The Way We Live Now | Page 4

him, even though written by the hand
of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction as to
repaying the service by fulsome praise in the 'Literary Chronicle.' He
would not probably say that the book was accurate, but he would be
able to declare that it was delightful reading, that the feminine
characteristics of the queens had been touched with a masterly hand,
and that the work was one which would certainly make its way into all
drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work, and knew well
how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's 'Criminal Queens,'
without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could almost do it
without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes of after sale
might not be injured. And yet Mr Booker was an honest man, and had
set his face persistently against many literary malpractices. Stretched-
out type, insufficient lines, and the French habit of meandering with a
few words over an entire page, had been rebuked by him with
conscientious strength. He was supposed to be rather an Aristides
among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he could not oppose
himself altogether to the usages of the time. 'Bad; of course it is bad,'
he said to a young friend who was working with him on his periodical.
'Who doubts that? How many very bad things are there that we do! But
if we were to attempt to reform all our bad ways at once, we should

never do any good thing. I am not strong enough to put the world
straight, and I doubt if you are.' Such was Mr Booker.
Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr Ferdinand Alf. Mr Alf managed, and,
as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the 'Evening Pulpit,' which during
the last two years had become 'quite a property,' as men connected with
the press were in the habit of saying. The 'Evening Pulpit' was
supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been said and done up
to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people in the metropolis,
and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would be the sayings
and doings of the twelve following hours. This was effected with an air
of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently with an ignorance
hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the writing was clever. The facts,
if not true, were well invented; the arguments, if not logical, were
seductive. The presiding spirit of the paper had the gift, at any rate, of
knowing what the people for whom he catered would like to read, and
how to get his subjects handled so that the reading should be pleasant.
Mr Booker's 'Literary Chronicle' did not presume to entertain any
special political opinions. The 'Breakfast Table' was decidedly Liberal.
The 'Evening Pulpit' was much given to politics, but held strictly to the
motto which it had assumed
Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri
and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing
what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper
that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and
weary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull a fact
that Mr Alf had discovered and had utilized.
Mr Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those who
occasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and they
who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too hot to
hold them. But censure from those who are always finding fault is
regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be
objectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held to
be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's face and
person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him to vilify all that
he touches. But were an artist to publish a series of portraits, in which
two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he would certainly make
two enemies, if not more. Mr Alf never made enemies, for he praised

no one, and, as far as the expression of his newspaper went, was
satisfied with nothing.
Personally, Mr Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he
came or what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a
German Jew; and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his
tongue the slightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was
conceded to him that he knew England as only an Englishman can
know it. During the last year or two he had 'come up' as the phrase goes,
and had come up very thoroughly. He had been blackballed at three or
four clubs, but had effected