The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the immortals to whom has come the "vision splendid" and whose are the voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for.
Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped.
But there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism.
And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten.
In this ooze and slime puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and stings where it sticks.
The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and everybody read it.
After a season, having thus firmly established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared.
It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable.
His university training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar that they no longer offended.
That delicate discrimination that immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance.
"We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs.
Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart.
"But I doubt not he is very busy with his new duties."
"Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain its own.
"Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the little lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend.
But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she fought to forbid them harbour in her heart!
But how persistently they made entrance and to abide.
The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time.
