There is a class in every city --
The Age require's it, more's the pity, --
A class of men inquisitive,
Who live as best they can, yet live
Upon the love of this great nation
For news appalling and sensation.
Behold the literary hack!
His home a dingy two-pair back
In a vile street, where hold high revel
The sons of Erin and the devil.
Now enter we the presence, and
A moment scrutinizing stand:
A squalid crib, a noisome
den
For him who wields the mighty pen'
By day a book-case occupies,
The spot where now our hero lies --
A book-case in his confreres' sight,
A truckle bed confessed by night.
'Tis noonday, yet he gaping lies
With visage blanched, and half-closed eyes,
With parch'ed throat and daz'ed brain,
And semi-conscious of the pain.
That seated on his wrinkled brow
Awaits his every motion now;
See him with many a yawn uprise,
And slowly ope' his bloodshot eyes;
His appetite by liquor spoiled,
With the rank weed his teeth defiled;
Upright he stands, bur churlish nature
Denies imposing mien and stature;
Five feet -- not more -- his utmost length,
Devoid his frame of grace or strength --
A puny arm, a narrow chest,
A meagre leg, and chicken breast;
Buy why on his proportions dwell
To Venus most unloveable?
For in nine cases out of ten
Our hero's but a specimen
Of what we daily chance to meet,
In crowded lane and teeming street,
Of seedy author, coinless poet,
Reporter, liner -- all men know it.
His scanty toilet soon is
made,
Soon hidden his unfreshened bed;
Soon donned his swallow-tail of black,
That type of literary hack.
Razor, soap, water, where are they?
Why these were used but yesterday.
Sure it were supererogation
In one who caters for the nation,
Each day to plunge his hands and face in
A comfortless, unneeded basin;
The operation -- 'tis with sorrow
He e'en admits -- will wait to-morrow,
Meanwhile a pipe within his lips
He places, and its fragrance sips,
Trusting his shattered nerves to steady,
To clear his senses dull and muddy
From the debauch of yesternight;
And sally forth refreshed and bright,
Prepared to wield his goose's quill
On tale of scandal or of ill,
Or wondrous onslaught, or in fine
Whate'er may lend him wherewithal to dine.
Next to a pot-house hies our scribe,
To breakfast? nay, but to imbibe
A draught potential to inspire
His laggard blood with current fire,
For his day's labours aye begin
With tempered modicum of gin.
A motley crew he stands among:
Here are the gentlemen of song,
Of dance, of music, and of letters,
Freed for the hour from labour's fetters,
Dishevelled, yet with mien urbane,
Sipping the nectar of cockaigne,
Or waging feigned but wordy war
With the fair Hebe at the bar.
With these he mixes; as the bee
From flower to flower flits greedily
For liquid treasures anxious diving,
Thus flits our liner, ever striving
To cull from all around the news
That editor may not refuse.
One tells him of a suicide
Committed by a lovely bride,
Whose needy parents had, ecstatic,
Fettered to mate aristocratic,
Toothless and aged and decrepid,
Whom to escape, the girl intrepid
Leaped with a shriek into the water
Where grimy Mors espied and caught her.
Another tells how a great lord,
Jealous of her his soul adored,
The fairest wife one e'er set eyes on,
Ended her hour by subtle poison.
Another, that the Chamberlain
Of Portugal, or France or Spain
Had whispered ('twas in confidence)
A bloody struggle must commence,
Drenching the European mud
With Lutheran and Romish blood
Before the crescent moon had paled,
And her bright shield in darkness veiled.
Such and such-like intelligence
Our hero notes with love intense,
And in his bulky leathern volume,
The basis marks of many a column.
Now, see him to a sporting friend
His rapt attention earnest lend;
He hears -- and loud the fact is vaunted --
How little Billy, dog undaunted!
A terrier from the Isle of Skye
Entered a tub unflinchingly
With five and twenty rats set in it,
And worried all within the minute;
The sportsman pleased to
find a hearer,
Eyes our small friend, and drawing nearer,
In whisper hoarse, but patronising,
Proclaims the intelligence surprising
That two days hence at break of day
The Bruiser Pet of Holloway
Will meet the Scottish Champion brawny --
The chicken of the north, Young Sawney --
To vie in combat grim and gory
For cash, for honour, and for glory --
And that broad Belt whose winner then
Shall be proclaimed the King of men.
The Liner minutes every
item
Prepared at leisure to indite 'em;
While thus engaged, along the street
Is heard the rush of num'rous feet.
The cry of "Fire" is raised aloud,
And eager haste the unwashed crowd,
The foremost in the race pursuing,
To feast their eyes on others' ruin --
Like war-horse to the furious flight
Our Liner issues to the light,
Well knows he whence the fire brigade
Will chivalrously speed to aid.
The court is gained, he madly darts
Upon the engine as it starts,
And to the stalwart fireman clings;
Away! as if on eagle's wings
They dash 'mid general acclamation,
Tempered with well-feigned consternation.
As through the streets they furious plough,
O, happy is our hero now,
And for widespread catastrophe,
Fondly, devoutly, hopeth he
Because the public never tire
To con the horrors of a fire;
Even his editorial master
Thaws under such a sad disaster;
Receives him with complacent face,
And listens to the tragic case.
And so, perched like some shameless ape
High on the ready fire escape
He gazes, calm as any stoic
Upon the scene, and feels heroic;
Sighs out the wish that he might dare
Some deed of prowess then and there,
And feels a general elation
Sequent upon his elevation.
The zeal that in his bosom burns,
The rounded sentences he turns;
The facts he chronicles minute --
His thoughts original to boot --
For once will be accepted whole,
As they have left his fervent soul,
In shape of most verbose report,
(For brevity is not his forte),
To catch the morning daily paper,
And therein cut a wond'rous caper,
Unmutilated by the shears
Of him he cringes to, but fears
The editor, whose eagle eye
Lapses its keen activity;
Aware that from his readers here
Will issue neither snarl nor sneer,
In their desire for evil news
Too eager even to abuse;
Nothing like "Awful conflagration!"
Or "Scene of widespread devastation!"
Or "Tale of most surpassing wonder!"
To keep the growl of critic under.
Need we continue? Need we track
Each footstep of our restless Hack?
Into the city slapbang chase
Him to his wonted dining-place,
Where, mid the crash of plates and dishes,
The mingled whiff of meats and fishes,
Stale beer and greens, he bides heroic
His turn, with patience of a stoic;
Aye, we must own our modern liner
Is no refined fastidious diner;
But, in the main, you'll find him willing
To quell his hunger on a shilling;
His appetite he gluts in swilling.
Be't public dinner, private ball,
He notes the doings at them all,
Beneath the table crouching hidden,
If the grand banquet be forbidden --
How true it is Experience teaches --
Taking short notes of the chief speeches,
Or ready-witted at devices,
In footman's garb he hands the ices,
Noting the while with eager eye
Th' apartments and the company.
His works collective being done,
Now to his study see him run,
To chronicle with jealous quill
Whispers of malice and of ill;
To stain the loftiest reputation,
By vaguely-worded imputation;
To twist the truth, to dodge misstatement,
Leaving a loop-hole for abatement;
To deftly touch, as if by rote
On incidents unworthy note;
Or his poor wealthless brain ransacking,
Produce the following for packing:
The customary "rumoured split
'Mongst members of the Cabinet;"
Or else 'we have good cause to fear
That a well-known distinguished peer
Spurns the pure tenets of his sires,
And to the Church of Rome retires;"
Or this -- "'Tis said a Lord who dwells,
Not quite a hundred miles from Wells,
Leads to the hymeneal altar
The Lady Claribel Fitzwalter."
These and the like each day unite
To whet the public appetite,
With strange and thrilling incident
By land and water wildly blent,
Rumours of wars' predestined rattle,
And other current tittle-tattle.
And yet, methinks, it may
be reasoned,
The daily dish must be well seasoned;
The general public at their leisure
In gossip take the keenest pleasure;
At morn they scan the dry quotation --
Loans, stocks of every clime and nation,
With current themes political,
And situations critical;
But night they give to relaxation,
Gossip, adventure, and sensation;
And con with a complacent relish
Such themes as fluent pens embellish.
Oh, Editors! be stern,
refuse
Unvouched and miscellaneous news,
Although sensation be the rage,
Be slow to swell the daily page
With statements vague, unfounded, rash,
With shallow, empty, baseless trash,
Verbose reports, ignoble snatches,
Mysterious fashionable catches,
The padding that suspicious swells
Your page, and all too quickly "sells."
Let not your aim be to inflate,
But to instruct and elevate;
Remember, bulk may not be strength,
Remember, force may not be length,
But strength and force to be combined
Require the educated mind.
That wary of its proper station,
Stoops not to fawning degradation;
Rejects the chaff, is ready ever,
Pure metal from the dross to sever;
Is curt and clear, nor weakly panders
To the perverted taste, nor wanders
Afield to use with jealous verve,
A hundred words when ten might serve.
True! if ye deftly take the hint,
And rigorously prune and stint;
If all and sundry proffered news
You sift, and the base dross refuse;
Then though your readers may awhile
Remonstrate, cavil, or revile
The lessened journal; soon must they
The law of Quality obey;
And the vile taste sensational
Must under Merit's sceptre fall.
So may it be, although our
Hack
His avocation then shall lack;
What must be, must be, men assent
To what they cannot well prevent;
His wane shall with indifference
Be viewed as he departeth hence;
The reading world will see him die
Without the semblance of a sigh;
And to his literary bier
Refuse the semblance of a tear.
I'd love to have you drop by!--Barbara
