Chapter VI: Introduction (4)

I deal here first with editing, by which I do not mean the management of a whole newspaper--for this has no connection whatever with the art of letters--but the selection, arrangement, and annotating of work produced by another hand, and entrusted to the journalist for publication in his columns. The work is far easier than might appear at first sight.

The first rule in connection with it is to offend as little as possible, and especially to spare the living.

The second rule is to cut down the matter to fit the space at your disposal. With the exception of a number of MSS. so small that they may be neglected in the calculation, it does not matter in the least what you cut out, so long as you remember that the parts remaining must make sense, and so long as you make this second rule fit in with the exigencies of the first.

As for annotation, it is the easiest thing in the world. True to the general principle which governs all good journalism, that the giving of pleasure should always be preferred to the giving of pain, let your annotations pleasantly recall to the reader his own stock of knowledge, let them be as obvious as possible, and let him not learn too much from your research. This method has the additional advantage, that it also saves you an infinity of trouble.

The matter is really not so elaborate as to need any further comment. I will proceed at once to my example, prefacing it only with the shortest explanatory statement, which will show how thoroughly it illustrates the rules I have just enunciated.

The wife of one of the principal candidates for Parliament in our part of the country begged Dr. Caliban to publish a simple, chatty diary, which her sister (who was married to a neighbouring squire) had kept during some years. Dr. Caliban was too courteous to refuse, and had too profound an acquaintance with the rural character to despise this kind of copy. On the other hand, he was compelled to point out that he could not allow the series to run through more than six months, and that he should, therefore, be compelled to cut it down at his discretion. Full leave was given him, and I do not think any man could have done the work better.

Thus the lady’s husband, though a good Englishman in every other way (an indulgent landlord and a sterling patriot), was German by birth and language. Here was a truth upon which it would have been uncharitable and useless to insist--a truth which it was impossible to conceal, but which it was easy to glide over; and Dr. Caliban, as the student will see in a moment, glode over it with the lightest of feet.

Again, a very terrible tragedy had taken place in the Burpham family, and is naturally alluded to by their near neighbour. It was impossible to cut out all mention of this unhappy thing, without destroying the diary; but in Dr. Caliban’s edition of the MS., the whole is left as vague as may be.

The particular part which I have chosen for a model--I think the most admirable piece of editing I know--is from that week of the diary which concerns the outbreak of the recent difficulty with France, a difficulty luckily immediately arranged, after scarcely a shot had been fired, by the mutual assent of the two nations and (as it is whispered) by the direct intervention of High Authority.

The motto which Dr. Caliban chose for the whole series (called, by the way, “Leaves from a Country Diary”), is a fine sentence from the works of Mr. Bagehot.

LEAVES FROM A COUNTRY DIARY.

“_An aristocratic body firmly rooted in the national soil is
not only the permanent guarantee of the security of the State,
but resembles, as it were, a man better instructed than his
fellows--more prompt, possessed of ample means, and yet entrusted
with power: a man moreover who never dies._”

_February 2nd,_ 19--.--To-day is the Purification. The lawn looked lovely under its veil of snow, and the vicar came in to lunch. We did not discuss the question of the service, because I know that Reuben disapproves of it. The vicar told me that Mrs. Burpham is in dreadful trouble. It seems that the Bank at Molesworth refused to cash Algernon’s cheque, and that this led Sir Henry Murling to make investigations about the Chattington affair, so that he had to be asked to resign his commission. To be sure it is only in the Militia, but if it all comes out, it will be terrible for the Monsons. They have already had to dismiss two servants on these grounds. Jane has a sore throat, and I made her gargle some turpentine and oil; Ali Baba’s[13] hock is still sore. I do hope I shall keep my old servants, it is an unwelcome thing to dismiss them in their old age and the house is never the same again. They meet to-morrow at Gumpton corner, but not if this weather holds.

_February 3rd,_ 19--.--It is thawing. There are marks of boots across the lawn on what is left of the snow, and I am afraid some one must have gone across it. I wish Reuben would come back. Called at Mrs. Burpham’s, who is in dreadful trouble. Algernon has gone up to town to see his solicitor. Poor Mrs. Burpham was crying; she is so proud of her boy. He says it will be all right. They are very bitter against the Bank, and Sir Henry, and the regiment, and the Monsons. I fear they may quarrel with Binston Park[14] also. Mrs. Burpham was so curious about them; Jane is no better.

_February 4th,_ 19--.--Reuben came home suddenly by the 2.40 with Mr. Ehrenbreitstein and Lord Tenterworth. He asked me to put Mr. Ehrenbreitstein in the Blue room and Lord Tenterworth in the Parrot room opposite the broom and pail place, where Aunt Marjory used to sleep. I shall have to clear the clothes out of the drawers. Just before dinner Mr. Bischoffen came in from the station. Reuben told me he had asked him. I wish he would give me longer notice. He brought a secretary with him who cannot talk English. I think he must be a Spaniard--he is so dark. Jane can hardly speak, her throat is so bad; I told her she might stay in bed to-morrow till nine.

_February 5th,_ 19--.--Mrs. Burpham is certainly in dreadful trouble. She tells me Algernon has written from St. Malo saying it will be all right. It was very foolish and imprudent of him to go over there just now with all this trouble on with France. If only he had stayed at home (Mrs. Burpham says) she would not have minded so much, but she is afraid of his getting killed. It seems they are so savage at St. Malo.[15] Only the other day an English lady had a stone thrown in her direction in the street. Mr. Bischoffen’s secretary is not a Spaniard; I think he is a Pole; his name is Brahms. There was a difficulty about the asparagus last night. It seems the Germans do not eat it with their fingers. Reuben said I ought to have got little silver pincers for it. I remember seeing them in his father’s house, but papa said they were very vulgar. _Then_ Reuben used to apologise for them, and say that his people were old fashioned, which was nonsense, of course. I reminded Reuben of this, and he said, “Ach! Gott!” and I had to leave the room. Ali Baba is all right; he took a piece of sugar from my hand; but when I felt his hock he kicked Jones severely. I fear Jones is really injured, and I have sent for Dr. Minton and for the veterinary surgeon.

_February 6th,_ 19--.--Dr. Minton dined here last night before going to set Jones’ leg, and I gave the veterinary surgeon supper in the old schoolroom. I am afraid Dr. Minton took too much wine, for he quarrelled with Mr. Ehrenbreitstein and Mr. Bischoffen about the danger of war with France. He said they had no right to speak, and got quite excited. Called again on Mrs. Burpham, and only appreciated fully to-day in what sad trouble she is. Algernon has telegraphed from Paris saying it will be all right. Meanwhile she has certainly quarrelled with Binston Park, and she even spoke bitterly against the Duke, so that means another family gone--for the Duke is very proud. I see in the _Standard_ that our Ambassador has delivered an ultimatum, and that the French are doing all they can to shirk war. That is what Mr. Bischoffen and Reuben said they would do, but they must be taught a lesson. Newfoundlands have fallen, but Reuben says they must rise after the war. I do hope they will. The dear Bishop called. He says this war is a judgment on the French. Jane is much better, and can talk quite clearly, and Ali Baba is almost well. Also it has thawed now completely, and they can meet on Saturday as usual, so things are looking up all round.

_February 7th,_ 19--.--Freddie goes to the Isle of Wight with the Lambtonshire Regiment, and Mrs. Burpham and the Bishop are both delighted, because it will bring him and Hepworth together. It would be such a solace to poor Mrs. Burpham if Freddie could see active service and get promotion; it would help to wipe out Algernon’s disgrace, for I fear there is now no doubt of it, though he says it is all right in his last letter, which is from Marseilles. Letters still come through from France, because our Ambassador said that if any tricks were played with them he would hold the French Government personally responsible, and so cowed them. The Bishop has gone to London with his family.

_February 8th,_ 19--.--The _Standard_ has a large map of the North of France, where the fighting will be. It is very interesting. Reuben and his friends have gone up to town again. I saw the Reserves marching through Molesworth to-day; they are going to garrison Portsmouth.[16] The afternoon post did not come in. Reuben said he would telegraph, but I have not got any message. The 12.40 train was an hour late, so I suppose everything is upset by the war. Maria will have to come home by Bâle, and I do so dread the passage from Ostend for her; even the hour from Calais to Dover is more than she can bear. The vicar says that our Government will force the French to keep the Dover-Calais route open for civilians. He says it would be against the practice of civilised warfare to close it, and if that were done we should lay waste the whole country; but I fear he does not know much about the legal aspect of the thing: it is his heart, not his head that speaks. It is dreadful to think what I shall do with Mademoiselle[17] when she comes home with Maria. One can’t blame her when one thinks that it is her own country that is going to be harried and her own brothers brought here as prisoners; but it will be very difficult all the same. The man who was killed at Bigley races was not a Frenchman after all: the crowd only thought he was because he had blacked his face like a negro. It seems that Sir Henry was very hard in court, and said that the ringleaders were lucky not to be indicted for manslaughter. It has frozen again, and it is very slippery in the drive. They are having fireworks or something at Portsmouth, to judge by the sound. Jones told Jane he thought there was a bonfire as well, because he could see a glare now and then in the sky from the window in his room. His leg is setting nicely.

ON REVELATIONS.

ON REVELATIONS.

Revelations, again, as we found to be the case with editing, do not properly constitute a department of the art of letters. Though they are of far more importance than any other branch of contemporary journalism, yet it is impossible to compare their publication to a creative act of pure literature.

It may be urged that such Revelations as are written in the office of the newspaper publishing them are not only literature, but literature of a very high order. They are, on the face of it, extremely difficult to compose. If they are to have any chance of deceiving the public, the writer must thoroughly know the world which he counterfeits; he must be able to copy its literary style, its air, its errors. It is even sometimes necessary for him to attempt the exquisitely subtle art of forgery.

The objection is well found; but it is not of this kind of Revelation that I propose to speak. It belongs to the higher branches of our art, and is quite unsuited to a little elementary manual.

The Revelation I speak of here is the ordinary type of private communication, domestic treason, or accidental discovery, dealing, as a rule, with public affairs, and brought to the office spontaneously by servants, colonial adventurers, or ministers of religion.

Nine Revelations out of ten are of this kind; and the young journalist who may desire to rise in his great calling must make himself thoroughly familiar with the whole process by which they are to be procured and published.

A small amount of additional matter has, indeed, sometimes to be furnished, but it is almost insignificant, and is, moreover, of so conventional a nature, that it need not trouble us for a moment. Some such phrase as “We have received the following communication from a source upon which we place the firmest reliance,” will do very well to open with, and at the end: “We shall be interested to see what reply can be given to the above,” is a very useful formula. Thus the words “To be continued,” added at the end are often highly lucrative. They were used by the _Courrier des Frises_ (a first-class authority on such matters), when it recently published a number of private letters, written (alas!) in the English tongue, and concerning the noblest figure in English politics.

But though there is little to be done in the way of writing, there is a considerable mental strain involved in judging whether a particular Revelation will suit the proprietor of the newspaper upon which one is employed, and one must not unfrequently be prepared to suffer from exhausting terrors for some weeks after its publication.

Difficult as is the art of testing Revelation, the rules that govern it are few and simple. The Revelator, if a domestic servant, wears a round black bowler hat and a short jacket, and a pair of very good trousers stolen from his master; he will be clean shaven. If an adventurer or minister of religion, he will wear a soft felt hat and carry a large muffler round his throat. Either sort walk noiselessly, but the first in a firm, and the second in a shuffling manner. I am far from saying that all who enter newspaper offices under this appearance bear with them Revelations even of the mildest kind, but I do say that whenever Revelations come, they are brought by one of these two kinds of men.

I should add that the Revelator like the moneylender, the spy, and every other professional man whose livelihood depends upon efficiency is invariably sober. If any man come to you with a Revelation and seem even a trifle drunk, dismiss him without inquiry, though not before you have admonished him upon his shame and sin, and pointed out the ruin that such indulgence brings upon all save the wealthy.

When a man arrives who seems at all likely to have a Revelation in his pocket, and who offers it for sale, remember that you have but a few moments in which to make up your mind; put him into the little room next to the sub-editor, take his MS., tell him you will show it to your chief, and, as you leave him, lock the door softly on the outside.

The next moment may decide your whole career. You must glance at the Revelation, and judge in that glance whether the public will believe it even for two full hours. The whole difference between a successful and an unsuccessful journalist lies in that power of sudden vision; nor will experience alone achieve it, it must be experience touched with something like genius.

Libellous matter you can delete. Matter merely false will not be remembered against you; but if that rare and subtle character which convinces the mob be lacking, _that_ is a thing which no one can supply in the time between the Revelator’s arrival and the paper’s going to press.

Finally, when you have made your decision, return, unlock, pay, and dismiss. Never pay by cheque. Remember how short is the time at your disposal. Remember that if your paper does not print a really good Revelation when it is offered, some other paper will. Remember the _Times_, the _Chronicle_, and Major Esterhazy. Remember Mr. Gladstone’s resignation.

... Remember the “Maine.”

A few practical instances will help us to understand these abstract rules.

Consider, for instance, the following--one of the wisest acts of Dr. Caliban’s whole life.

Dr. Caliban was busy writing a leader for the _Sunday Englishman_ upon “Hell or Immortality”; for it was Saturday night, he had just received the weekly papers, and, as he well said, “A strong Sunday paper has this advantage, that it can do what it likes with the weeklies.”

He was, I say in the midst of Hell or Immortality, when he was interrupted by a note. He opened it, read it, frowned, and passed it to me, saying:--

“What do you make of this?”

The note ran:--

“I have just been dismissed from the _Spectator_ for sneezing in
an indelicate manner. I have a Revelation to make with regard
to the conduct of that paper. Please see me at once, or it may
be too late. I have with me a letter which the _Spectator_ will
publish next week. It throws a searching light upon the Editor’s
mind, and lays bare all the inner workings of the paper. Price
40_s._”

I told Dr. Caliban, that in my opinion, on the one hand, there might be something in it; while on the other hand, that there might not.

Dr. Caliban looked at me thoughtfully and said:

“You think that?”

He touched an electric bell. As this did not ring, he blew down a tube, and receiving no answer, nor indeed hearing the whistle at the other end, he sent a messenger, who, by some accident, failed to return to the editorial office. Dr. Caliban himself went down and brought up the stranger. He was a young man somewhat cadaverous. He repeated what he had said in his note, refused to bargain in any way, received two sovereigns from Dr. Caliban’s own purse, sighed deeply, and then with a grave face said:

“It feels like treason.”

He pressed his lips hard together, conquered himself, and left us with the utmost rapidity.

When Dr. Caliban and I were alone together, he opened the sealed envelope and read these words, written on a little slip of foolscap:

“_The following letter is accepted by the Spectator, and will be printed next week._” To this slip was pinned a rather dirty half-sheet of notepaper, and on this was the following letter:

Balcarry Castle,
County Mayo.
Jan. 19th, 1903.

To the Editor of the _Spectator_.

Dear Sir,

Among your humorous Irish stories perhaps the following will be
worthy to find a place. A dear uncle of mine, my father’s half
brother, and the husband of the talented E. J. S., was bishop of
Killibardine, a prelate of great distinction and considerable
humour.

I well remember that somewhere in the summer of 1869, his valet
having occasion to call unexpectedly upon a relative (butler to
the Duke of Kerry), the latter observed “Indade, an’ shure now
an’ is that yourself, Pat, Pat asthor, at all, at all,” to which
the witty fellow answered, with the true Irish twinkle in his
eye, “Was your grandfather a monkey?”

I am very faithfully yours,
THE MACFFIN.

Dr. Caliban was heartily amused by the tale, and told me that he had met the MacFfin some years ago at Lady Marroway’s.

“Nevertheless,” he added, I don’t think it would be fair to comment on the little story ... I had imagined that something graver was toward ...”

He never spoke again of the small outlay he had made, and I afterwards found that it had been included in the general expenses of the paper. I have never forgotten the lesson, nor since that date have I ever accepted MSS. and paid for it without making myself acquainted to some extent with the subject. A little such foresight upon that occasion would have convinced us that a letter of this kind would never have found a place in a review of the calibre of the _Spectator_.

Contrast with Dr. Caliban’s wise and patriotic conduct upon this occasion the wickedness and folly of the _Evening German_ in the matter of the Cabinet Crisis.

For some time the saner papers, which see the Empire as it is, had been issuing such placards as “He must go,” “Make room for Joseph” and other terse and definite indications of a new policy.

The _Evening German_ had for several days headed its leading article, “Why don’t he resign?”

A member of the unscrupulous gang who ever lie in wait for whatever is innocent and enthusiastic called, just before press, upon the editor of the _Evening German_, passing himself off as the valet of the minister whose resignation was demanded. He produced a small sheet of MSS., and affirmed it to be the exact account of an interview between the minister and his doctor, which interview the valet had overheard, “concealed,” as he put it “behind an arras.” He said it would explain the situation thoroughly. He received no less than 25 guineas, and departed.

Now let the student read what follows, and ask himself by what madness a responsible editor came to print a thing so self-evidently absurd.

WHY HE DOES NOT RESIGN!

We have received upon an unimpeachable authority the verbatim account of an interview between him and his medical adviser, which we think thoroughly explains the present deadlock in Imperial affairs. We are assured upon oath that he was in bed when the doctor called just before noon yesterday, and that the following dialogue took place:--

MINISTER (_in bed_)--Good morning, Doctor, I am glad to see you. What can I do for you?... I mean, I am glad to see you. Pray excuse the inadvertence of my phrase, it is one that I have lately had to use not a little.

DOCTOR--Pray let me look at your tongue and feel your pulse. So. We are getting along nicely. At what hour were you thinking of rising?

MINISTER--At twelve, my usual hour. I see no reason for lying in bed, Doctor. (_There was a despairing tone in this phrase_). I am well enough, Doctor, well enough. (_Here he gazed sadly out of the window into St. James’s Park_). I am a Minister, but I cannot minister to a mind diseased (_this rather bitterly_). There is nothing the matter with me.

DOCTOR (_cheerily_)--My dear Mr. ----, do not talk so. You will be spared many, many useful years, I hope. Indeed, I am sure. There is, as you say, nothing the matter--nothing organically the matter; this lassitude and nervous exhaustion from which you suffer is a distressing, but a common symptom of mental activity. (_Here the doctor dived into a black bag_). Let me sound the chest.

MINISTER--Will it hurt? (_This was said rather anxiously_).

DOCTOR--Not a bit of it. I only wish to make assurance doubly sure--as we say in the profession. (_He put the stethoscope to the chest of the Cabinet Minister_). Now, draw a deep breath ... no, deeper than that ... a really deep breath.

MINISTER (_gasping_)--I can’t.

DOCTOR--Tut, tut.... Well, it’s all a question of lungs. (_Here he moved the stethoscope again_). Now sing.

MINISTER--La! La!... La!

DOCTOR--Nothing wrong with the lungs. Only a little feeble perhaps. Do you take any exercise?

MINISTER (_wearily_)--Oh! yes ... I walk about.... I used to walk a lot in Ireland.... I’m not like Ch----n; he never takes any exercise (_bitterly_); but then, he was brought up differently. (_Sadly_) Oh Doctor! I am so tired!... My back aches.

DOCTOR--Well, Mr. ----, a little rest will do you all the good in the world. You have the Easter recess in which to take a thorough rest. Do not lie in bed all day; get up about five and drive to your club. Whatever you do, don’t write or think, and don’t let them worry you with callers. (_The Doctor here prepared to leave_).

MINISTER (_hopelessly_)--Doctor ... there is something I want to ask you.... _Can’t_ I give it up?

DOCTOR (_firmly_)--No, Mr. ----, no. Upon no account. I have told your uncle and your cousins so fifty times. It is a point upon which I must be firm. Politics are a necessity to you all. I would not answer for you if it were not for politics. (_Sympathetically_) You are none of you strong.

MINISTER (_heaving a deep sigh_)--No. I am not strong.... Alas!... Chaplin is. But then, Chaplin’s built differently.... I wish you would let me give it up, Doctor?

DOCTOR (_kindly_)--No, my dear Mr. ----, _No!_ Pray put such thoughts out of your head. Every man must occupy his brain and body. Most men discover or choose an occupation, but I have not been a family doctor for thirty years without distinguishing these from such rare organisms as yours--and your family’s. The House of Commons is the saving of you. (_The Doctor here paused, gazed anxiously at Mr. ----, and said slowly_) Perhaps, though, you take your work too seriously. It is often so with highly strung men. Do as little as you can.

MINISTER--I do ... but still it wearies me inexpressibly..

DOCTOR--Not so much as writing a book would, or travel, or country walks.

MINISTER (_shaking his head_)--I never felt so tired after “It May be True,” nor even after “I Greatly Doubt It,” as I do now (_smiling a little_). They sold well.

DOCTOR--And why? Because you were engaged in politics. Believe me, dear Mr. ----, without that one regular employment you would do little or nothing. It is the balance-wheel that regulates your whole system. Change the rules, and, if you will, limit debate to a minimum, but do not think of giving up the one thing that keeps up your circulation. More men die from inanition than I care to tell you.

MINISTER--Very well, Doctor ... (_weakly and quietly_) it is nearly one; I must sleep ... Good-bye.

_The Doctor here went out on tip-toe. The Minister slept. There was a great silence._

* * * * *

The _Evening German_ suffered severely, and would have been ruined but for the prompt action of the Frankfort House; and the whole incident shows as clearly as possible what perils surround the most tempting, but the most speculative, sort of journalistic enterprise.

The student may tell me--and justly--that I have offered him none but negative examples. I will complete his instruction by printing one of the best chosen Revelations I know.

At the time when a number of letters addressed to Mr. Kruger by various public men were captured, and very rightly published, a certain number were, for reasons of State, suppressed. To Dr. Caliban, reasons of State were no reasons; he held that no servant of the people had a right to keep the people in ignorance.

Within a week, a detective in his employ had brought a little sheaf of documents, which, judged by internal evidence alone, were plainly genuine.

They were printed at once. They have never since been challenged.