CHAPTER XXXIII.—OLD JOURNALISM—AND NEW.

Calling at Sutherland’s rooms one morning, Crieff found him surrounded by a number of unwieldy volumes, dirty and dingy enough to have been picked up, as indeed they had been, in the uncleanest shop in Holywell Street. One of these volumes he was examining with considerable impatience when Crieff entered.

‘What have you got there?’ asked the journalist, peeping over his shoulder. ‘As I live, an old volume of the “Satyrnine Review.”’

‘Yes. I saw the rubbish ticketed up very cheap, and bought it. It is not a complete set, but sufficiently so for my purpose.’

And he threw the volume down among its fellows.

‘You’ll find some spicy writing there,’ said Crieff. ‘A little out of date now, of course, for the new society journals have killed the “Satyrnine,” but it used to be deucedly clever.’

‘Clever!’ echoed Sutherland. ‘During the whole of last evening, and for hours this morning, I have been searching these volumes in vain for one spark of insight, for a ray of pure talent. They are simply trash, and spiteful trash, which is the worst of all.’

‘Perhaps you expect too much, old fellow. The “Satyrnine” only professes to be smart.’

‘I hate that word, though it expresses well enough the journalism we speak of—the journalism of the “Satyr,” who now wears fine clothes and calls himself a gentleman, but is at the best a production of literature’s slimy deposits—a Faun, earth-grubbing, ugliness-loving, screeching at the mysteries of artistic sunlight and moonlight. Even your friend Lagardère’s style is better—it makes no hideous pretences.’

‘Come, I’m glad you see some merit in Lagardère, after all!’

‘But this rubbish’—here he touched the volume contemptuously with his foot—‘this rubbish, in its horrible baseness and unintelligence, has not even the redeeming quality of honesty. The writers are ignorant, but they are also vicious; uninstructed, but at the same time pertinacious. Who are these men? Does any one know them? I should be curious, for example, to see the goatfooted animal who wrote this article on Thackeray.’

‘Well, you see,’ answered Crieff, reflectively, ‘they rather make a point of working in the dark, keeping up a mystery, so to speak; but nowadays, when the journal has gone downhill, and spicier papers like the “Plain Speaker” have practically killed it, the “Satyrnines” are better known than they used to be.’

‘Are they persons of reputation?’

‘Well, no; of course not.’

‘Gentlemen?’

‘Some of them, perhaps,’ said Crieff, with a smile; ‘but for the most part just like the rest of us—a mixed breed. There’s our friend Gass, whom you met at Gavrolles’; he’s one. He has his finger in most journalistic pies, and writes on all sides to turn an honest penny.’

‘Humph!’ muttered Sutherland. ‘I once had a “Satyrnine Reviewer” pointed out to me at a party. He looked like a creature fresh from some large drapery establishment; dressed within an inch of his life, with pince-nez on nose, but goat-eared and goat-footed for all that—I am sure the animal couldn’t even spell. But turning from the men to the matter, what I have been most struck by in reading these wretched volumes is their utter want of the positively human qualities—veracity, reverence, generous aspiration. There is not a single public man of any nobility, either in politics or literature, who is not persistently gibbered at and reviled. Our present Liberal statesmen are insulted by the grossest personalities. Our great literary men are for the most part decried—when they are praised the reason is not far to seek. Thackeray, inspected by the Satyr, is “no gentleman.” * Dickens is an ignoramus. Browning is a dunce, ignorant even of grammar. Worse than this is the vicious determination to ignore any kind of modest merit. In the course of the long years over which these files extend, many men, now distinguished, have arisen. In no single instance has this representative journal been able to recognise the coming genius, or willing to help the struggling aspirant. The method has been to ignore new men as long as possible; then when ignorance could not be pleaded, to interpose every possible impertinence of interpretation between the men and the public; and finally, when they have been crowned, to insult them with a monkey’s gibbering interposition. For fatuousness, ignorance, ami dwarfish spitefulness—in a word, for all the old ear tidiness of the cloven foot—commend me to this “Satyrnine Review.”’

* See the ‘Roundabout Papers,’ passim

‘Never mind,’ says the practised Crieff, cheerily. ‘Nemesis has come—the “Satyrnine” is done for. The curse of dulness is upon it. It once sold 20,000. The other day, when it was in the market, it could hardly find a purchaser. It lingers on with a country subscription among retrograde old rectors and blue-buskin’d village spinsters, but by-and-by the acidulous short paragraph system will conquer even them.’

Thereupon Crieff, whose life was one of hard work and bustling visits, was about to take his departure, when at Sutherland’s entreaty he promised to return for lunch; for Sutherland liked the little man, and found a curious fascination in his tittle-tattle concerning the world of art and letters.

Later in the day the two lunched together. For a wonder, it was an idle day with Crieff, and, once comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with a good cigar in his mouth, he seemed determined to enjoy himself. The two chatted pleasantly for some time; that is to say, the journalist, who was garrulous by nature and habit, chatted, and the other smoked, listened, and occasionally interpolated a remark.

Presently Crieff’s face darkened, and, after looking keenly at his companion for a minute, he said, with a certain indignation—

‘I’m afraid I shall have to give up Lagardère, after all. He’s been at it again.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m almost afraid to tell you, old fellow, for fear of arousing the slumbering lion. Yet I think it’s only fair, as I fancy you take an interest in the lady.’

‘The lady?’

‘Yes. You remember the young actress who appeared at the Parthenon this summer? Ah, I see you do. Well, of course you know that she retired into private life—married Forster, the merchant, a rich man and a thoroughly good fellow.’

‘Yes, I heard of it, and—I was glad.’

‘And so was I. She was too good for the stage. Well, now, I’m afraid there’s something unpleasant brewing. Just read this!’

As he spoke Crieff drew from his pocket several newspapers, and handed one, with a certain page turned down to indicate a paragraph, to Sutherland.

The paper was the ‘Plain Speaker,’ edited by Lagardère. The paragraph was as follows:—

‘Does a talented young actress, who recently left the stage, and, in the words of the immortal “Vilikens and his Dinah” (why not, on this occasion, read “Diana”?), married a rich merchant who in London did dwell, recollect a certain boarding school somewhere in France, an infatuated male teacher, and an elopement? It is said that Luna was once caught tripping, to the great amusement of Pan and the Satyrs. Luna was another name for Diana. Verb. sap.’

As he read, the lace of Sutherland grew black as night, his fist clenched, and he uttered an angry exclamation.

‘Do you understand the reference?’ asked Crieff. ‘I don’t, but I think there is no doubt as to whom it points. But Lagardère is fond of reiteration. Read a little lower down.’

Further down, after a number of jaunty and not too grammatical paragraphs on various topics of the day, came the following—

‘When I was last in Paris, and the guest of Gambetta (it is a curious fact, by the way, that Gambetta has an exceedingly foul breath, and seldom or never changes his woollen shirt or washes his large feet), our talk turned on a volume which had just appeared, “Parfums de la Chair.” The title having a strong attraction for the not too clean Republican, he had bought the book. He admired it exceedingly. The affair is brought to my memory by the fact that the author is now in London. The other night, when we met at the house of a mutual friend, I asked him if he had ever been at Brussels, and visited professionally at a certain boarding school, and, if so, whether he had acquired there sufficient classical attainments to tell me if the goddess Diana had ever eloped with her music master, or appeared upon the public stage?’

Sutherland rose to his feet, crushing the paper between his clenched hands.

‘It is simply devilish,’ he cried. ‘O that I had the ruffian by the throat! I would choke him like a dog!’

‘I grant you it is horrible,’ said Crieff, ‘but what does it mean?’

‘Cannot you see? It is an infernal plot to ruin an unhappy woman.’

‘There is no doubt as to whom it points?’

‘None.’

‘Diana Vere was her stage name, you see? But is there any truth————’

‘Truth? Do you expect it from these vermin? Their end is calumny, torture their delight. If I were only her brother—even her friend!’

‘Eh, what would you do?’

‘Thrash this devil within an inch of his life!’

‘And if you did, he would only thank you for an excellent advertisement. That’s the worst of it; he lives on recriminations. I’m really very sorry; for Lagardère, I have always held, has his good points. He has really a kind heart, as has been repeatedly shown by his generosity to the sick and suffering. He got up that idea of supplying old toys to the sick children in the hospitals, and I know for a fact that he kept Potts Peters, the dramatist, from starvation. I don’t think he realises the mischief he does. He calls it “plain speaking,” another name for calumny.’

‘Damn him!’ said Sutherland between his set teeth.

‘With all my heart, but I’ll pity him too; for one act of true kindness atones for many sins of judgment. But I haven’t shown you all. The wasps are all at it. Look at this in the “Whirligig.”’

He handed another journal to Sutherland, who took it with trembling hands, and, glancing down a number of paragraphs similar to those in the ‘Plain Speaker,’ came upon the following:—

‘My dear Hubert, why will you pretend to omniscience? You are all very well when you are telling us of your escapades in Russia, and your sad experiences of theatrical mismanagement in St. Mary Axe, but you should really try to be correct in your classical gossip. Diana never bolted with a music master, and she was never at Brussels. The affair to which you allude took place at Rouen, and the gentleman was a teacher of languages. Try again, Hubert.’

After a few general paragraphs, one of which accused a certain royal personage of having a liaison with his cook, came another piece of mysterious gossip:—

‘If it is to become a cause célèbre, no one will regret it more than myself; though I shall rejoice, too, if it brings the peccant fair one back to the stage. I am sorry for the husband, but it is really his own fault. A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged—before he bought it.’

The italics were the writer’s.

Livid with horror and indignation, Sutherland held the newspaper to Crieff.

‘Who—who wrote this?’ he cried.

‘Yahoo, I suspect—the editor of the “Whirligig.”’

‘Who and what is he?’

‘Edgar Yahoo, the last descendant of the race of the Yahoos, for the history of which see Swift’s “Gulliver”; the only difference being that this Yahoo no longer waits upon the nobler animal, but delights in airing himself upon its back.’

‘Explain!’

‘Yahoo lays claim to be the founder of the new system of journalism. From childhood upward he has aspired to be the social chiffonnier of his age. He rakes for garbage in the filth of the street and in the sewers. Don’t you remember the verses MacAlpine wrote about him?


Who prances on through Rotten Row

Upon his golden-footed hay?

Who prances, ambles, to and fro,

Always gay?

Who canters back along Mayfair,

Spreading foul odours on the air,

While all draw back to cry ‘Beware!

The Scavenger of Society!’


But, for Heaven’s sake, my dear Sutherland, don’t take this affair too seriously. It is very offensive, but no worse than they write of everybody, from the Queen downwards; and I dare say it will do the lady in question no real harm.’

Sutherland was pacing up and down the room, a prey to the most violent agitation. He wheeled round suddenly, and faced his companion.

‘Even while we speak, perhaps the poisoned arrows have shot home. I can see the poor child—for she is still a child—sickening under the shameless attack. I picture to myself a broken heart, a ruined home, and then——’

‘But suppose the insinuations are false?’

‘They may be false in essence, while having a certain foundation in fact. Remember the lines you yourself quoted to me when Lagardère was our theme on a former occasion—I mean the lines about “A lie which is half a truth.” Oh, it is horrible! horrible! I would rather live among the foulest of savages than among your literary Yahoos, your so-called human beings.’





Sutherland’s fears were right. When the poisoned arrows of slander and calumny are in the air, it is not long ere they reach their victim; and even as he spoke the cowardly work was complete.

That afternoon Madeline drove down to the Grosvenor Library, of which she was a member, to change some books. When she had made her choice of some new literature, and handed it to her footman to place in her carriage, she went upstairs to the ladies’ reading-room on the second floor.

The room was quite empty, and she strolled from table to table, turning over the new magazines, glancing at the journals. Presently she sat down, and began reading one of the theatrical papers, full of current gossip; for the old interest in histrionic affairs still clung to her, though she had abandoned all thoughts of returning to the stage.

Placing the theatrical paper aside after a few minutes, she took the next journal which came to her hand. It was the ‘Whirligig.’

Idly and listlessly she began glancing over its imbecile tittle-tattle. Suddenly her gaze was riveted. She had come upon the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert.’

There was no mistaking the innuendo. That it referred to herself she could not doubt. Trembling like a leaf, she held the abominable journal in her hand, and almost by accident came upon the second paragraph.

She read on in horror, stung to the quick—

‘A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged, before he bought it.’

It was real, then; all her horrible fear was justified. Her enemy had not threatened in vain.

The room swam round her as she sank back, half swooning in her chair. Fortunately there was no one to observe her, for her face was pale as marble, and she seemed like one about to die.

Presently, summoning all her strength, she looked round the room, and her eye fell upon the last number ol the ‘Plain Speaker.’ She remembered the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert and knowing enough of the amenities of personal journalism to be aware that the reference was to a paragraph in Lagardère’s paper, she took that paper up and searched it for the poison.

She had not far to search. She came without delay on the allusions to Luna, Diana, Pan, and the Satyrs, and on the mysterious matter concerning a boarding school and a music master.

The paper fell from her hands, and a low moan broke from her lips. She felt that she was lost indeed.

More than an hour elapsed before Madeline descended to her carriage. Her first impulse had been to fly, to destroy herself, to put herself beyond the power of calumny and cruelty. But at last, conquering her first fear, she determined to return home, and face her fate.