The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 238 - 238 161 The Manuscript Rejection Controversy

238: Chapter 161: The Manuscript Rejection Controversy 238: Chapter 161: The Manuscript Rejection Controversy Passing through Trafalgar Square and heading eastward along Strand Street in Westminster, past St Mary’s Church and St Clement’s Church, following this road almost parallel to the direction of the Thames River, one could look up to the south and see the luxurious mansions lining the banks of the river.

Since William, Duke of Normandy, known as the ‘Conqueror’, defeated King Harold at the Battle of Hastings and took over London, Strand Street had gradually become the gathering place of influential figures from the political and religious circles of London.

In the House of Lords, where 26 clergy members held seats, over half of the archbishops owned properties here, and many former and current Cabinet Ministers had also acquired properties in this area.

The locality boasted so many dignitaries that during the local parish council meetings to elect respected church elders, it was not unusual to see former Prime Ministers or a group of former Cabinet Ministers listed among the candidates.

Because of Strand Street’s crucial political status in the realms of London politics and religion, other clusters naturally emerged in its vicinity.

One such example is the London Temple Church, the headquarters of the Knights Templar in England, established in the 12th century; it’s centrally located between the London Financial City, Westminster Palace, and Whitehall but lies close to Strand Street.

However, after King Henry VIII broke off with the Holy See over his wish to divorce, this piece of Catholic Knights Templar property was naturally confiscated by royal command.

He then rented out the Temple Church to London lawyers who were keen on the unique advantage of the location.

After some twists and turns, clergy and lawyers wrangled over the ownership of the Temple Church for centuries.

However, they finally reached an agreement under the arbitration of James I.

The independent property rights of the church were given to the lawyers, but they were obliged to forever bear the costs of its maintenance and ensure that its function of providing various religious services would not be interfered with.

Having gained the property rights, lawyers not only opened their practices there but also set up legal education within the Temple Church.

Two of the four main London Inns of Court, the Inner Temple and Middle Temple, originated here.

Lawyers took the lead in occupying the Temple Church, and with the advancement in printing technology, a multitude of newspapers sprang up on the streets of London.

Journalists from news agencies, highly sensitive to the timeliness of the news, naturally followed suit and moved next to Strand Street amidst the hub of the political elite, striving to obtain first-hand reliable information.

If they couldn’t get that, then even some gossip news would do.

They fully leveraged the Western journalists’ tradition of being quick on their feet.

As early as the 17th century, they started to gather on Fleet Street, located at the eastern end of Strand Street.

By the 19th century, Fleet Street had become the heart of the entire British journalism and magazine industry.

Almost every well-known British newspaper had its headquarters there; even those not based in London had permanent offices on Fleet Street.

Not to be outdone, Blackwood’s Magazine, a pioneer of British literary magazines originating from Edinburgh, also established its London office here, complete with professional literary editors, cashiers, accountants, and other staff.

At this moment, inside the office, Arthur and Eld sat in chairs in the editor-in-chief’s office, looking at the portly middle-aged man sitting in front of the desk wearing gold-rimmed glasses.

The middle-aged man possessed all the necessary qualities of a British gentleman, a neat white shirt and black trousers, a pocket watch whose gold chain peeked halfway out of his pocket, and that bald head which, though smooth and shiny, stubbornly sported three tenacious hairs.

Eld squinted his eyes and gestured to Arthur to take a look at those three hairs, which would flutter haphazardly in the breeze like the flags of the Royal Navy, but Arthur ignored his hint.

It wasn’t that he didn’t value their friendship, but he worried that if he looked any longer, he would be so bewitched by those three hairs that he’d forget the purpose of their visit that day.

The middle-aged man leaned back in his office chair, flipping through Great Dumas’s manuscript with a trace of regret as he ultimately shook his head.

Seeing his expression, Arthur felt a sense of foreboding and couldn’t help but ask, “Mr.

Wallace, do you think this manuscript looks alright?”

Wallace put down the manuscript, leaned forward with his hands on the desk, and shook his head, “Before answering that question, I would like to ask you first, are you a loyal reader of ‘Blackwood’s’?

Or have you done a preliminary study of our magazine?”

If Wallace had asked him this question a short while ago, Arthur really wouldn’t have been able to answer.

He indeed rarely bought ‘Blackwood’s’.

As a Scotland Yard policeman with a modest income and burdened by a mortgage, he had to be very particular about his book purchases.

When serving as a patrol officer, Arthur spent most of his salary on politically and entertainment-oriented publications that were both work-related, like ‘Calamity’, ‘Police Chronicle’, and ‘Poor Man’s Political Monthly’.

As for a magazine like ‘Blackwood’s’ that emphasized literary nature and literary criticism, he truly didn’t have the time or energy to pay attention.

After all, few people would be willing to spend their precious rest time exploring the connection between Romanticism and Realism in literature after working fourteen or fifteen hours a day—’Blackwood’s’ primary readership essentially reflected this, as the magazine was mostly purchased by gentlemen and ladies of the middle class and above.

Fortunately, a short while ago, in order to investigate Mr.

Disraeli’s life, Arthur had specifically picked up several issues of ‘Blackwood’s’ from a secondhand bookstore, which had been fiercely critical of him.

So now, when Wallace inquired, he was not completely clueless.

After a brief exchange of questions, Wallace crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, “It seems you do indeed know what kind of magazine we are.

Given that, you should be aware that just a few issues ago, I personally penned a harsh critique in the magazine against novels like ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’.”

Upon saying this, Wallace efficiently pulled out a copy from the stack of magazines on the desk, flipped to the marked page, and began quoting from the original text.

“Thousands of readers open their wallets, spending money on paid reading, eagerly awaiting the next influx of shoddily produced, whimpering, repugnant fabrications that spew out like trash from these ‘literary factories’.

These fashionable novels, which claim to encompass the essence of refined life and are written by talented masters, have turned Britain’s literary circle into a cesspit of smoke and haze.”

Having said this, Wallace couldn’t help but add his own criticism, “Sir, the primary content we publish here consists of poetry, essays, incisive literary criticism, and reflections and satire on social phenomena.

Perhaps “The Count of Monte Cristo” seems interesting to you, but in my eyes, it’s nothing more than rushed garbage.

The book contains no substantial thought; it begins with a French sailor’s love story.

Are you planning to describe some familial love and hate next?

Please!

That’s Shakespearean era writing; times have changed.

I’m not asking for any new thoughts, but at the very least, we should have some new plots.

Secondly, the language used is not at all ornate—it could even be called terrible.

The sentence structures are so simplistic that I suspect they might have been penned by a grammar schoolchild.

But to cover this up, the author has used a plethora of short sentences—others might be fooled, but not me.

Moreover, this fellow doesn’t pay attention to detail; often, he gives unnecessary elaborate descriptions where there’s no need.

A simple dinner, for example.

Is it necessary to describe the lobster shells so vividly?

If he adores lobster shells that much, he should just become a chef.

I strongly suspect the author does this just to print a few extra pages and sell the book at a higher price.

Of course, if after hearing all this, you still insist on submitting your work, I won’t try to persuade you any further.

However, I suggest you try a different magazine.

Considering you are a friend of Lady Norton, let me recommend a suitable one for you.

Try submitting to “Magazine Monthly”; their requirements are a bit more lenient.”

Had it not been for Arthur cramming on literary magazines recently, he might have actually believed Wallace was trying to help him.

But as per his understanding, “Magazine Monthly” was a main competitor of “Blackwood’s,” and the two often mocked each other in their respective publications.

Wallace’s insinuation was practically the same as telling him to take his manuscript and scram.

Just as he was about to argue, Eld cut in first, “You’re right, Mr.

Wallace.

I think ‘Blackwood’s’ should indeed maintain its high submission standards, and on this point, I support you.

That ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ I didn’t see anything good in it either.

And I’ve even specifically written a literary critique about it—what do you think?”

With that, Eld passed the manuscript over with a grin.

Wallace, who didn’t intend to review it, only glanced at the pages out of courtesy for Eld’s agreement.

Sometime later, his brows furrowed, and he slapped the manuscript onto the table, “Now I feel like ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’ might not be that bad after all.”

“What did you say?” Eld jumped up from his chair, grabbing the other’s collar and was about to throw a punch, “Do you believe I won’t throw you straight out of the window into the Thames right next door?”

Shaken by Eld’s Royal Navy temper, Wallace warned, “I…

I suggest you better calm down.

We are in a literary magazine office, not some ruffians’ brawl site.

If you’re set on doing this, I will call the police!”

“Police?

Even if you summon the Chief Inspector today, it won’t work!”

Eld seemed genuinely angry and was about to strike the heavyset man, but before he could, Arthur stopped him.

Arthur grabbed his collar and pulled him back into his seat, “Forget it, if he doesn’t want to earn money, then we shouldn’t force him.”

With that said, he turned to Wallace, “So, sir, we’ll be seeing ourselves out.”

Dragging an irritated Eld, Arthur headed for the door.

Just when they opened the door, both Arthur and Eld were taken aback to find a short man standing there.

They raised their eyebrows in surprise, “Charles, what are you doing here?”

In Dickens’s hands was a copy of “The Pickwick Papers”.

He looked astonished at the two of them, “Arthur, Eld, are you guys also here to submit work?”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, as he picked up the manuscript from Dickens’s hands and glanced at it, he teased, “Charles, don’t bother.

I just inquired; they don’t accept modern novels here.”

“Is that so…

well, there’s nothing I can do about it then, I’ll just have to submit it to another magazine.”

On hearing this, Dickens couldn’t hide his disappointment but quickly accepted the reality.

After all, he had experienced much bigger setbacks over the years.

He turned and called out to a young man sitting in the hall, “Mr.

Tennyson, it’s your turn; I was rejected.”

“Tennyson?”

Upon hearing the name, Eld peeked outside and just as his gaze met that face, he couldn’t help but spit in disdain, “Today is such damn bad luck!

Why is it that kid from Cambridge!”

But Arthur, upon seeing Tennyson, didn’t react as vehemently as Eld.

He looked at “The Count of Monte Cristo” in his hand, then at Dickens’s “The Pickwick Papers,” and finally his wandering gaze settled on the reservedly smiling Tennyson.

Suddenly, Arthur clapped his hands and excitedly exclaimed, “I’ve got it.”