“Notwithstanding all the appeals of the local authorities to the visitors, King Edward was [1]much greatly inconvenienced by the snobbish curiosity of the crowd.”
One may query whether “the snobbish curiosity of the crowd” or the snobbish information as to how “the King sipped his second pint glass of water” was the more reprehensible. Of course there are both men and women who delight in the personalities of the Press, especially when they concern themselves. Many ladies of rank and title are only too happy to have their dresses described to the man in the street, and their physical charms discussed by Tom, Dick and Harry. And when the Press is amiable enough to oblige them in these little yearnings for personal publicity, let us hope that the labourer, being worthy of his hire, hath his reward.
The following extract, taken from a daily journal boasting a large circulation, can be called little less than a pandering to the lowest tastes of the abandoned feminine snob, as well as a flagrant example of the positively criminal recklessness with which irresponsible journalists permit themselves to incite, by their flamboyant praise of the demi-mondaine, the envy and cupidity of thoughtless girls and women, who perhaps but for the perusal of such tawdry stuff, would never have known of, or half-unconsciously coveted the dress-and-diamond gew-gaws which are the common reward of female degradation and dishonesty:
“Miss W., a young American actress, has burst upon London. She has brought back from Paris to the Savoy Hotel, along with her golden hair and lovely brown eyes, an enormous jewel-case, innumerable dress-baskets—and a story. It concerns herself and how she made a fortune on the Paris Bourse, and she told it to our representative yesterday.
“She is an American, and was eating candy when she met M. J—— L——. ‘Ah!’ said he, ‘give up stick and buy stock.’ She ‘took the tip,’ she says, and staked her fortune—every penny—on the deal. A fortnight later she came back one night to her flat in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, from the Olympia, where she plays a leading part. A telegram from her bankers was waiting. It said: ‘You have been successful.’ ‘Next day,’ says Miss W., ‘I called on those bankers and picked up the £20,000 I had made.’
“Inveterate Gambler.
“‘Wonderful, wasn’t it?’ said Miss W., and our representative agreed that it was. ‘Oh, but it was a mere nothing!’ she said. ‘I have gambled since I was seven. Then I used to bet in pop-corn and always won. At seventeen I was quite ‘a dab’ at spotting winners on the Turf.
“‘Monte Carlo? Oh, yes. I won a trifle there this year—£800 or so. And Trouville! Why, you may not believe it, but I won £4,000 there this year in a few weeks.
“‘Of course, I don’t know the tricks of the Stock Exchange, though I was once chased by a bull,’ observed Miss W., with a smile. ‘Still, I think I’ll stick to it.’
“Opposite the Bourse is a shop where fashionable Parisians buy their furs. She spent £1,600 in a sable coat and hat on the day that the Bourse made her. Her other purchases include:—
Paris hats to the value of £200.
A robe of baby lamb, £150.
Fifteen Paquin gowns.
Two long fur coats.
Five short fur coats.
Three sets of furs.“She also admits that she bought such trifles in the way of jewellery as:—
A corsage with thirteen large diamonds.
Eighteen rows of pearls.
Eighteen diamond rings.
Two diamond butterflies.
One emerald ring.
Several pendants.“Diamonds, says Miss W., are the joy of her life. Each night on the stage of the Olympia she wears between £30,000 and £40,000 worth of jewellery.”
Paris hats to the value of £200.
A robe of baby lamb, £150.
Fifteen Paquin gowns.
Two long fur coats.
Five short fur coats.
Three sets of furs.
A corsage with thirteen large diamonds.
Eighteen rows of pearls.
Eighteen diamond rings.
Two diamond butterflies.
One emerald ring.
Several pendants.
The woman who confides her wardrobe list and the prices of her clothes to a Fleet Street hack of the pen is far gone past recall, but her manner of misdemeaning herself should not be proclaimed in the Press under “headings” as if it were news of importance to the country; and it would not be so proclaimed were the Press entirely, instead of only partially, in the hands of educated men.
In olden days it would seem that a great part of the responsibility of the Press lay in its criticism of art and literature. That burden, however, no longer lies upon its shoulders. Since the people began to read for themselves, newspaper criticism, so far as books are concerned, carries little weight. When some particular book secures a great success, we read this kind of thing about it: “In argument, intrigue and style it captures the fancy of the masses without attracting the slightest attention from the critical and discriminating few whose approval alone gives any chance of permanence to work.” This is, of course, very old hearing. “The critical and discriminating few” in Italy long ago condemned Dante as a “vulgar” rhymer, who used the “people’s vernacular.” Now the much-abused Florentine is the great Italian classic. The same “critical and discriminating few” condemned John Keats, who is now enrolled among the chiefest of English poets. Onslaughts of the bitterest kind were hurled at the novels of Charles Dickens by the “critical and discriminating few”—in the great writer’s time—but he “captured the fancy of the masses” and lives in the hearts and homes of thousands for whom the “critical and discriminating few” might just as well never have existed. And when we look up the names of the “critical and discriminating few” in our own day, we find, strange to say, that they are all disappointed authors! All of them have-written poems or novels, which are failures. So we must needs pity their “criticism” and “discrimination” equally, knowing the secret fount of gall from which these delicate emotions spring. At the same time, the “responsibility” of the Press might still be appealed to in literary, dramatic and artistic matters as, for example:
Why allow an unsuccessful artist to criticize a successful picture?