Inside the carriage, silence prevailed. The sound of wheels rolling over cobblestones was clearly audible. Outside, London’s morning fog was gradually dissipating under the rising sun, and the streets began to grow lively, with newspaper boys calling out, blacksmiths hamring, and vendors shouting as they pushed carts, creating a cityscape both familiar and noisy.
Arthur looked out the window and suddenly let out a light laugh, turning his head back to look at Agares.
"You’re right; the mory of London is short-lived." His tone was lighthearted, seemingly unaffected by the Devil’s sneers: "But this precisely ans that its forgetfulness isn’t irreversible. Thank you, Agares. I was uncertain before, but seeing you like this, so upset, I’m afraid I might finally be in for so good luck."
The carriage slowly moved along the damp cobblestone road, gradually revealing the long-lost scenes of Fleet Street outside the window.
This street remains the heart of London’s newspaper publishing, with a constant flow of printers, journalists, booksellers, and peddlers hawking tabloids.
In the bookstore windows along the street, collections of newly published poems and political pamphlets were on display, and on the tall buildings of the newspaper offices, flags bearing the logos of The Tis, Morning Paper, and London News Magazine fluttered gently in the morning wind.
The carriage ca to a slow stop, finally halting in front of a familiar yet sowhat different three-story brick building — the editorial office of The British.
This building looked more imposing than when Arthur left two years ago. The British, originally a small weekly only renting two offices, had now expanded to occupy the entire building, with a new bronze plaque above the main entrance engraved with ’The British – Established 1830,’ the letters gleaming in the morning light.
The two large windows upstairs reflected the dawn, and the window fras had just been repainted, with the exterior walls looking cleaner than before, clearly showing significant investnt in its refurbishnt.
Back when The British was first established, its circulation was limited. Apart from Great Dumas, its resident writers were all young and obscure, struggling to gain a foothold in the literary world and unable to compete with Blackwood’s.
However, the current The British is no longer the struggling tabloid caught in the crossfire of public opinion two years ago.
Charles Dickens, the young journalist and novelist, after making a smash hit with The Pickwick Papers, was gaining more and more readers with his serialized novel Oliver Twist and the short notes Boz’s Notes. His humorous and sharp writing style, and his observations of the lower classes, had rapidly expanded The British’s middle-class readership.
Alfred Tennyson, the Cambridge University poetry award winner, once held in high esteem but whose works in succeeding years fell short of expectations. However, after dropping out of Cambridge and re-enrolling in the classical literature program at the University of London, he seed to have unlocked new channels of creativity.
As a rising star in the British poetry scene in recent years, Tennyson, after a dear friend was shot, established his position in the British literary world with In moriam, even the editors of Blackwood’s had to admit he was "a future Poet Laureate."
But even talents like Dickens and Tennyson couldn’t steal the lilight from Mr. Benjamin Disraeli.
Disraeli’s new work, Contarini Framling, created a tsunami of discussion upon its release, for the simple reason that the book was almost a semi-autobiographical novel. The protagonist, Flayman, possessed both the sensitivity and imagination of a poet and was driven by political ambition.
Anyone familiar with Disraeli could imdiately recognize that the man wasn’t writing a novel about soone else; he was writing about himself.
Disraeli’s vanity, penning an autobiography in his twenties, naturally invited widespread attacks from enemies. Blackwood’s mocked him, and political adversaries in Parliant ridiculed the book in their attacks on Disraeli.
Of course, not everyone attacked the book. Opinions on it were highly polarized; Disraeli’s sympathizers praised its elegant language and full emotion, particularly its detailed depiction of travel and culture. Critics, however, decried its loose structure, excessive self-centeredness, heavy personal tone, and lack of clear plot progression.
But regardless of what everyone says, the enormous increase in The British’s circulation does not lie.
Now, The British boasts over 8,000 long-term subscribers, not only from London’s middle class but also reaching out to Manchester, Edinburgh, and even with a small number of subscriptions in New York, making it one of the most influential magazines among Britain’s high society and literary circles.
Furthermore, this magazine is not only establishing a foothold in literature but is also accumulating influence in the field of political discourse.
From the initial popular novels like The Count of Monte Cristo, The Pickwick Papers, and Young Duke, to works involving social reform and political critique like Oliver Twist, The British has evolved beyond a re literary publication, gradually shaping public opinion and influencing the upper echelons of society as a "voice of the elite."
Arthur stood below the editorial office, lightly stroking his cane, with an expression of both satisfaction and slight surprise on his face, he quipped: "It seems my enterprise is more prosperous than I imagined."
Agares, leaning inside the carriage with eyes narrowed, said lazily: "Yeah, while you were away, this little newspaper indeed thrived. I’m afraid your clever friends are no longer in need of you."
Arthur chuckled, lifting his cane, and without hesitation, stepped toward the editorial office’s entrance.
Pushing open the heavy oak door, he was greeted by the scent of ink and paper, and the busy sounds of editors.
The hall’s layout had changed significantly compared to two years ago.
The once narrow office area had been reorganized, with a row of bookshelves against the wall, filled with the latest published books and literary journals.
In the center was a large conference table, piled with manuscripts, newspapers, and oil lamps.
Several illustrations hung on the walls, one being an illustration from Dickens’s latest serialized novel, Boz’s Notes, and another was a manuscript of Tennyson’s poems.
A few editors were busily engaged in heated debate over a manuscript at the table, when a young man with a pipe suddenly looked up and caught sight of Arthur.
He politely asked, "Who are you looking for?"
Arthur, looking at the unfamiliar face, smiled and called out Dickens’s nickna: "Is Dick here?"
"Dick?" The young editor scratched his head: "Are you his friend?"
His voice drew the attention of those inside the room, and soon, a familiar figure erged from the office on the second floor.
Charles Dickens, only 22 years old yet famous across Britain, well-dressed, elegant, with a look of faint surprise and amusent in his eyes.
"Arthur? When did you return to London?"
Arthur pulled out a pipe, leisurely sitting in the plush chair that had been his for years: "Not too long, I an, I just arrived half an hour ago."
User Comments
0 comments from readers