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Typo: A Monthly Newspaper and Literary Review, Volume 3

[miscellaneous paragraphs]

« Sir Henry James, » says the Pall Mall Gazette, « is pre-eminently a scholar and a gentleman. He is a man of culture, and his diction is scholarly; he never offends against good taste and good manners. » And in the same issue, this gentleman and scholar appears as a hideous ape, the central figure of a brutal and repulsive cartoon! The Pall Mall's caricatures are as shameless as anything Gillray ever drew. And Gillray could draw, and possessed keen—if not always nice—humour. The Pall Mall cartoons, as works of art, would discredit a school-boy of twelve years old—and beyond their vile drawing, their only characteristic is their vulgar insolence.

Mr David Christie Murray, the novelist, like many other successful men, owes a good deal to his training in the practical school of journalism, and still looks back with pleasure to his early experiences as a reporter. He says: « I am certain of this: that for a man who wants to study men and manners, there is no better school than that of journalism. I began journalism at twenty-five, first going to the Police Court for the Birmingham Morning News. I was soon, however, made special correspondent. I went to a flower-show, of which I was to do a paragraph. I did an article. I could not help it. I first made my mark, though, at a private execution at Worcester—the first private execution in the Midlands. My article created a considerable sensation. Mr Sala wrote to the editor about it, and spoke very warmly of the writer, whom he did not know. At that same execution I met Archibald Forbes for the first time. He introduced me to Mr Edmund Yates. I was engaged to do some articles for the World, which was just then started. The articles were entitled 'Our Civilization,' and they have been reprinted in book-form under the title of 'A Novelist's Note Book.' I spent only a session and a half in the gallery, and I was the worst reporter in the place. I never could write shorthand. I remember a peculiar experience. Mr Robert Lowe, now Earl of Sherbrooke, was one of the best speakers in the House. He was also the most difficult man to report. My turn had just come as Mr Lowe rose to speak on the Army Purchase Bill. His speech was a regular mass of literary quotations, all most wittily applied. He quoted from Father Prout, from the last new novel, from the last society verses, from Horace, Juvenal, and Shakspeare. I tried to take the speech. I sweated; in my anxiety my book got greasy. At last I gave up the attempt as useless. I folded my arms and listened. 'We want this, every word,' said my chief, tapping me on the shoulder. 'For mercy's sake, hold your tongue,' I answered; and so I sat and listened. As the speech was over, my relief came. At the same time I saw another reporter, an Irishman—a fine fellow he was, one of the old type which seems to be almost extinct in the gallery. 'By Jove!' said he, 'Parliamentary eloquence is not dead yet.' He was an extraordinarily fine classical scholar. He knew all the Greek and Latin quotations; I knew all the English ones. So we wrote our report—I doing mine from memory. The result was that the next morning I got a special letter thanking me for my report. I stood out as a shining light that morning, and got known for a time as the man who reported difficult speeches by looking upon the painted ceiling. »