The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 2, August, 1864

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In 1842 appeared the first pictorial newspaper, _The Illustrated London
News_. It was started by Herbert Ingram, who began life as a provincial
newsboy, and died, in the vigor of his age, member of Parliament for his
native town. It was a success from the first, so great that numerous
competitors sprang up and endeavored to undersell it. But these were all
vastly inferior, and one by one withered away, the most persistent of
them at last passing into the hands of _The Illustrated London News_,
which now enjoys a larger circulation than any other weekly newspaper,
amounting to about six millions a year!

There was a satirical paper at this time, called _The Age_, which, being
of a strongly libellous character, was continually feeling the weight of
the law. It did not improve in character as it grew older, and its
editor, Tommy Holt, was proved upon a trial to have received bribes to
suppress a slander that he had threatened should appear in his paper.
This same Tommy Holt was very successful in inventing 'sensation'
headings for his columns, and by no means either delicate or scrupulous
in so doing. There was another rascally paper of the same description,
called _The Satirist_, which was at last finally crushed by the Duke of
Brunswick, the result of several actions for libel. Among other new
literary oddities at this time may be mentioned _The Fonetic Nuz_,
the organ of those enthusiastic reformers who were endeavoring to
accomplish a revolution in our orthography. It lasted, however, but a
very short time.

The year 1850 saw the initiation of the final campaign directed against
the only remaining burdens of the press. Mr. Ewart and Mr. Milner Gibson
brought forward a motion for the repeal of the advertisement duty, but
were defeated by two hundred and eight votes to thirty-nine. But they
were not cast down by their want of success, but manfully returned to
the charge. In 1851, they procured the appointment of a committee to
inquire into the question, and in 1852, gathering strength, like William
of Orange, from each successive defeat, they brought forward a triple
set of resolutions, one for the abolition of the advertisement duty,
another levelled at the stamp, and the third for the repeal of the paper
duties. They carried the first, but lost the others. In 1854, Mr. Gibson
made a fresh motion concerning the laws affecting the press, and
received a promise that the subject should receive the early attention
of the House; and in 1855, Sir G.C. Lewis, then chancellor of the
exchequer, who had hitherto opposed the repeal of the duty, brought in a
bill for its abolition. After a struggle in both Houses the measure
passed, and received the royal assent on the 15th of June.

In following up this final struggle, we have passed over one important
period, the railway mania in 1845, which gave birth to no less than
twenty-nine newspapers, entirely occupied with railway intelligence, in
London, besides many others in the provinces. Only two of these have
survived, for the other two railway newspapers which still exist were
established before that memorable madness fell upon the nation. Of
these, Herapath's _Journal_ is the oldest and best, and is the oracle of
the Stock Exchange on railway matters. There are some slight symptoms of
the madness returning in the present year, as far at least as the
metropolis is concerned, and one new railway journal has just been
started in consequence. There are many amusing anecdotes told of
newspapers at this epoch, of which we will quote one. One of these
railway organs had published and paid for, from time to time, lengthy
and elaborate reports of the meetings of a certain company, supplied by
one of the staff of reporters. At length the editor told the reporter
that he thought it was high time for the company to give the paper an
advertisement, after all the favorable notices that bad been given to
the undertaking in question. The reporter acquiesced, and promised to
get the order for an advertisement, but putting it off from time to
time, the editor was induced to make inquiries for himself; whereupon he
had the extreme satisfaction of learning that no such company had ever
existed, and that the elaborate reports of meetings, speeches, etc., had
been entirely fabricated by his ingenious employe! An endeavor was made
last year to resuscitate one of these defunct daily journals, _The Iron
Times_, and Tommy Holt was the editor. It lingered for some weeks, and
then smashed utterly. The editor called the contributors together, and
told them that there was nothing to pay them with--nothing in fact
remained but the office furniture. 'Take that, my boys,' said he, 'and
divide it among you.' This was accordingly done, and one man marched off
with a table, another with a chair, a third with a desk, a fourth with
an inkstand, and so on!

When the stamp duty was abolished as a tax, it remained optional with
the publishers to have any number of their issue stamped they pleased
for transmission through the poet. The number of stamps thus issued in
the first six months after the repeal was 21,646,688, whereas the number
in the corresponding period of 1854, when the tax still existed, was
55,732,499. The number of stamps issued in the year 1854 to the
principal newspapers was as follows: _Times_, 15,975,739; _Morning
Advertiser_, 2,392,780; _Daily News_, 1,485,099; _Morning Herald_,
1,158,000; _Morning Chronicle_, 873,500; _The Globe_, 850,000; and _The
Morning Post_, 832,500. Of the weeklies, _The Illustrated London News_
was then the second, 5,627,866; _The News of the World_, a Liberal,
unillustrated journal, started in 1843, standing first, with 5,673,525
(the price of this paper is now reduced to twopence, and it is an
admirably conducted journal); Lloyd's _Weekly Newspaper_, 5,572,897;
_The Weekly Times_, price one penny, 3,902,169; Reynolds's _Weekly
Newspaper_, also a penny journal, which is best described by the epithet
'rabid,' 2,496,256; _The Weekly Dispatch_, price fivepence, an advanced
Liberal journal, which is emphatically the workingman's newspaper, and
originally started in 1801, 1,982,933; Bell's _Life in London_,
1,161,000. Of the provincial newspapers, _The Manchester Guardian_ heads
the list with 1,066,575, followed by _The Liverpool Mercury_, with
912,000, and _The Leeds Mercury_, with 735,000. Foremost among the
Scotch newspapers stands _The North British Advertiser_, with 808,002;
and the Irish paper with the largest circulation was _The Telegraph_,
with 959,000. Of the London literary papers the chief was _The
Examiner_, with 248,560. With one or two exceptions, the circulation of
these journals may be considered to have increased enormously. There are
now published in Great Britain 1,350 different newspapers, of which 240
are London papers, 20 being dailies, 776 English provincial papers, 143
Irish, 140 Scotch, 37 Welsh, and 14 are published in the British Isles.
Many of these enjoy but a limited circulation, as naturally follows from
the narrow limit they assign to themselves. Thus several trades have
their special organs, as for instance, the grocers, the bakers, and even
the hairdressers among others.

Before concluding this article it will be well to notice a few of the
leading journals which have not been mentioned. _The Daily Telegraph_
was originally started at twopence, in 1855, by Colonel Sleigh, but he,
getting behindhand with his printers to the amount of L1,000, sold them
the paper for another L1,000, and in their hands it has since remained.
The price was reduced to a penny, and, under the new management, its
circulation rapidly increased. _The Standard_ dealt a heavy blow at it
in 1858, by coming out suddenly one morning, without any previous
warning, as a double sheet. This first number was given away in the
streets, in vast quantities, thrown into omnibuses and cabs, pitched
into shops and public houses, and so on. The sale of _The Telegraph_ so
decreased that it was found necessary to enlarge it to the same size as
_The Standard_, when its circulation rose again immediately. It has now
the largest circulation in the world, more than 100,000 daily, a much
larger London circulation than _The Times_, though a smaller provincial
and foreign sale; and its clear profits are variously stated by persons
who profess to be well informed, at different sums, the least of which
is L20,000 a year. The chief causes of its success are its independent
and uncompromising tone, the great pains it takes to gain early
intelligence--it has frequently anticipated _The Times_ itself in
foreign news--and the vigorous and able social articles of Mr. George
Augustus Sala. _The Daily News_ was started as a Liberal and Reform
journal in 1846. An enormous sum of money was sunk in establishing it,
for it was not at first successful. Charles Dickens was the first
editor, but politics were not much in the line of the genial and
unrivalled novelist, and he was soon succeeded by John Forster and
Charles Wentworth Dilke, whose connection with the South Kensington
Museum and the great Exhibition has made him a knight, a C. B., and a
very important personage. _The Daily News_ is now one of the ablest and
most successful of London journals, and has had and still enjoys the
assistance of the best writers of the day in every department. The line
which this journal has always maintained toward America will forever
earn it the admiration and gratitude of the United States. Another firm
friend of the great republic is _The Morning Star_, the organ of Mr.
Bright and the Manchester school, started in 1856. In addition to its
political claims, it has a great hold upon the public as a family
newspaper, by the careful manner in which everything objectionable is
excluded from its columns. Its twin sister, born at the same time, is
called _The Evening Star_. _Bell's Life in London_, a weekly journal,
was originally brought out in 1820, and, although it has more than one
successful rival to contend against, it still maintains its preeminence
as the first English sporting paper. It is very carefully edited, each
department being placed under a separate editor, and is the great oracle
in all matters relating to sports and games. The history of one of the
ablest contributors to this journal, who wrote some most charming
articles on fly-fishing and other kindred topics, under the signature of
'Ephemera'--though he was said never to have thrown a fly in his
life--is a very sad one. His name was Fitzgerald, a man of good family
and connections, married to a lady with L1,200 a year, and living in a
good house at the West End. But the alcoholic demon had got hold of him.
He would disappear for days together, and then suddenly present himself
at the office of the paper with nothing on but a shirt and trousers. He
would then sit down and write an article, receive his pay, go away and
purchase decent clothes, return home, and live quietly perhaps for a
month, when he would--to use a prison phrase--break out again as before.
He was last seen, in the streets of London, in a state of complete
intoxication, being carried upon a stretcher by two policemen to the
police cell, where he died the same night.

At the head of the Sunday papers stands _The Observer_, founded in 1792.
Like _The Globe_, it is extremely well informed upon all political
matters, for very good reasons. It spares no expense in obtaining early
news, and is an especial favorite with the clubs. _The Era_ is the great
organ of the theatrical world, but joins to that _specialite_ the
general attributes of an ordinary weekly journal. It was established in
1837. _The Field_, which calls itself the country gentleman's newspaper,
is all that it professes to be, and a most admirable publication,
treating of games, sports, natural history, and rural matters generally.
It was started by Mr. Benjamin Webster, the accomplished actor manager,
in 1853. But to particularize the principal papers, even in a short
separate notice of a few lines, would far transgress the limits at our
disposal. All the professions are well supplied with journals devoted to
their interests, and it is impossible here to dwell upon them or those
which represent literature and the fine arts. With regard to religious
papers, their name is legion, and they would require a separate article
to be fairly and honestly considered. _Punch_, too, and his rivals, dead
and living, are in the same category, and must, however reluctantly, be
passed over. Two curiosities, however, of the press must be mentioned.
_Public Opinion_ was started about two years and a half ago. It
consisted of weekly extracts from the leading articles of English and
foreign journals, and scraps of news, and other odds and ends. It has
succeeded mainly from its cost of production being so slight, owing to
its paste-and-scissors character, and also because it freely opens its
columns to correspondents _de rebus omnibus_, who are willing to buy any
number of copies for the pleasure of seeing themselves in print. _The
Literary Times_, in addition to reviews of books, professed to criticize
the leading articles in the various papers, but, after an existence of
some six months or so, one Saturday morning _The Literary Times_ was
_non est inventus_.

In concluding this series of articles, which has run to a much greater
length than he originally intended, the writer is conscious of many
shortcomings and omissions, which he trusts will be pardoned and
overlooked when his principal object is borne in mind. That object has
been to give a general outline of the history of the press, and
especially of its struggles against 'the powers which be;' and, though
tempted now and again--he fears too often for the patience of his
readers--to wander away into particularities, he has always endeavored
to keep that object in view. Above all, he hopes he has at least been
successful in showing the truth of that sentiment which was first
publicly expressed as a toast at a Whig dinner, at the Crown and Anchor
tavern, in 1795: 'The liberty of the press--it is like the air we
breathe--if we have it not, we die!'

OUR MARTYRS.

Lightly the river runs between
Hanging cliffs and meadows green.

Blackly the prison, looking down,
Frowns at its shadow's answering frown.

Shut from life in his life's fresh morn,
Crouches a soldier, wounded and worn.

Chained and starved in the dungeon grim,
Day and night are alike to him;

Save that the murmurous twilight air
Stings his soul with a deeper despair.

Day by day, as the taunting breeze
Wafts him the breath of orange trees,

He fancies in meadows far away
The level lines of odorous hay;

And sees the scythes of the mowers run
In and out of the steady sun.

Night by night, as the mounting moon
Climbs from his eager gaze too soon,

The gleams that across the gratings fall,
Broken and bright, on the prison wall,

Seem the tangles of Northern rills,
Like threads of silver winding the hills.

When, sinking into the western skies,
The sun aslant on the window lies;

And motes that hovered dusty and dim,
Golden-winged through the glory swim:

He drops his head on his fettered hands,
And thinks of the fruitful Northern lands.

Between his fingers' wasted lines,
Tear after tear into sunlight shines,

As, wandering in a dream, he treads
The ripened honey of clover heads;

Or watches the sea of yellow grain
Break into waves on the windy plain;

Or sees the orchard's grassy gloom
Spotted with globes of rosy bloom.

Through the shimmer of shadowy haze
Redden the hills with their autumn blaze.

The oxen stand in the loaded teams;
The cider bubbles in amber streams;

And child-like laughter and girlish song
Float with the reaper's shout along.

He stirs his hands, and the jealous chain
Wakes him once more to his tyrant pain--

To festered wounds, and to dungeon taint,
And hunger's agony, fierce and faint.

The sunset vision fades and flits,
And alone in his dark'ning cell he sits:

Alone with only the jailers grim,
Hunger and Pain, that clutch at him;

And, tight'ning his fetters, link by link,
Drag him near to a ghastly brink;

Where, in the blackness that yawns beneath,
Stalks the skeleton form of Death.

Starved, and tortured, and worn with strife;
Robbed of the hopes of his fresh, young life;--

Shall one pang of his martyr pain
Cry to a sleepless God in vain?

AENONE:

A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.

CHAPTER X.

But though AEnone's sanguinely conceived plan for Cleotos's happiness had
so cruelly failed, it was not in her heart to yield to his passionate,
unreflecting demand, and send him away from her, even to a kinder home
than he would have found at the house of the captain Polidorus. It would
but increase his ill fortune, by enforcing still greater isolation from
every fount of human sympathy. Though the affection of the wily Leta had
been withdrawn from him, her own secret friendship yet remained, and
could be a protection to him as long as he was at her side; and in many
ways she could yet extend her care and favor to him, until such time as
an outward-bound vessel might be found in which to restore him to his
native country.

Whether there was any instinct at the bottom of her heart, telling her
that in the possibility of trying events to come his friendship might be
equally serviceable to her, and that, even in the mere distant
companionship of a slave with his mistress, she might feel a certain
protecting influence, she did not stop to ask. Neither did she inquire
whether she wished to retain him for his own benefit alone, and without
thought of any happiness or comfort to be derived by her from his
presence. Had she been accustomed closely to analyze her feelings, she
might have perceived, perhaps, that, in her growing isolation, it was no
unpleasant thing to look upon the features and listen to the tones which
carried her memory back to her early days of poverty, when, except for a
short interval, her life had been at its happiest. But had she known and
acknowledged all this, it would not have startled her, for she would
have felt that, in her heart, there was not the slightest accompanying
shade of disloyalty. Her nature was not one to admit of sudden transfers
of allegiance. It was rather one in which a real love would last
forever. When the first romantic liking for Cleotos had consumed itself,
from the ashes there had sprung no new passion for him, but merely the
flowers of earnest, true-hearted friendship. And it was her misfortune,
perhaps, that the real love for another which had succeeded would not in
turn consume itself, but would continue to flourish green and perennial,
though now seemingly fated to bask no longer in the sunshine of kindly
words and actions, but only to cower beneath the chill of harsh and
wanton neglect.

Cleotos therefore remained--at first passing weary days of bitter,
heartbreaking despondency. His lost liberty he had borne without much
complaint, for it was merely the fortune of war, and hundreds of his
countrymen were sharing the same fate with him. But to lose that love
upon which he had believed all the happiness of his life depended, was a
blow to which, for a time, no philosophy could reconcile him--the more
particularly as the manner in which that loss had been forced upon him
seemed, to his sensitive nature, to be marked by peculiar severity. To
have had her torn from him in any ordinary way--to part with her in some
quarrel in which either side might be partially right, and thenceforth
never to see her again--or to be obliged to yield her up to the superior
claims of an open, generous rivalry--any of these things would, in
itself, have been sufficient affliction. But it was far worse than all
this to be obliged to meet her at every turn, holding out her hand to
him in pleasant greeting, and uttering words of welcoming import; and
all with an unblushing appearance of friendly interest, as though his
relations with her had never been other than those of a fraternal
character, and as though, upon being allowed her mere friendship, there
could be nothing of which he had a right to complain.

At first, in the agony of his heart, he had no strength to rise above
the weight which crushed him, and to obey the counsels of his pride so
far as to play before her a part of equally assumed indifference. To her
smiling greetings he could return only looks of bitter despair or
passionate entreaty--vainly hoping that he might thereby arouse her
better nature, and bring her in repentance back to him. And at first
sight it seemed not impossible that such a thing might take place; for,
in the midst of all her change of conduct and wilful avoidance of
allusion to the past, she felt no dislike of him. It was merely her love
for him that she had suppressed, and in its place there still remained a
warm regard. If he could have been content with her friendship alone,
she would have granted it all, and would have rejoiced, for the sake of
olden times, to use her influence with others in aid of his upward
progress. Perhaps there were even times when, as she looked upon his
misery and thought of the days not so very far back, in which he had
been all in all to her, her heart may have been melted into something of
its former affection. But if so, it was only for a moment, nor did she
ever allow the weakness to be seen. Her path had been taken, and nothing
now could make her swerve from it. Before her enraptured fancy gleamed
the state and rank belonging to a patrician's wife; and as she wove her
toils with all the resources of her cunning, the prize seemed to
approach her nearer and nearer. Now having advanced so far, she must not
allow a momentary weakness to imperil all. And therefore unwaveringly
she daily met her former lover with the open smile of friendly greeting,
inviting confidence, mingled with the same indescribable glance,
forbidding any renewal of love.

And so days passed by, and Cleotos, arousing from his apathetic despair,
felt more strongly that, if the lapse of love into mere friendship is a
misfortune, the offer of friendship as a substitute for promised love is
a mockery and an insult: his soul rebelled at being made a passive party
to such a bargain; and he began himself to play the retaliatory part
which a wronged nature naturally suggests to itself. Like Leta, he
learned to hold out the limpid hand in careless greeting, or to mutter
meaningless and cold compliments, and, in any communication with her, to
assume all the appearances of indifferent acquaintanceship. At first,
indeed, it was with an aching heart struggling in his breast, and an
agony of wounded spirit tempting him to cast away all such studied
pretences, and to throw himself upon her mercy, and meanly beg for even
the slightest return of her former affection. But gradually, as he
perceived how vain would be such self-abasement, and how its display
would rather tend to add contempt to her indifference, his pride came to
rescue him from such a course; and he began more and more to tune the
temper of his mind to his actions, and to feel something of the same
coldness which he outwardly displayed.

Not but that for a while such a disposition was forced and unnatural;
and however steadily composed he felt, and strongly fortified in his
stubborn pride, a look or a word from her would have brought him again a
willing slave to her feet. But that look or word was not given. Perhaps,
in her eager struggle after the glittering prize which she had held out
before herself, she disdained the love which had once delighted her;
perhaps, actuated by a purer and less selfish motive, her friendship
for Cleotos forbade her, in mere wanton pride, to keep open the wound
which she had made. Whatever the reason, the withdrawal of the
fascinations which had once attracted him, gave his mind leisure and
opportunity to reason with itself in more quietude and composure than
could have been expected. And, as he more and more began to realize how
closely she was wrapped up in her ambition, to the exclusion of any
gentler feeling, and how, under the stimulant of her infatuated hopes,
she was allowing herself each day to act with less guarded resolution,
there were times when he found himself asking whether she had indeed
changed from what she had been, or whether, on the contrary, she had not
always, at heart, been the same as now, and his conception, of her true
character been at fault.

But, in proportion as the veil of error seemed lifted from his soul,
letting calm content once more shine in upon him, so, on the other hand,
did a night of despair slowly settle upon AEnone. By no reasoning could
she longer urge upon herself the belief that the neglect with which her
lord treated her could be traced to any inoffensive cause. Claims of
court--urgency of military duties--exactions of business might easily
account for transitory slights, but not for long-sustained periods of
indifference, unbroken by a single word of kindness. And as days passed
by and this indifference continued, until at times seeming ready to give
place to openly expressed dislike, and her ears became more and more
accustomed to words of hasty petulance, and Sergius grew still deeper
absorbed in the infatuation which possessed him, and less careful to
conceal its influences from her, and the Greek girl glided hither and
thither, ever less anxious, as she believed her triumph more nearly
assured, to maintain the humble guise which she had at first assumed,
AEnone felt that there had indeed come upon her a sorrow from which there
could be no escape. There were a hundred methods of relief from it which
hourly occurred to her agitated mind, but one after another was in turn
laid aside, as she felt that it would but aggravate the evil, or as the
opportunity to employ it was not given her. To make open complaint of
her wrongs and try to drive Leta from the house--to humble herself
before her, and thereby strive to move her pity--to reproach Sergius for
his neglect, and demand that, since he no longer loved her, he would
send her back to her native place, away from the hollow world of
Rome--to assume toward him, by a strong effort of will, a like
indifference--to watch until she could find some season when his better
nature appeared more impressible, and then to throw herself before him,
as she had once before done, and plead for a return of his love--these
and like expedients fruitlessly passed in review before her. All in turn
failed in promise of relief; and at times it seemed as though the only
course left to her was to lie down in her sorrow and die.

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