CHAPTER CXXIX.

THE ADVERTISING AGENT.

On the day after the one the incidents of which have just been related,

Mr. Bubbleton Styles called, precisely as the clock struck eleven in

the forenoon, upon an advertising agent dwelling in the immediate

vicinity of Cornhill.

The agent, knowing that Mr. Styles was the registered promoter of a

scheme which had obtained the patronage of the high and mighty Mr.

Podgson, was particularly civil and urbane; and having bowed him into

the private office, and presented him with a chair, he said, “Now, Mr.

Styles, sir--what can I do for you?”

“I intend to give the newspapers a round of advertisements,” answered

the City gentleman, pulling out his prospectuses.

“Softly--softly, my dear sir,” exclaimed the agent: “you must be guided

by me in this. If you went to the generality of agents, they would

say, ‘_Oh! advertise by all means in every paper in existence_:’--but I,

Mr. Styles, am a little more conscientious. There are some journals,

in fact, which are perfectly useless as advertising media: it would be

money completely thrown away.”

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” said Mr. Styles. “Of

course we shall advertise in the _Times_.”

“As a matter of course!” cried the agent. “’Tis the great daily

Leviathan which every body sees, no matter what his politics may be.

The _Morning Chronicle_, too, is a good medium: the _Herald_, _Post_,

and _Advertiser_ must likewise be included;--and it would be folly to

omit the _Sun_, _Globe_, and _Standard_.”

“Well--and what about the _Daily News_ and the _Express_?” asked Mr.

Styles, apparently astonished that no reference should have been made

to those print.

“The _Daily News_!” ejaculated the agent, in perfect wonderment: “the

_Express_!” he cried, in horrified amazement. “Excuse me, my dear

friend--but are you mad? have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I hope not,” responded Mr. Styles, in his usual calm, business-like

manner. “What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so!” repeated the agent: “why, the idea that

you should for an instant entertain the notion of advertising in

those contemptible abortions! They are a perfect disgrace to

newspaper literature, sir,” proceeded the agent, who was speaking

conscientiously, and indeed truly. “Did you ever happen to read the

_Daily News_?”

“I have never seen the paper in my life,” answered Mr. Styles: “I had

only heard of it.”

“And you are not likely to see it,” returned the agent, “unless you go

into the heart of Wapping or explore the back slums of Whitechapel. No

respectable newsman keeps it: not that newsmen are more particular than

other shop-keepers--but they only keep what they can sell, Mr. Styles.

As for the _Express_, it is a regular cheat of an evening paper--made

up entirely of the articles in the _Daily News_, without even having

the bad grammar and the typographical errors corrected. But both prints

are the most contemptible threepenny things I ever saw in my life; and

one would be inclined to fancy that all the real newspaper talent had

been absorbed by the pre-existing journals, leaving only the meanest

literary scrubs in London to _do_ the _News_ and the _Express_.”

“And yet I thought that the _News_ had been started under the auspices

of Mr. Charles Dickens--the immortal _Boz_?” said Mr. Styles,

interrogatively.

“So it was,” replied the advertising agent: “but the name of Charles

Dickens was rather damnatory than useful to a newspaper-speculation.

Every one must admit that _Boz_ is a great novelist--a very great

novelist indeed--the Fielding of his age; but he is totally incapable

of writing for a newspaper. The proprietors of the _News_ made a

tremendous splash with his name; but they only created a quagmire for

themselves to flounder in. When their paper was first coming out, every

body thought it was to do wonders. The _Times_ was to lose half its

subscribers; and the _Chronicle_ was to be ruined altogether. But,

alas! never did so labouring a mountain produce such a contemptible

mouse; and people began to fancy that the wags engaged on _Punch_ had

started the _Daily News_ as a grand parody on the newspaper press. The

leaders were rubbish--the criticisms of new works, mere nonsense--the

dramatic reviews, utter balderdash. It however seems that in the lowest

depths there is a deeper still even with the bathos of journalists;

for when the _News_ tumbled down (which it soon did) to a two-penny

halfpenny print, the rubbish, the nonsense, and the balderdash became

more astounding still. There is a young man named Bilk who does the

‘_moral department_’ of the paper; and he is the most grovelling

ass that ever was created. He undertakes to review a whole batch

of cheap publications in a lump; but what he calls _reviewing_ is

nothing else than _abusing_ the works with an insolence so cool, and

a rashness so indiscriminate that he must be as consummate a coxcomb

as he is an unprincipled ruffian. The _News_ affects a moral tone, and

entrusts its conscience to this half-buffoon--half-barbarian, in the

hope that the lucubrations of the ungrammatical scribe may acquire

for it the reputation of a serious, sober, and sedate journal. The

despicable being to whom I allude is the son of the proprietor of the

_Assinœum_--a paper which Bulwer mauled and exposed so terribly in one

of his admirable novels many years ago. The articles in the _Assinœum_

may be termed TWADDLE UPON STILTS----”

“You are really very inveterate in your denunciations of these prints,”

observed Mr. Styles, who having an hour to spare, did not experience

any impatience in listening to the agent’s remarks.

“Not at all inveterate--only justly indignant,” was the answer. “I am

indignant, because I admire the newspaper press of Great Britain--I

am proud of it--I glory in belonging to the country which possesses

it; and therefore when I see journalism prostituted to the lowest

and meanest purposes--when I behold such despicable abortions as the

_Daily News_ and the _Express_ daring to show themselves in that

sphere where respectability and talent alone existed until those

threepenny things made their appearance,--I am angry--I am disgusted!

Only see how the _News_ has been tinkered and hacked about with the

idea of making it a property. First it was five-pence--then it was

two-pence halfpenny--next it was three-pence;--and yet with all this

derogatory experimentalising, the owners have failed to make it a

property. What a miserable thing does it look, with its beggarly

three columns of advertisements! The _Times_ has as many in a day as

the _News_ has had altogether since its sickly existence began. The

very Parliamentary Reporters engaged upon the _News_ are ashamed of

their connexion with such a scurvy affair; and the doorkeeper of the

Gallery of the House of Commons looks on them with kind commiseration,

knowing how degrading it must be to their feelings to take their places

in the seats allotted to the representatives of that three-penny

hodgepodge. You never see the _News_ quoted from nor alluded to by

its contemporaries. It is not recognised as a member of the newspaper

press. It has tried all imaginable kinds of manœuvres to force itself

into notoriety,--sometimes currying favour with the superior journals,

and at others abusing them; but all to no purpose. Its contemporaries

will _not_ notice it: they will not be bullied nor coaxed into such

condescension. Why--would you believe that the very Editor is heartily

ashamed of his post: but he knows that if he resigned it, he should be

compelled to relapse into the lowest walks of penny-a-lining, whence he

was dragged forth to conduct the _thing_.”

“How is it possible that such a contemptible journal continues in

existence?” asked Mr. Styles.

“There! now you puzzle me indeed!” exclaimed the advertising agent.

“The question you have put to me involves one of the greatest mysteries

of London; and I am quite incapable of affording you the solution. Time

will however show: for, in this case, time _must_ clear up all doubt

and uncertainty regarding the matter. For the present, however, take my

advice and refrain from advertising in a paper which is contemptible in

circulation and influence--scurrilous[8] or hypocritical, according to

circumstances, in its literary articles--and wishy-washy in the extreme

in its leaders.”

“Well, I am excessively obliged to you for this most useful warning,”

observed Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “You have nothing to say against the

_Weekly Dispatch_--the _Sunday Times_--_Bell’s Life in London_----”

“All good papers!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “But here is a

list of those metropolitan and provincial journals in which I should

recommend you to advertise.”

“I place myself entirely in your hands,” answered the promoter of the

grandest railway scheme ever devised: and, thrusting his hands into

his breeches pockets, he rattled a little silver and a great many

halfpence, saying, “Shall I give you a hundred or so in advance? or

will you send in the account----”

“Pray do not think of offering any sum in advance, Mr. Styles--my

dear Mr. Styles!” cried the agent. “It is but a trifle: three

hundred guineas will cover the outlay for this first batch of

advertisements--and I will send in my little account to the secretary

when the Board meets.”

“Very good,” rejoined the promoter;--and, having come to this excellent

understanding, the two gentlemen parted--Mr. Styles betaking himself to

Garraway’s Coffee-house, where he ate his lunch standing at the bar,

and afterwards returning to his office at Crosby Hall Chambers.