and, as Byron says—
”—After all, what is a lie? ’Tis but
The truth in masquerade; and I defy
Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put
A fact without some leaven of a lie.
The very shadow of true truth would shut
Up annals, revelations, poesy,
And prophecy—except it should be dated
Some years before the incidents related.”
Even on this side of the water, too, authors have frequently to use their pens as if they did not chance to possess a conscience—one of the worst possessions for any aspirant in the journalistic profession to be encumbered with, I may remark by the way!
You seem to be astonished at my observation? I will explain what I mean more lucidly.
Supposing a journalist belongs to a Conservative organ, he must back up the party, don’t you see, at all hazards; and, although in his inmost heart he may have a faint suspicion that Mr Disraeli’s popularity is on the wane, it will not do for him to write his leading articles to that effect exactly, eh? Oh, dear no! He has to assert, on the contrary, that “the masses” are loudly calling on Punch’s friend “Dizzy” to save England from the utter extinguishment predicted by our dear Bismarck the other day at Versailles! While, should your potent pressman, on the other hand, wield the goose-quill of any ponderous or lively daily paper that may advocate “Liberalism,” and support the elect of Greenwich through thick and thin, do you think he gives you his candid opinion anent “the people’s William” then in power, or respecting that bamboozling Alabama business?
Not he!
Why, he knows, as well as you do, of the tergiversation that has distinguished the entire political career of the Risque-tout Prime Minister; and yet, he has to speak of him as if he were the greatest statesman England has ever seen—hanging on his words as silver, when knowing them all the while to be but clap-trap Dutch metal! Convinced, as he must be, that the Washington Treaty is one of the trashiest pieces of diplomacy that has ever disgraced a government, and that the whole community has been dissatisfied at having to make the Americans a nice little present of three millions of money—in settlement of a claim for which neither the law of nations nor moral opinion held us responsible—he is obliged to argue that it is “a splendid triumph for the ministry,” and that the “public is overjoyed” to grease Uncle Sam’s outstretched palm!