Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art Fifth Series No. 23 Vol. I June 7 1884 by Various Editor

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Editor: Various

THE NEWSMONGER.

He is nothing if not omniscient; and, like Othello, his occupation's gone if he be not the first to spread the news and carry the fiery cross of scandal to the front. For the Newsmonger does not care to carry good news so much as bad; the latter having a dash of spice in it, wanting to the former--as red pepper titillates the palate more than does either honey or sugar. The Newsmonger knows everything, and foresees as much as he knows. When A's sudden bankruptcy takes the world in general by surprise, he, on the contrary, is not the least astonished. He knew it weeks ago. He can put in black and white the exact sum for which he has failed--for all that the books are still in the safe, and the accountant has not begun to score up the items; and he knows who is the largest creditor, who the most implacable, and what is the bad debt which has caused all the mischief. He takes care, however, not to state plainly all these things. He only says he knows; and people are found to believe him. When Mrs B runs off with Mr C, and thus exposes the hollowness of the domestic happiness of the B's, which was considered so complete; he knew all about that, too, long before it happened. Indeed, he had warned C that he was going too far, and that harm would come of it, Mrs B being but a feather-head at the best; and he had even thrown out friendly hints to B, advising him to be a little more strict in his guard and watchful in his care. But no man is so deaf as he who will not hear, nor so blind as he who will not see; and B was bent on his own destruction, and would not be enlightened. Whom the gods would destroy, they first madden; and what is the use of hammering your head against a stone wall? Again, when Edwin and Angelina come to an abrupt rupture, and the engagement which promised so well and looked so satisfactory all round, is broken off in a hurry, to the open-mouthed amazement of society--though the cause remains a profound mystery to all the rest, Our Newsmonger winks knowingly when he gives you the story, and tells you that he is in the confidence of both parties, and understands the whole thing from end to end. How should he not, when he has been consulted from the beginning, and himself advised the rupture as the only thing left to be done? Whatever happens, he has been at the back of it; and no event takes place of which he has not been cognisant or ever it was made manifest to the crass public. This must needs be, seeing that he is the general adviser of the whole world, and taken into every one's confidence, from the laying of the egg to the strutting forth of the full-plumaged fowl.

And after all, it was strange, was it not? that, knowing of this coming insurrection at the back of the unpronounceable mountains, Our Newsmonger should have gone in for a rise, when Panslavonic Unifieds were so sure to come down with a rattling run, as soon as the first gun was fired by the obscure tribes aforesaid? Those who like it can accept the explanation as gospel truth and sure; but a healthy scepticism is not a bad state of mind for the more wary to cultivate, and the doctrine of infallibility is not so fashionable as it used to be.

There is nothing that does not pass through the alembic of the Newsmonger. He knows the exact spot in the house where each man keeps his skeleton, and he can pitch the precise note struck when the bones rattle in the wind and the poor possessor turns pale at the sound. Mrs Screwer starves her servants; but then Mr Screwer gambles, and the family funds are always in a state of fluctuation which makes things too uncertain to be counted on. Mrs Towhead scolds her household till she maddens the maids and dazes the men, so that they do not know which end stands uppermost. But then Mr Towhead sends the poor woman mad herself by his open goings-on with that little minx round the corner. And if Mrs Towhead takes it out in a general conflagration, is it to be wondered at, seeing the provocation she has? The Spendthrifts are out at elbows, and no one can get paid, for all they gave that magnificent ball last week on the coming of age of young Hopeful, who inherits more debts than rents, and has more holes in his purse than coin to stop them with. Miss Hangonhand is taken to Paris for the chance of a husband, those in London proving shy and the supply not equalling the demand; and Dr Leech's bill was exorbitant, and a lawsuit was threatened if he would not abate just one half. And then that Mr Fieri Facias--have you not heard that he has been dealing with his clients' securities, and that if matters were looked into he would be now standing in the dock of the Old Bailey? I assure you they say so; and for my part I always believe that where there is much smoke there must be some fire! The Bank, too, is shaky; and you who are a shareholder, and you who are a depositor, had both better get out of it without a day's delay.

All these things, and more, Our Newsmonger will say with a glib tongue and a light heart; and whether what he says has a grain of truth, or is pure unmixed and unmitigated falsehood, troubles him no more than if the wind blows from the south-west or the south-south-west with a point to spare. He can retail a bit of gossip which will make his visit pass easily and keep the conversation from lagging; and which also will put him into the position of one who knows, and thus place him on rising ground while his friends are only in the shallows. And what matters it if, for this miserable little gain, he obscures a reputation, breaks a heart, destroys a life? He has had his pleasure, which was to appear wiser than the rest; and if others have to pay the bill, the loss is theirs, not his!

A Newsmonger of this kind is the very pest of the neighbourhood where he may have pitched his tent. A fox with silent feet and cruel flair prowling about the henroost where the nestling chickens lie--a viewless wind laden with poison-germs, and bringing death wherever it blows--a lurking snake, hidden in the long grass and discovered only when it has stung--these and any other similes that can be gathered, expressive of silent secret wrong-doing to innocent things, may be taken as the signs of the Newsmonger in small places where propinquity places reputations at the mercy of all who choose to attack them. From such, may the good grace of fortune and the honest tongues of the sturdy and the upright deliver us!--for if all the evil that is said of men were tracked to its source, that source would be found to lie, not in fact, but in the fertile imagination of the Newsmonger. After all, we know nothing better than each other. And as we have to live in human communion, it is as well to live in peace and harmony, and in seeing the best, and not the worst. The Newsmonger thinks differently. But then those who are wise discard him as a nuisance and a mischief-maker; and their way in life is all the more peaceful in consequence.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

BY CHARLES GIBBON.

Mr Beecham returned.

'The young people are crowding in now; and Mrs Joy and the schoolmistress with some of their friends are trying to place them comfortably, so that the smallest may have the front benches. Come along and help them.'

The long narrow hall was already well filled, the faces of the children shining with the combined effect of recent scrubbing and excitement. Some of the youngest faces wore a half-frightened expression, for the only magician they knew about was the wicked one in the story of Aladdin, and they did not know what the magician they were to see to-night might do to them. But others had seen this conjurer performing on the village green in open daylight on fair-days, and were able to reassure the timid ones, whilst regaling them in loud whispers with exaggerated accounts of the wonderful things he had done.

In the background were parents, on whose heavy and usually expressionless faces a degree of curiosity was indicated by open mouths and eyes staring at the still unoccupied platform on which the performance was to take place. Along the side, near the front, was a row of chairs occupied by Mrs Joy and her friends, who were presently joined by Mr Beecham and Wrentham, and later by Dr Joy. One of Mr Beecham's ideas was not to overawe the children by the presence of too many of the 'gentry;' consequently, he only invited those who were to help him in making his young guests comfortable.

The whispering ceased suddenly on the appearance of the conjurer.

Wrentham leaned carelessly back on his chair, so that Mrs Joy's bonnet hid his face from Mr Tuppit.

The latter looked quite smart in his well-brushed black frock-coat, his white collar, his lavender-coloured tie, secured in a large brass ring with a glass diamond in the centre, which glistened in the lamp-light and at once attracted the children's eyes. The professor of wonders had a long solemn face, and black hair brushed close to his head, where it stuck as if pasted on with oil. His voice had a pleasant ring, and he began by merrily informing his audience that he intended to explain to them how all his tricks were done. Every boy and girl who watched him attentively would be able--with a little practice, of course--to do everything he did. This was delightful information, and secured immediate attention. But it was a little dashed by the intimation that they would first have to learn how to spell the mystic word 'Abracadabra.' However, he would teach them how to do that too; and he pinned on the wall a scroll bearing the word in large red letters. This was a clever dodge to divert too quick eyes from his sleight of hand.

Then, chattering all the time, he began his tricks. Pennies were transformed into half-crowns and back to the poorer metal, much to the regret of the grinning yokels--one of them denounced it as 'a mortal shame;' handkerchiefs were torn into shreds and returned to their owners neatly folded and uninjured; a pigeon was placed under a cap, and when the cap was lifted there was a glass of water in its stead; cards seemed to obey the conjurer like living things--and so on through the usual range of legerdemain.

The great feat of the evening was the last. Mr Tuppit advancing with a polite bow--an excessively polite bow--begged Mr Wrentham to be so good as to trust him for a few minutes with his hat, which should be returned uninjured. Wrentham stared at the man, as if privately confounding his impudence, and complied with the request. Another polite bow and a smile, and the conjurer returned to his rostrum. The glossy hat was placed on the table: flour, water, raisins, and all the ingredients for a plum-pudding were poured into it amidst the laughter and excited exclamations of the youngsters, who could scarcely retain their seats. The whole was stirred with the magic rod, then covered with a cloth, and when that was removed, there arose a column of steam as from a caldron. A waiter brought a huge plate, and the conjurer tumbled out on it a piping hot plum-pudding from the hat. The wonder was not over yet. The pudding was quickly cut into hunks, and two waiters were employed to serve it to the astounded audience. But how that pudding came to suffice for the supply of all those young folk and their parents was a mystery which only the conjurer, Mr Beecham, and the hotel cook could properly explain.

The hat was restored to its owner in perfect condition. Wrentham said 'Thank you,' and again stared at the man, who again bowed politely, and retired after saying good-night to the children, whose cheers were not stifled even by mouthfuls of plum-pudding.

'There is another of my sources of happiness,' said Mr Beecham as Wrentham was going away; 'doing something to make others happy.'

Wrentham had not gained the particular information he had been seeking as to Beecham's antecedents, but he had learned several things.

'Bob is becoming troublesome. I must arrange with him either to sail in the same boat or not to run foul of me in this way.'

His report to Mr Hadleigh was brief and decisive. 'I can make nothing of Beecham except that he is a harmless, good-natured chap, who likes to spend his money in standing treat to all the youngsters in the parish. There is no sham about his philanthropy either: never a bit of fuss. Take last night, for instance. Nobody knew anything about it barring those who were invited. I can't make him out; but Miss Heathcote may be able to help you. He corresponds with her.'

'Corresponds with her?'

'Yes; I saw a letter addressed to her on his desk. They seem to be great chums, too, as I hear--and he is not too old to be a lover.'

'That is curious,' said Mr Hadleigh thoughtfully, but not heeding the jest with which Wrentham concluded his remarks.

Philip was a little bothered by what Madge had told him. In honest dealing he was unable to comprehend how man or woman could have any knowledge or design which might not be communicated to the person who was nearest in affection to him or her. He took for granted that he must stand nearest in affection to Madge. If the knowledge or design was not intended to hurt anybody, why should there be any mystery about it? The more light that shone upon one's work, the better it would be done. Those who by choice worked in the dark must be trying to deceive somebody--maybe themselves. He had as little liking for mysteries as Aunt Hessy herself, because he could not see the use of them.

Had he consulted his brother Coutts on this subject, he would have learned from that City philosopher that the business of every man was to cheat--well, if the sound was more pleasing, overreach--every other man. Only a fool would make plain to others what he was going to do and how he meant to do it--and the fool paid the penalty of his folly by going promptly to the wall. He would have learned that in the race for Fortune there are many runners who want to be first to reach the winning-post. Therefore, it behoved every racer to keep the qualities of his horse dark, and to keep his fellows ignorant of the turns on the course where he purposed to put on an extra spurt and outwit them.

'A clever lie,' Coutts would have said with his cynical smile, 'often saves much trouble, and wins the game. Most of the losers grin and bear, and whilst congratulating the winner, laugh at the "truthful James" who grumbles that he has lost because he did not understand or could not submit to the recognised rules of the course.'

'But how can a lie be necessary?' Philip would have asked--'how can it be useful unless you mean to cheat?'

That was his great stumbling-block: he could not understand the use of a lie, any more than he could understand a captain in a fog running his vessel straight ahead without regard to compass or charts.

Coutts would regard him pityingly, and answer with the calmness of one whose principles are founded upon established law:

'Why I tell a lie is because I wish to gain an advantage over somebody. If gaining this advantage be cheating, then I must cheat, because everybody else is doing the same thing; or I must submit to be cheated. However, in the City it is vulgar to talk about cheating and lies in connection with respectable business transactions. When we profit by the ignorance of others, we call it rules of trade, custom, and may occasionally go so far as to speak of sharp practice; but so long as a man keeps on the right side of the law, we never use such rude language as you do. When he gets to the wrong side of the law, however--that is, when he is found out--we are down upon him as heavily as you like. You had better not meddle with business, Philip, for you will be fleeced as easily as a sick sheep.'

Philip turned away in disgust from the ethics of selfishness as expounded by his brother, and refused to believe that the primary rule for success in business was to do the best for yourself no matter what others lose, or that any enterprise of moment had ever been carried to a successful issue under the guidance of such a theory. People might hold their tongues when silence meant no harm to any one and possible good to somebody. That was right, and that was what Madge was doing.

So, after the first sensation of bother--for it was not displeasure or suspicion of any kind: only a mixed feeling of regret and astonishment that there could be, even for a brief period, a thought which they might not both possess--he proceeded with the work in hand. She gave him what is most precious to the enthusiast, sympathy and faith in his visions.

'People of experience,' he told her, 'say that I am aiming at an ideal condition of men, which is pretty as an ideal, and absolutely impracticable until human nature has so altered that all men are honest. Besides, they say, I am really striving after community of interest, which has been tried before and failed. Robert Owen tried it long ago--Hawthorne and his friends tried it--and failed. I answer, that although my object is the same as theirs, my way of reaching it is different. It is certainly community of interest that I seek to establish, but under this condition--that the most industrious and most gifted shall take their proper places and reap their due reward. Every man is to stand upon his own merits: if fortune be his aim, let him win it by hard work of hand and brain. The man who works hardest will get most, and he who works least will get least. I think that is perfectly simple, and easily understood by any man or woman who is willing to work. There are to be no drones, as I have said, to hamper the progress of the workers.'

Madge could see it all, and the scheme was a noble one in her eyes, which ought to be workable--if they could only get rid of the drones. But that 'if' introduced Philip to his troubles.

The question as to the price of the land Philip desired to purchase had been settled with amazing promptitude after he had, in the rough but emphatic phrase, 'put his foot down.' Wrentham came to him with looks of triumph and the exclamation, 'See the conquering hero comes.' He was under the impression that he had done a good stroke of business.

'I treated the greedy beggars to what I call the don't-care-a-brass-farthing style. I was only an agent, and my principal said take it or leave it. I didn't care which way they decided, at the same time I had a conviction that they were throwing away a good offer--cash down. We had some fencing--I wish you had been there--and at last they agreed to accept a sum which is only two hundred beyond what you offered, so I closed the bargain.'

The difference was not of much consequence; but for a moment Philip thought it strange that Wrentham had been able to conclude the bargain so easily after what he had told him. The thought, however, passed from his mind immediately.

Now came the business of starting the work. Here Caleb Kersey proved useful, not only in organising the labourers but in dealing with the mechanics. The difficulty was much the same with the skilled and unskilled workers--namely, to enable them to understand that it was better and honester to employer and employed to be paid for the work done than for the time spent over it. Prospective profit did not count for anything in the minds of most of the men; and the 'honesty' that was in the system was regarded as only another word for extra profit to the employer.

'Gammon!' was the general remark; 'you don't take us in with that chaff. We get so much an hour, and we mean to have it.'

In spite of this, however, Philip, aided by Caleb, collected a band of workmen sufficient for his purpose. For a time all went well. There were grumblings occasionally; but most of the men began in a short time to comprehend how they could improve their own position by the amount of work produced. But these presently found themselves hampered and scoffed at by those whose chief object was to 'put in time.' That was the grievance of the real workers: the grievance of the master, which was not found out until too late, was that the highest market price for the best materials was paid for the worst. The groans became more numerous, and their outcries louder, as their pay decreased in accordance with their own decrease of production. But they said they had 'put in time,' and ought to be paid accordingly. They were completely satisfied with this argument, which proved to themselves beyond question that they were being injured by the man who pretended to be their friend.

Next the unions spoke, and all the men who belonged to them were withdrawn. Those who remained were picketed and boycotted until Philip took what was considered by his friends another mad step.

He was striving to bridge that troublous sea which lies between capital and labour; and the great pillars of his bridge were to be productive labour on the one side and honest buyers on the other. The men applauded these sentiments, satisfied that nothing was wanting except the honest buyers.

'The real capital of the world is Brains,' he said; 'and to carry out the work which they devise, the labourer of all degrees is as necessary as the man with money.'

'Hear, hear!' cried a grim-visaged fellow who was leaving Philip's service; 'and, consequently, the labourer ought to have share and share alike in the profits with the money-man.'

'Undoubtedly; and he should, likewise, take his share in the losses,' was Philip's reply; and he endeavoured to explain his projected scheme of the regulation of wages by results.

But this was not easy to understand. So long as he talked of sharing profits, the thing was clear enough; but when it came to be a question of also sharing losses, the majority could not see it. Philip was impatient of their stubborn refusal to believe in what was so plain and simple to him--that when a man was paid for what he produced he would be the gainer or loser according to the degree of his industry.

However, Philip persevered eagerly with his scheme, and in his character of honest buyer of labour he met with many surprises.

Work was scamped: he detected it, and dismissed the scampers. They went to join the clamorous crowd of incompetent or lazy workmen who cry that they only want work, but do not add to the cry that they want it on their own terms.

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