shadow of britain

Chapter 751 Carlton Hero

In the evening, the gas lamps on the streets began to light up one by one. The sky in London was still gloomy, and gray clouds pressed low over the roofs.

Arthur, holding a black umbrella, walked slowly towards the familiar brick building on Fleet Street, the editorial office of The Brit.

There were still a few half-torn old posters on the walls of the brick building, and below the sign that read "The Brit" there was a new plaque that had been put up just last week - the headquarters of Empire Publishing Company.

The smoothness of Empire Publishing's listing far exceeded Arthur's basic expectations, just like his judgment of the election situation in London.

However, there are some human factors behind the London election.

But what about news publishing? Arthur thought that this might have something to do with the nature of London.

Londoners have always lived on news and rumours.

As the lines in Shakespeare's play "King Lear" say: Poor rogue, telling court news, who wins and who loses, who is in power and who falls from grace.

The city was a center of scandal, slander, and gossip, and the citizens loved to spread rumors and speak ill of others behind their backs.

Mr. Samuel Pechey, editor of the "Minutes of Parliament" in the 18th century, once summarized the characteristics of the city of London: apart from prostitution, lying, drinking and gambling, nothing is constant.

In London, the most authentic and authoritative newspaper is probably the London Gazette.

The London Gazette never contained any news but solid facts, and usually contained only a royal statement, two or three speeches from the ruling party, two or three notices of official appointments or officer promotions, a few accounts of military engagements, and at most a petition about a highwayman who was about to be convicted, or an advertisement offering a reward for a lost dog.

But we can say with certainty that the ones that attracted the most attention from London citizens were definitely the highwayman and the lost dog.

In this era without the Internet, the biggest entertainment for Londoners was publications such as newspapers.

For those gentlemen who are particular about literature, the day begins with getting up before dawn to read The Times, eager to read The Dutch Post, and then going out to ask around for the content of the French Constitution.

For the lower class who are busy on weekdays, going to nearby cafes and taverns to listen to the news before going to work every day is more important than attending church.

The Sunday newspapers compiled specifically for the working class are most popular among them. Such newspapers usually summarize various news, anecdotes and comments published in all the daily newspapers during the week.

Like Everett of Fleet Street selling his wife to Griffin of Long Lane for a three shilling punch bowl.

A wild boar survived for five months by eating garbage from the gutters of Fleet Street.

A certain man was found dead in the same gutter three times in a row. He was drunk and had fallen into the mud.

According to the annual tradition, bread and cheese are thrown from the spire of Paddington Church to the people.

Richard Haines' wife gave birth to a monster with eyes and nose like a lion.

A man stood up in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and shot at the charity children's choir.

At a chapel in Longacre, a man named James Boyce walked before the congregation, claiming to be Jesus and openly refuting the Trinity.

Of course, those who like these anecdotes can only be regarded as "white readers" in the London press. Their childish tastes and low tastes are often looked down upon by "old white readers".

In the eyes of "old white readers": following the latest rape and divorce cases and anxiously waiting for the court's decision next week is the highest level.

Every Sunday when the newspapers are delivered, the cafes and pubs immediately become as silent as a grave. No one speaks, no one questions. This may be the most disciplined moment for the British.

Everyone is absorbed in studying his favorite piece of news, as if his entire life depends on how fast he can read the news of the day.

Thanks to the joint efforts of "young white readers" and "old white readers", since the sales of British newspapers exceeded 1801 million copies in 1600, now, thirty years later, this number has increased to 3000 million copies, and is still increasing rapidly at a rate of % per year.

This city loves to read the news, but at the same time, it is inevitably infected with amnesia.

The buzzwords and events that were still popular among the people of London last winter were completely forgotten by this summer.

This year it is still popular to raise tulips, but next year the newspapers will be shouting that "a family is incomplete if it does not have a cat."

News about ministers, novelists, playwrights, clowns, patriots, and prostitutes is usually never reprinted.

Arthur Hastings ordered the shooting at the bottom of the Tower of London. Nowadays, how many people still remember this incident, except for those who actually experienced the night at the Tower of London?
Bernie Harrison's foreign language learning incident? Well, that incident was mentioned in the newspapers a few days ago.

But in the final analysis, this was because Mr. Bernie Harrison died, and his late wife remarried a wealthy businessman, taking with her the cosmetics company owned by him.

But, but! Sir Arthur Hastings, the Caucasian freedom fighter, the leading figure in British electromagnetics, the Imperial Publishing Company... Oh, no, no, no, I didn't say anything about the Imperial Publishing Company.

All in all, you just need to remember that he is alive and well now, and his business is booming!

Arthur pushed open the wooden door that always made a slight sound, and the copper bell on the door rang immediately.

The house still had the familiar wooden floor and smell of ink, and a few ivy plants that were always turned yellow by smoke were hanging down from the flower basket on the ceiling, as if they were also reading a newspaper with their heads down.

The Polish girl at the front desk heard the door open, and continued to flip through the book "London Ladies" in her hand without even looking up. She only mechanically said, "Good night, sir, close the door quickly, don't let the wind in."

Arthur smiled, closed his umbrella, shook off the raindrops on the umbrella, and walked slowly along the corridor without making a sound.

Dim lights were coming out of the offices around me. Some were writing articles, some were cutting newspapers, and some were sorting out campaign brochures that no longer needed to be sent to Whitechapel and West India Dock.

Arthur's pace was not hurried, as if he deliberately slowed down the pace to enjoy the feeling of being in control for a while longer.

Until he reached the end, the wooden door leading to the conference room.

A beam of flickering firelight was coming through the crack in the door, along with vague laughter and the sound of wine glasses clinking.

Arthur was reaching out to push the door, but it was suddenly pushed open from the inside with a bang.

In an instant, lights, laughter, smoke, champagne bubbles and the aroma of cigars all came at once. "Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce to you Sir Arthur Hastings, a first-class consultant from Empire Publishing!!!"

The room suddenly erupted in applause and whistles, like the belated climax after a drama ended.

Suddenly, Arthur was the only one standing still in the light.

Several pairs of eyes in the room looked at him, some raised their glasses, some nodded at him, and some shouted at the top of their lungs as if they couldn't wait any longer: "Sir! If you don't drink to the bottom today, none of us can leave!"

As soon as these words were spoken, everyone burst into laughter, and even the shy Tennyson, who was standing by the fireplace, couldn't help laughing out loud.

He raised the port in his hand slightly to Arthur: "Don't embarrass us too much, Arthur."

Arthur glanced around.

On the sofa, Disraeli had his feet on the coffee table, with a pile of freshly printed copies of the Campaign Special next to him. Dickens was leaning back in an armchair, peeling an orange and grinning at Arthur. Dumas was holding an unopened bottle of cognac, obviously reserved for the "protagonist".

"We were just talking about..." Disraeli burped and spoke lazily, "Sir Robert Peel actually toasted me in person at Carlton House and said that half of the credit for the Tory Party, no, our Conservative Party winning seven seats in London should be attributed to me, and that everyone gave me a new nickname, called 'Miracle' Disraeli. Well, I say, I'm not being modest..."

"That's enough!" Heine was unhappy when he saw Disraeli's "villain in power": "You've said it for the third time in half an hour, and you still say you're not being immodest?"

Disraeli pretended to be innocent. He was in a good mood today, so he did not quarrel with Heine. He just raised his glass and said, "I am just repeating the facts, Heinrich. Shouldn't we let history learn to listen to the truth?"

"If history only listens to you, then Victoria's accession to the throne in the future may be attributed to your dream talk." Heine wiped his hands on the orange peel and said sarcastically: "I just asked Alexander whether he should write you directly into the next novel, give you a cape and mask, and call you 'Carlton Knight', specializing in stealing Whig constituencies."

Dumas immediately followed up: "He was a member of parliament during the day, and at night he wore a cloak and mask and used the alias 'Benjamin Truth' to sneak into pro-Whig newspapers and tamper with news headlines."

"You guys..." Disraeli didn't get angry with them. He just shook his head helplessly: "You are just jealous."

Heine snorted twice. "It's just seven seats in London. I thought you won the election! The Tories won seven of the eighteen seats in London, but you still lost eleven seats. What's there to be happy about?"

Disraeli laughed disdainfully: "What do you know, a Prussian? In the last election, we didn't win a single seat in London. Do you know when the Tories last won seven seats in London? That must have been in the last century! The Tories' base is in the rural constituencies. If the Whigs had not dominated the town constituencies for a long time, why do you think they would be so kind to ask for parliamentary reform and try hard to squeeze seats into the urban constituencies?"

At this point, Disraeli walked over to Arthur, put his arm around his old friend and said, "Although we only won seven seats in London, if we consider that the two seats in Westminster are controlled by Lord Brougham and Earl Daramore of the University of London, we actually only lost two seats to the Whigs in London. If we round it up, it means that we are roughly evenly matched with the Whigs in London."

Heine sneered and said, "Oh... Mr. Disraeli, I never thought that joining the Tory Party could help people become mathematicians."

As soon as these words were spoken, everyone in the room burst into laughter.

Arthur smiled and walked to the sofa and took the bottle of cognac from Dumas.

He didn't rush to open it, but just looked at the bottle carefully, then sat down by himself.

While the others were chatting, Disraeli came up to Arthur again. The half-drunk Jewish boy lowered his voice and whispered in Arthur's ear, "Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington are planning to hold a dinner at Carlton House tomorrow to celebrate the newly elected London councillors and to cheer on the other constituency candidates whose votes have not yet been counted. Are you going?"

"Me?" Arthur uncorked the wine and asked as he poured the wine, "What am I going to do?"

"Are you really going to brush this matter aside as if nothing had happened?" Disraeli replied with his eyes wide open. "When Robert Carley's memorial ceremony was held, everyone knew that you played a role behind it. Are you planning to reconcile with Viscount Melbourne and Palmerston? Listen to me, Arthur, if you want to go all the way, you might as well join the Tory Party. Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington saw what happened. They asked me about you yesterday, and from what they implied, if you are willing, the party can even send you to a safe constituency in the next general election."

"A safe constituency?"

A few years ago, Arthur might have been tempted by this proposal, but now, he really looked down on it. He replied half-truthfully: "Lord Brougham has talked to me about similar topics before, and I don't think the Tory constituency is more noble than the Westminster constituency."

"Westminster?" Disraeli was stunned for a moment, then quickly accepted Arthur's point of view: "That's... true. If Lord Brougham and his people are willing, it's not impossible to give you one of the two seats in Westminster. Or, they can send you back to your hometown York to run for election... I remember that Lord Brougham's constituency seems to be in York, right? He can hand it over to you, and then go fight for a fierce battle area yourself..."

But turning back, Disraeli thought of the task assigned to him by the newly formed Conservative Party group: "That, but that's still different, Arthur. Although the Westminster constituency is more prestigious than the rural constituency, you have to look at who the current prime minister is. The one who is now in office under the order of His Majesty the King is Sir Robert Peel. Do you know what it means to be valued by the prime minister in the party? It means a ministerial position in the government."

Arthur held his glass and crossed his legs: "Deputy Minister of State?"

"Of course." Disraeli glared. "What else? Are you expecting a cabinet minister?"

"Benjamin." Arthur knew Disraeli must have a mission, but considering their friendship, he had to at least give him a reasonable reason to get back to the task: "The Tory Party, or the Conservative Party, are so confident that they can win this election?"

"Well..."

Disraeli could brag to Heine, but he couldn't issue a guarantee in front of Arthur because the other party was an expert.

You know, due to the superposition of various events, the actual results of this London election have far exceeded the party's expectations, but even so, they still lost to the Whigs in seats, and in those urban constituencies newly established in the 1832 parliamentary reform, the Tories had almost no advantage at all.

This is where the parliamentary reform dealt the Tories the greatest blow. In the Whig Party's parliamentary reform plan, the corrupt constituencies that were abolished were almost all Tory territories, while the newly established seats were all under the control of the Whig Party.

As one gains, the other loses, and the total number of seats is nearly two hundred.

Even though the Whig Party's policies in the past two years were indeed unpopular, the gap of 200 seats cannot be made up in one general election.

According to current estimates within the party, even with the most optimistic estimates, they will still lose about 80 seats to the Whigs in the House of Commons. This means that Robert Peel's new government will inevitably be a cripple. Without the support of the Whigs, they will not even be able to successfully propose bills in the House of Commons.

As for the position of Deputy Secretary of State promised to Arthur, in the final analysis, this is actually a position similar to that of the Permanent Under-Secretary of State in various Whitehall departments, except that one is responsible for political affairs and the other is responsible for administrative affairs.

Judging from Arthur's temper, he obviously prefers the latter to the former.

What's worse is that the promise given to Arthur cannot even be fulfilled immediately because Arthur did not run in this election and there is no possibility of him being elected as a member of parliament.

Therefore, it would be impossible for such a newcomer who had just joined the Tory Party to directly give up the position of Under-Secretary of State even if he was appreciated by Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington.

If the two of them insist on having their own way, there will inevitably be some sarcastic remarks within the party.

Such a situation could cause a split within the party, which Sir Peel, who emphasized party unity, could never accept.

In other words, if Arthur wanted to become a deputy minister of state, he would have to wait until the next general election. But after the next general election, would Robert Peel or Wellington still be the prime minister? This was a blank check.

(End of this chapter)