FROM REPORTER TO EDITOR.
First Visit to London--The Capital in 1862--Acquaintance with
Sothern--Bursting of the Bradfield Reservoir--Attendance at Public
Executions and at Floggings--Assuming the Editorship of the _Preston
Guardian_--Political and Literary Influences--Great Speeches by
Gladstone and Bright--Bright's Contempt for Palmerston--Robertson
Gladstone Defends his Brother--Death of Abraham Lincoln--Meeting with his
Granddaughter.
My first visit to London was on the occasion of the opening of the
International Exhibition of 1862. The abominable system of Parliamentary
trains, which made it necessary that the third-class passenger should
rise in the middle of the night if he had to make a journey of any
length, was then in force. I had, therefore, to start at five o'clock in
the morning in order that I might reach London in the evening. I can
still recall some of the emotions of that journey. London was to me the
city of all cities--the one great goal of the journalist's ambition. I
took short views of life even then, but my secret hope, ever present to
my mind, was that I might some day attain a post in connection with the
London Press. As the crawling train came into the southern
counties--farther south than I had ever been in my life before--I
remember counting the milestones on the road, and suffering all the
emotions of the youth in "Locksley Hall" as he draws nearer to the
world's central point.
My first impression, when I found myself in the cab that was to carry me
to the Brompton Road, where lodgings had been engaged for me, was one of
bewilderment at the length of the streets. I had studied a plan of
London, and thought from it that I could, in case of need, find my way
easily on foot from King's Cross to Brompton. Now I discovered, to my
dismay, that streets which had seemed no longer than those with which I
was familiar at Newcastle stretched to a length that was apparently
interminable; whilst instead of one unbroken thoroughfare I was rattled
in my cab through squares and streets innumerable, the names of none of
which had I been able to read upon my plan. My next impression was one of
delight at the fidelity with which little bits of street scenery had been
portrayed by John Leech in _Punch_. In Newcastle we knew nothing of
the kitchen area and the portico. I was filled with joy when, in passing
through the Bloomsbury squares, I recognised, as I thought, the very
houses, porticoes, and areas that Leech had made the background for his
magnificent flunkeys and neat parlour-maids.
The streets of London were a good deal dingier and dirtier in 1862 than
they are to-day, and they were certainly vastly noisier. The wooden
pavement was unknown, and the roar of traffic in crowded thoroughfares
was positively deafening. The window-boxes filled with the flowers that
are now so common and so pretty a feature of the London summer were rare,
as also were the coloured awnings and outside blinds now almost universal
in the better-class of thoroughfares. Hyde Park was untidy and neglected,
flower-beds being practically unknown. The fine open space at Hyde Park
Corner did not exist, and Piccadilly Circus was a circus really, and one
of very narrow extent. But though far from possessing the magnificence of
which it can now boast, London forty years ago had certain advantages
over the city of to-day. There were no enormous piles of flats shutting
out air and light from the streets, where both are so much needed. Few of
the houses were more than four storeys in height, and the irregular
architecture which then prevailed in Piccadilly--that most delightful of
all the streets of the world--added to its attractiveness. But I must not
be led into a digression upon London, a city so great and wonderful that
a volume might easily be filled with the story of the associations it
holds in my memory.
On the day after my arrival in town I was present at the State Opening of
the Great Exhibition of 1862, the second--and apparently the last--of the
international exhibitions held in London. Its interest was sensibly
diminished by the fact that, in consequence of the death of the Prince
Consort, neither the Queen nor any member of her family was present. The
Duke of Cambridge, then in the prime of his manhood, took the leading
part in the ceremony, and he had as his supporters Prince Frederick of
Prussia, afterwards the Emperor Frederick, and the Prince of Hesse. We
were not so clever in those days at arranging spectacles as we have since
become, and, shortly before the hour fixed for the opening ceremony, a
good deal of confusion still reigned upon the daïs set apart for the
official notabilities. I was amused to see Lord Granville, who was, if I
remember aright, chairman of the Royal Commissioners, broom in hand,
vigorously sweeping the carpet in front of the State chairs only a few
moments before he had to rush off to receive the Duke of Cambridge. My
most vivid recollection of the opening ceremony is the singing of
Tennyson's fine ode, composed for the occasion. I can still recall the
cadence of the first lines as they fell upon my ears.
A visit to the House of Commons, where I remember hearing speeches from
Lord Palmerston and Sir George Cornewall Lewis, and where I gazed with
longing eyes upon the occupants of the reporters' gallery, fills up my
memories of this first sight of London. I might, indeed, have included in
them some reference to Sothern, the actor, who was then at the height of
his glory in the famous part of Lord Dundreary. But it was at Newcastle,
not in London, that I actually made Sothern's acquaintance. No actor ever
made a single character so famous as this part of Dundreary was made by
Sothern. When he came to Newcastle on his first provincial tour I met
him, and spent some pleasant evenings with him after the play. He was a
man of refined speech and good social gifts. His besetting weakness, as I
learned even then, was that addiction to practical jokes which, on more
than one occasion in his subsequent career, involved him in unpleasant
situations. One of his favourite tricks was to select some portly and
self-important gentleman whom he saw passing along Piccadilly or Oxford
Street, and, rushing up to him, to claim him as his dearly loved but
long-lost uncle. The more strenuously the victim denied the relationship,
the more eloquently pathetic and indignant became Sothern. A crowd always
collected quickly, and more than once the police were summoned to relieve
the putative uncle from the presence of his unwelcome nephew.
Sothern told me that he was driven nearly mad during the long run of Lord
Dundreary--or, rather, _Our American Cousin_, as the play was
named--at the Haymarket. He found it almost impossible to repeat his own
jokes before a house in which he invariably recognised many familiar
faces. He was constantly driven to vary his "gag," in order to amuse
these veterans of the theatre, and it was in a large measure to escape
from them that he made his provincial tour. In one of his conversations
on the stage with the fair Georgina, who was endeavouring to entrap him
into marriage, he used sometimes, at the moment when the lady thought
that he was about to propose, to put a question of a very different kind:
"Can you wag your left ear?" I asked him one day what had made him invent
so ridiculous a question as this. "Because I _can_ wag my left ear,"
was his prompt response, and straightway I saw the organ in question
flapping about like a sail in a breeze. The Theatre Royal at Newcastle in
those days was under the management of Mr. E. D. Davis, a well-known
figure in the provincial theatrical world. It was before the days of
touring companies, and Mr. Davis was supported by an excellent body of
artists, including his brother and his son Alfred, as well as his niece
Emily Cross. I went to the theatre in the dignified capacity of dramatic
critic; but neither then, nor at any subsequent period of my life, did I
fall a victim to that passion for the drama to which so many Pressmen
succumb. Indeed, I have a lively recollection of incurring the
well-merited reproof of pretty Miss Cross for having engaged in one of
the stage boxes in a hot political discussion with another Newcastle
journalist, Mr. Joseph Cowen to wit. Yet it was at Newcastle that I had
my first and last association with dramatic authorship. One of the
Davises had written a play which he had called _Wild Flowers_. He
asked me to read the manuscript, and when I had done so I suggested that
it should be entitled _The Marriage Contract_, an emendation which
the author duly accepted.
My term of service on the Newcastle Press came to an end sooner than I
had anticipated. The chief feature of my reporting experiences in 1863
was the meeting of the British Association in my native town. There was
keen rivalry between the _Journal_ and the _Chronicle_--Mr.
Cowen's newspaper--with regard to the reporting of all local matters.
Unfortunately for me, the _Chronicle_ was a wealthy paper, and the
_Journal_ a very poor one. I had, therefore, to wage an unequal war
with my richer rival. A British Association meeting throws a heavy strain
upon the newspapers of the town in which it takes place. Half-a-dozen
sections meet every day, and all must be reported; whilst there are, in
addition, evening meetings and social functions, the story of which must
be told from day to day. Sir William Armstrong, then just coming into
fame as a maker of guns, though long known to Newcastle as a great
mechanical engineer and the inventor of the hydraulic crane, was the
president of the meeting. This added to the pride which the people of
Newcastle felt in the fact that their town had been chosen for the scene
of so distinguished a gathering. In those days local patriotism ran very
high in the old town. We were intensely provincial, and our favourite
belief was that Newcastle stood unrivalled among the cities of the earth.
When any distinguished stranger came amongst us--as, for example, Mr.
Gladstone, on the occasion to which I have already referred--we washed
our face, and put on our best clothes in order to impress the visitor. We
had something of the perfervid nature of the Scot in our characters, and
rose to extraordinary heights of enthusiasm on very indifferent pretexts.
It followed that when we had so distinguished a body as the British
Association to receive as our guests, and when we had furnished in one of
our own citizens the president of the meeting, we almost went out of our
minds in our exultant delight. I do not know if Newcastle is still
capable of these transports of enthusiasm. I rather think that the local
patriotism which distinguished so many of our cities fifty years ago is
now, in these days of incessant intercommunication, merged in the larger
patriotism of the nation. Be this as it may, I must explain that my
dissertation on the manner in which Newcastle received the British
Association in 1863 is merely intended to account for the fact that, as a
result of that meeting, I suffered from a serious illness, brought on by
anxiety and overwork. I found that reporting, when you had to compete
with a formidable rival possessing a staff three times as large as your
own, was laborious, as well as exciting; and having a desire to attempt
literary work upon a higher level, I gave up my position as a reporter,
and adopted instead the vocation of a leader-writer.
My last bit of work as a reporter for the _Newcastle Journal_ was in
describing the accident which happened at Bradfield, near Sheffield, in
the spring of 1864. The dam of the great reservoir from which Sheffield
drew its water supply burst, and a torrent of water, many feet in depth,
and nearly a quarter of a mile in width, suddenly rushed down a narrow
valley, and flooded the lower part of Sheffield. The tragic occurrence
was subsequently described by Charles Reade in his novel, "Put Yourself
in His Place." Reade was not an eye-witness of the scene that was
presented after the flood had spent its force, but I can bear testimony
to the fact that he described it accurately. Certainly it was a wonderful
and terrible sight that was presented when I visited the place a few
hours after the bursting of the dam. The streets of Sheffield were
ploughed up to the depth of many feet; lamp-posts were twisted like wire,
and many houses either stood tottering with one of their sides clean
swept away, or lay a mere heap of ruins. Hundreds of lives were lost. A
great battle could not have dealt death more freely than did this flood.
Most of the victims were drowned in their beds, and it was a terrible
sight to see the long rows of corpses, clad in night-dresses, that were
laid out in the public building that had been hastily turned into a
mortuary. I think, indeed, the horror of that spectacle surpassed even
that of the scene at Hartley New Pit, when the victims of the accident
there were disinterred.
The newspaper reporter has still, in the discharge of his duty, to see
many strange and painful things, but he is now spared some of the most
trying sights to which he was exposed in my reporting days. Among these,
none was so painful and so revolting as a public execution. I attended
several executions during my connection with the Newcastle Press, and I
was a witness in 1868 of the last public execution in England--that of
Barrett, the Fenian, of whom I shall have more to say by-and-by. I am
thankful to know that the necessity of attendance at these dreadful
scenes is no longer imposed upon the journalist, and I feel a profound
pity for those officials who are compelled by an imperative duty to be
present at the private strangling of their fellow-creatures. It is true,
however, that use hardens the heart and deadens the nerves. I remember
how, on the first occasion of witnessing an execution, as I stood
trembling at the foot of the scaffold on which the victim was about to
appear, I noticed an old reporter, for whom I entertained a great
personal respect, pacing up and down beside me, reading the New
Testament. In the passion of horror and pity that filled my young heart,
I concluded that my friend was seeking spiritual comfort in view of the
event in which we were about to take part as spectators and recorders. I
said something to him about the horror of the act we were shortly to
witness. He looked up with a placid smile from his reading, and said
gently--for he was essentially a gentle man--"Yes, very sad, very sad;
but let us be thankful it isn't raining." And then he calmly returned to
his daily reading of the Word. If even gentle hearts can thus grow
callous, what must be the "moral effect" of an execution upon those who
are already brutalised?
Another unpleasant sight which reporters are now spared is the flogging
of garrotters. When the Act authorising this punishment was passed,
provision was made that the representatives of the Press should be
present when it was inflicted. More than once I have had to witness these
floggings in the course of my ordinary duty. I confess that they did not
affect me as they seemed to affect most of my colleagues. An execution,
with the violent thrusting of a human soul into the unknown, moved me
deeply; but the physical punishment of a ruffian who had himself
inflicted atrocious suffering upon some innocent person seemed to be such
well-deserved retribution that even the coward's shrieks for mercy made
no impression upon my nerves; and yet I have seen reporters who could
laugh and joke at an execution faint at the flogging of a garrotter. So
differently are human beings constituted!
At the end of June, 1864, I left my native town, and went to Preston to
undertake editorial duties in connection with the _Preston
Guardian_--the leading Liberal paper in North Lancashire. It was a
custom amongst journalists in those days always to give a farewell
entertainment to a brother of the Press when he quitted a town where he
had been engaged for any length of time. I was entertained at the usual
complimentary dinner, and was made the recipient of a very handsome
testimonial. I felt most unfeignedly that I had not deserved it, yet the
possession of the gold watch and collection of standard books subscribed
for out of the scanty earnings of my colleagues was a real comfort to me
when, with a sad heart, I left the sacred shelter of my home and quitted
the town in which the whole of my life up to that moment had been spent.
I reached Preston one summer evening as homesick as any lad could have
been. I did not know the name of a single person in the town except that
of the proprietor of the _Guardian_, Mr. Toulmin. I did not even
know the name of an hotel at which to stay for the night. A porter at the
railway station told me the name of the chief inn, and thither I repaired
with my belongings.
An amusing experience befell me here, which, as it relates to a state of
things that is now obsolete, I may recount. On the day after my arrival,
having introduced myself at the _Guardian_ office, and taken formal
possession of my new post, I returned to my hotel in time for the daily
dinner which the waitress had informed me was served at one o'clock. The
coffee-room, when I entered it, was filled by commercial travellers, all
hovering with hungry looks around the table that had been laid for
dinner. They seemed relieved when I, as shy a youth as could anywhere be
found, entered the room, and instantly seated themselves at the table. I
looked round for some corner in which I might hide myself from what
seemed to me to be their almost ferocious gaze, and was filled with alarm
when I found that the only seat left vacant was that at the head of the
table. Instinctively I shrank from so conspicuous a place, and as I moved
away the hungry company seemed to glare at me more fiercely than ever. A
waitress approached me, and saying, "You are president of the day, sir,"
motioned me to the vacant seat at the head of the board. I do not think I
was ever more miserable or more frightened in my life than when, under
her imperious direction, I took my seat and met the gaze of a dozen
hungry men: on the sideboard stood the soup tureens, the waiting-maids
beside them, but not a cover was lifted or a motion made, and dead
silence filled the room. I sat in blushing bewilderment, waiting for the
dinner to be served. Suddenly, from the other end of the table, a harsh
voice issued from the lips of a burly, red-faced man. "Mr. President, if
you are a Christian, you'll perhaps be good enough to say grace, and let
us get to our dinner, which we want very badly." I managed to stammer
forth the formula of my childhood, and thought the worst was over. Not a
bit of it. No sooner had the soup been audibly consumed than the hated
voice from the foot of the table again assailed me. "Mr. President, I
really don't know what you mean by neglecting your duties in this way,
but let me tell you that this is not a company of teetotallers." "Ask
them what wine they would like," whispered the waitress behind me, who
saw my plight, and who evidently pitied it, for she added, "Don't let
that nasty man at the other end of the table bully you." But I was
incapable of maintaining the deception in which I had been innocently
involved, and, taking my courage in both hands, I frankly told the
company that I was not a commercial traveller, had never in my life dined
at a commercial table, and, as I knew nothing of the usages of such a
place, would beg the gentleman at the other end of the table to take upon
himself the duties of president. There was a burst of laughter from the
majority of the diners, and good-humour was instantly restored. My
_vis-à-vis_, who was addressed as "Mr. Vice," was, indeed, somewhat
grumpy; but I had won the goodwill of the others, and was allowed to look
on, a silent spectator, whilst the many mystic rites and usages which
distinguished the "commercial table" of that epoch were duly celebrated.
Strange to say, that was not only my first but my last experience of the
kind, and now I imagine that the old customs of the road--the
wine-drinking, the speech-making, the toasts, and the graces before and
after meat--are all things of the past.
My editorial career at Preston began with a somewhat painful and even
dramatic episode. I had returned to the office, after my dinner with the
commercial travellers, in order to attend to my duties for the day. The
_Guardian_ was published twice a week--on Wednesday and Saturday.
This was Tuesday afternoon. The proprietor had informed me that he was
already provided with a leading article for Wednesday's publication, and
my duties were therefore confined to the sub-editing of the news and the
writing of a few editorial paragraphs. Suddenly Mr. Toulmin entered my
room, and, without uttering a word, placed a telegram on the desk before
me. It consisted of these words, still imprinted on my memory:
"Washington Wilkes died suddenly last night while addressing a public
meeting." I knew Mr. Wilkes by name as a Radical journalist of
considerable ability, who wrote regularly for the _Morning Star_.
Accordingly I expressed my regret on hearing of his death. "Yes," said
Mr. Toulmin, bluntly; "that's all very well, but now you'll have to write
the leader for to-morrow, for Wilkes was to have written it." Under these
startling circumstances I penned my first leading article for the
_Preston Guardian_. Though I thus stepped into the shoes of a dead
man, I fear that I can hardly have filled them; but this was, on the
whole, not to be wondered at.
Mr. Toulmin, my new employer, was a man of marked character. Long before
my business connection with him ceased, I learned to regard him with
genuine respect and liking, and these feelings I entertained for him to
the day of his death. But his somewhat rough exterior was not altogether
prepossessing, and when I came to him first as a raw lad, shy, sensitive,
and intolerant of manners that were foreign to my own, I must frankly
confess that I felt repelled by him. Besides, I quickly discovered that I
should have to fight my own battles if I wished to preserve my
professional rights and dignity. I had been engaged as editor and
sub-editor of the _Guardian_, and as it was my first editorship, it
need hardly be said that I valued my position highly. Mr. Toulmin, I
subsequently found, had a reputation for getting all he could out of the
members of his staff without much regard to the customs of journalism.
Thus, I had scarcely finished the article which would have been written
by Washington Wilkes but for his sudden death, when Mr. Toulmin, coming
into my room, expressed his warm satisfaction at the quickness with which
I had turned out my work; then, with an almost paternal smile upon his
face, he laid before me some pages of manuscript, and in an insinuating
voice said: "Would you mind keeping your eye upon this whilst I run over
this proof?" In an instant I grasped his meaning. I had been engaged as
editor, and he proposed to fill up my spare time by employing me as a
proof-reader. For a moment I was almost apoplectic with indignation at
what I regarded as an outrage upon my dignity. To this day I am thankful
that I controlled my temper, but I am not less thankful that I had the
courage--and it required some courage--to say to him, with a smile as
insinuating as his own: "I should have been delighted, but unfortunately
I have an engagement out of doors." And thereupon I left the room,
triumphant.
Never again did Mr. Toulmin invite me to assist him in reading a proof,
and long afterwards he made frank admission to me of the fact that this
incident proved that I was "not going to be put upon." Very soon I found
that he was not only a kind-hearted but a very able man. He had begun
life, at the age of six, in a cotton factory. The statement to-day is
hardly credible, but such is the fact. In those cruel times, when no Lord
Ashley had as yet arisen to open the door of the workman's prison-house
and set the children free, this poor child had been shut up from six in
the morning till six at night in the fetid atmosphere of a cotton-mill.
God knows what the economic value of such a weakling's labour may have
been! One would think that a South Carolina planter would have been wiser
than to work his "stock" at such an age. Be this as it may, my friend had
passed through this terrible apprenticeship to toil--always hungry,
always tired; and had not only survived it, but emerged from it a man.
When I knew him he could talk calmly of the horrors of his childhood, but
there was an undercurrent of bitterness in his reference to those times
which one could understand and respect. He was an ardent and convinced
Liberal, and I think that I owe more to his teaching for the character of
my own political views than I owe to anybody else.
When I went to Lancashire in 1864 the terrible effects of the cotton
famine were everywhere to be seen. History has done justice to the noble
fortitude with which the operatives of Lancashire "clemmed" (starved) in
silence during that awful time. Never shall I forget the pale, pinched
faces of the men and women as they walked to and from their daily labour.
The worst of the struggle was over, but hundreds of great mills were
still closed, and those which were open only ran half-time. The working
classes in Lancashire, as in most places, were on the side of the North
in the American Civil War, and not even the sufferings which that war
caused them, made them abate their opposition to the slave-holding South.
But in Lancashire, as elsewhere, the upper classes--with the exception of
the few who followed the noble leadership of John Bright--were
enthusiasts on the side of the South, and, if they had dared, would have
urged English intervention on behalf of the Confederate States. There was
thus a strong and marked difference of opinion between the upper and the
lower classes in Lancashire, as elsewhere. The great question in domestic
politics was that of Parliamentary reform. Advanced Liberals believed
that if only the franchise was enlarged, and the working-man admitted
within the pale, Liberal principles and ideas would henceforward triumph
permanently in our national politics, and they were, consequently, eager
to bring about this great constitutional change. Tories also believed
that this would be the effect of the enlargement of the franchise, and
they naturally opposed it vehemently. Neither party foresaw that the
elements common to human nature everywhere would influence the course of
politics just as fully after the working men had been admitted within the
pale of the Constitution as before, and that we should find even amongst
the lower orders the same differences between Liberals and Conservatives
as prevailed in the middle class.
The sober Whiggish turn of mind which I had inherited from my father
influenced me greatly in those days. Like the rest of the world, I
believed that to admit the working classes to the franchise would be to
give democracy a free rein, and to bring about changes, both social and
political, of an extreme kind. Many of the changes then suggested did not
seem to me to be wise. For this reason I could not enter as heartily as I
might otherwise have done into the demand for Parliamentary reform. To go
slowly, I thought, would be to go safely. From this Laodicean frame of
mind I was rescued by Mr. Toulmin. It was not only that he could speak of
the dark days at the beginning of the century, and of the inequality and
injustice which then prevailed under Tory rule in England; he was able
also to point out the contrast between the unselfish and heroic conduct
of the Lancashire operatives with regard to the American Civil War, and
that of their superiors, in whose hands the political destinies of the
country rested. He was in the habit of enforcing his broad and sensible
arguments on the subject of Parliamentary reform by means of a quaint
little diagram, which he was continually presenting to those with whom he
engaged in argument. "Look at this," he would say, pointing to an
inverted pyramid, "that is the British constitution as it is at present.
Does it not strike you as being rather top-heavy, and not unlikely to
topple over in a storm? Now look at this," and he placed the pyramid on
its proper base. "That is what I want to see, and you'll agree with me
it's a great deal safer than the other way." I thought of Tennyson's
words: "Broad-based upon her people's will," and felt that there was more
in the rude little diagram than in many subtle and learned arguments.
It was not only from my intercourse with Mr. Toulmin that I derived
mental profit in those days. I was always a rapid worker, and I speedily
found that two days and a half in each week sufficed to enable me to
discharge my duties at the _Guardian_ office. The ample leisure
which I thus enjoyed I devoted to reading, and in my lonely lodgings I
spent hours each day in study. As I look back upon that time I feel again
stealing over me like a vivifying flood the influence of Carlyle, under
the spell of whose teaching and inspiration I then practically came for
the first time. The companions of my solitude in those days were at least
not ignoble ones. Carlyle, Browning--not yet the victim of the Browning
Society--Thackeray, and most of our great historians, were always by my
side, and my mind gradually expanded as it absorbed their words and
thoughts. In one respect Preston has always seemed to me to be unique
among English towns. The centre of the town, if I may commit a bull, lay
at a point on its circumference. The Town Hall, the parish church, the
leading business thoroughfare, the railway station, and the
_Guardian_ office were all close to the river Ribble, separated from
it only by the beautiful Avenham Park, where the residences of the local
aristocracy were to be found. All the industrial part of the town, and
the houses of the operatives, lay farther away from the river. Across the
river there was nothing but open country. My modest lodgings in Regent
Street were at the same time within three minutes' walk of the
_Guardian_ office and of the old wooden bridge that crossed the
Ribble. Thus I could escape almost directly from the town into the open
country, and many were the hours I spent in delightful solitary rambles
through the lanes and fields of rural Lancashire. It is a good thing for
a young man to have time for solitary thinking, and no one who is worth
his salt can enjoy the kind of solitude which fell to my lot at Preston
without gaining by it. If I went there a boy, I left the place, after my
eighteen months of editorship, a man.
Of my newspaper experiences at Preston there is not much to record. Two
notable speeches that I heard and reported--although I would not read
proofs I was quite willing to oblige Mr. Toulmin by keeping up my
practice as a shorthand writer--recur to me. One was a speech made in
1865 by Mr. Gladstone at Manchester. The chief memory it has left with me
is of the touching and stately eloquence with which he told his audience
that he felt that his own life's work was drawing to a close. Of the men
with whom he had entered upon public life, he declared the majority had
passed away, and that fact reminded him that he could not reasonably
expect that his own time could be much further prolonged. No one who
heard him could have imagined that thirty years of public service still
lay before the speaker. The other speech was still more notable, for it
introduced me for the first time to the greatest of all the orators of
the nineteenth century, John Bright. Mr. Bright's speech, which was
delivered at Blackburn, promised to be of peculiar interest, inasmuch as
he made it only a few days after the death of Lord Palmerston, in
October, 1865. Everybody was curious to know what the great Liberal would
say of the man whose policy he had so often opposed, and with whom he had
so often crossed swords on the floor of Parliament. I went to Blackburn
as curious as anybody else. Bright made a long speech, and from beginning
to end he never mentioned the name of Palmerston. Years afterwards, in a
spirit, I fear, slightly tinged with malice, I would sometimes supply
that notable omission by naming Palmerston to Mr. Bright. The effect was
always the same, and always electrical. "Palmerston!" he would cry. "The
man who involved us in the crime of the Crimean War!" And then he would
break off with an angry toss of his leonine head; but the accents of
immeasurable scorn filled the hiatus in his speech.
In after years I became what I still remain--an enthusiastic admirer of
Mr. Bright's oratory. I hope to say something on a later page on this
subject. Here I need only note the fact that his first speech
disappointed me. Indeed, men were usually disappointed when they heard
him for the first time. They went expecting to hear an orator full of
sound and fury. They were amazed by the reserve--one might almost say the
repose--of his style. Of gesture he made absolutely no use. He never let
his magnificent voice rise above a certain pitch; he never poured out his
words in a tumultuous torrent; he was always deliberate and measured in
his utterances, and it was only as you grew accustomed to him that you
noted those wonderful inflections of the voice which expressed so clearly
the emotions of the orator.
In 1865 the country was much agitated on the question of the cattle
plague. It was a question that particularly affected Cheshire and the
rural parts of Lancashire. The action taken by the Government, of which
Mr. Gladstone was a prominent member, was strongly opposed by the
representatives of the agricultural interest. A county meeting was held
at Preston to consider the subject and to denounce the Ministry. If I
remember aright, the Earl of Derby, the famous "Rupert of debate," was in
the chair, and he was surrounded by half the magnates of Lancashire. It
was a notable and imposing gathering. One titled speaker after another
got up and abused Ministers, and it was notable that Mr. Gladstone fell
in for the hottest measure of abuse. When some resolution was about to be
put a man seated in the body of the hall got up and asked if he might say
a few words. He was a tall, thick-set person, and his dress was so plain
that most of us took him for a farmer, if not a farm-labourer. The
meeting, which was enjoying the eloquence of earls and aristocrats of
every degree, turned with anger upon the unknown intruder, and shouted
"Name, name!" with all its might. "My name is Gladstone," said the
stranger, in a clear and powerful voice. Everybody burst into a roar of
laughter. It seemed so curious that immediately after listening to
unmeasured vituperation of _the_ Gladstone, this humble person who
had obtruded himself unexpectedly upon the scene should happen to be of
the same name. But before the laughter had subsided Sir James
Kay-Shuttleworth, who was on the platform, shouted out the explanation of
the mystery. "Mr. Robertson Gladstone, of Liverpool." It was the brother
of the much-hated Chancellor of the Exchequer. He had gone to the meeting
to defend his illustrious relative; and defend him he did, with so much
force and eloquence that he not only made some of the noble speakers look
rather foolish, but convinced one, at least, who heard him that if he had
adopted a Parliamentary career, he too might have been one of the great
figures of the House of Commons.
As I look back upon my editorial experiences during the year and a half
that I spent at Preston, the salient questions which stand out in my
recollection are the war between Denmark and the Austro-Prussian allies,
in which this country was so nearly involved, and the concluding
struggles in the American Civil War, which may be said to have had their
culmination in the tragical assassination of Lincoln. It may seem a
strange thing to say, and yet I believe that Lincoln's cruel death did
more to hasten the return of peace and goodwill, not only in the United
States, but all over the world, after the close of the war, than anything
else could have done. It is certain that it produced a remarkable effect
in England. The "classes" in England were, as I have said, almost
unanimously opposed to the North, and there was no single person engaged
in the great struggle whom they more persistently misunderstood and
misrepresented than Abraham Lincoln. Even now I feel a sense of shame as
I recall the abuse which was showered upon that great man at the time
when he was leading his country through the most terrible crisis in her
history. But his death, coming as it did in the moment of victory, and
also at the moment when he had shown that he knew how to be moderate and
magnanimous in victory, opened the eyes of the world, and showed him,
even to those Englishmen who had hated him, in his true colours--one of
the wisest and noblest men of our time.
This revelation of the blunder which "the classes" had committed in their
estimate of Lincoln had an even greater effect in softening the
asperities which the war left behind it than had the exposure of the
egregious miscalculations of English statesmen as to the comparative
military strength of North and South. One must not blame Englishmen too
severely, however, for their lack of appreciation of Lincoln. It is
doubtful if even now he is appreciated at his true worth by Americans
themselves. Some years ago I had the privilege of taking in to dinner a
charming young lady who was Lincoln's direct descendant. I said to her,
"You can hardly understand how pleased I am to have met you. There is
scarcely any man whose name is familiar to me whom I honour as I honour
the memory of your grandfather." The young lady opened her eyes in
innocent amazement, and confessed subsequently that she had been very
much surprised by my little speech. "At home they never say anything
about grandpapa." Lowell, however, has said something about him which
will live for ever in the elegiac poetry of the world.
My stay at Preston came to an end in January, 1866. I had become engaged
whilst staying there, and, feeling stronger in health, was anxious to
obtain a more active position than the editorship of a newspaper
published only twice a week. My wishes were realised when I received an
offer from the proprietors of the _Leeds Mercury_ of a position on
that journal, which had long been one of the most important of provincial
newspapers. I accepted the offer, and left Preston at the beginning of
1866 with feelings of nothing but goodwill and respect for my old chief,
Mr. Toulmin.