MODERN TYPES.
(By Mr. Punch's Own Type Writer.)
No. XV.—THE JACK OF ALL JOURNALISMS.
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.
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.