WORK ON THE _LEEDS MERCURY_.
My New Duties--Betrothal--The Writing of Leading Articles--The Founder of
the _Leeds Mercury_--Edward Baines the Second--Thomas Blackburn
Baines--Patriotic Nonconformists--Another Colliery Explosion: A Story of
Heroism--An Abortive Fenian Raid at Chester--Reminiscences of the Prince
of Wales's Visits to Yorkshire--Mr. Bright and the Reform Demonstrations
of 1866--The Closing Speech at St. James's Hall--The Tribune of the
People Vindicates the Queen.
I did not know, when I arrived in Leeds one wintry day in the beginning
of 1866, how long my connection with that town was to last, and how
closely I was to become associated with its public life. Beyond one or
two members of the _Mercury_ staff, I knew nobody in Leeds, so that
once more I found myself amongst strangers. But whereas at Preston I had
remained a stranger and a wayfarer during the whole period of my sojourn
in the place, I had not been long in Leeds before I began to feel that I
had found a second home. This was, no doubt, due in part to the fact that
old friends of mine were already employed on the _Mercury_ staff,
through whom I speedily made a number of acquaintances among the
townspeople. But I think that the sense of being at home which I acquired
so soon was chiefly due to the character of the inhabitants of Leeds.
Whatever may be the case now, at that time the Leeds people were typical
representatives of the best characteristics of Yorkshire. They were
frank, outspoken, warm-hearted, and hospitable. They were not, indeed, so
refined in speech as they might have been, and to the stranger their
blunt utterances were at times rather disconcerting. They criticised
one's work freely, and never hesitated to say when they did not like it.
They had strong prejudices and prepossessions, to both of which they gave
free expression. But if they never hesitated to criticise, they were just
as ready, when they were pleased, to utter words of praise and
encouragement; and it was not long before I had the gratification of
finding that my humble efforts on the _Leeds Mercury_ had made for
me many friends whom I did not know in the flesh.
Next to the delight of a first appearance in print, there is nothing that
brings so much joy to the heart of a young writer as the discovery that
something which he has written has won the sympathy and secured for him
the friendly approval of some unknown reader. It is in this that there
lies, after all, the highest reward of the journalist. No honours, no
money, no fame can ever satisfy him as does the knowledge that by means
of his pen he is influencing the thoughts, and winning the affections, of
some at least of that vast unknown public whom it is his duty to address.
A sheet of paper is but a flimsy thing, yet, as a rule, when used by the
journalist it cuts off the electric current of sympathy which passes
between speaker and auditor when they are visible to each other. The
discovery that it may sometimes be a conductor, instead of an
obstruction, to the current warms the heart of a young writer in a
wonderful fashion, and is the best stimulus that he can have in the
pursuit of his profession. To my dying day I shall think of Leeds with
pleasure and gratitude, in remembrance of the fact that it was there that
I first enjoyed this delightful experience.
My duties on the _Leeds Mercury_ were, in the first instance, both
varied and modest. I had to superintend the work of the reporting staff,
taking part myself, when necessary, in the reporting of large meetings
and important speeches. I had to do all the descriptive work of the
journal, and in those days more importance was attached to the work of
the descriptive writer than appears to be the case at present. Russell,
of the _Times_, the illustrious "pen of the war," furnished the
model for descriptive journalism in the 'sixties. There was none of that
slap-dash statement of bare facts, embellished by the more or less
impertinent personal impressions and opinions of the reporter, to which
we have become accustomed in recent times. It was expected that a
descriptive article should be in the nature of an essay, and that it
should actually describe, more or less vividly, the scene with which it
dealt. If anyone cares to search the files of our leading newspapers
between 1860 and 1870, he will come upon some pieces of descriptive
writing of astonishing literary merit.
In addition to acting as descriptive writer, I had, when required, to
contribute leading articles to the _Mercury_. At first I did this at
rare intervals. It was an innovation for anyone connected with the
reporting staff to contribute to the leading columns, and I remember the
alarm and indignation of the older members of the staff when they learned
that work of this character was to be entrusted to me. But I had
practised leader-writing at Preston; I liked it (though my preference was
for descriptive writing), and it was not long before I found that I had
got into the regular leader-writer's stride. I was barely
four-and-twenty, and I had, therefore, a consuming sense of the value of
my lucubrations and the importance of my opinions. It is emphatically
true, as Sir William Harcourt once wrote to me, that "Youth is the age of
Wegotism." When I wielded that magnificent editorial "we," and was able
to back up my own crude ideas with all the authority of a great daily
newspaper, I felt that I, too, was somebody in the world of affairs, and
that though I might live in modest lodgings and possess but narrow means,
I was not without a distinct place and influence of my own in the great
commonwealth. Such are the illusions of the youthful leader-writer--
foolish, perhaps, but not ignoble.
Some of my early leaders pleased the proprietors of the paper, one of
whom was also the editor. It was arranged that I was to contribute
regularly the chief article for Monday's paper. Now, as I have said, I
had become engaged, and my cousin, Miss Kate Thornton, to whom I was
betrothed, lived at Stockport, at a distance of more than two hours from
Leeds. I had been in the habit of visiting Stockport almost every
Saturday, returning to my duties on Monday morning. This leader-writing
for Monday's paper threatened to interfere with this arrangement.
Fortunately for me, the proprietors of the _Mercury_--of whom I
shall have more to say presently--had a great reverence for Sunday. The
_Leeds Mercury_, indeed, had not become a daily paper until long
after this change in its character was expected by the public, simply
because an ordinary daily newspaper entailed a certain amount of Sunday
work upon those engaged in producing it. It was not until the proprietors
had satisfied themselves that it would be possible to produce a Monday
morning's newspaper, and at the same time to keep the office closed from
midnight on Saturday till midnight on Sunday, that they resolved to
publish daily. The arrangement was costly; it was vastly inconvenient to
everybody concerned. I am afraid that it did not conduce to the keeping
of the Sabbath, seeing that the compositors, who were not allowed to
enter the office until midnight of that day, were tempted to spend an
hour or two in some public-house before commencing their belated work.
But with all its drawbacks, the plan had at least the advantage of
keeping the office doors shut for the whole of the twenty-four sacred
hours, and thus the appearance of evil, if not the evil itself, was
avoided. As a consequence of this system, the greater part of Monday's
paper had to be set on Saturday, and the leader, in particular, was
always furnished to the printers on that day. So far, therefore, there
was nothing to prevent my writing the Monday's leader, and still paying
my usual weekly visit to Stockport. All that was necessary was that the
editor should give me my subject early enough on Saturday morning.
This, however, was what I could not induce him to do. He was supposed to
be at the office shortly after eleven o'clock, and my train for Stockport
did not leave until half-past one. If the editor had been punctual, and
if he had given me my subject at once, I should have had ample time in
which to write my leader. But unfortunately he was not punctual, and too
often when he came he was occupied with other business, whilst I hung
about miserably counting the minutes until I was summoned to his
presence. Then, when at last I had received my subject, or had got leave
to write upon some topic suggested by myself, I hurried to the
sub-editor's room, and, sitting at a corner of a table upon which I laid
my watch, dashed off my precious article at the top of my speed. When I
began my practice as a leader-writer I took from an hour and a half to
two hours to write my fifteen hundred words; but, under the pressure of
that terrible half-past one o'clock train, I gradually improved my pace,
until at last, if I took more than an hour in the production of an
article, I felt dissatisfied. Mere speed in writing is a very small
accomplishment. It is not necessarily a virtue, and it may even be a
vice; but it is undoubtedly an accomplishment that I possess. In later
days my regular time for turning out an article of the length I have
named was from forty to fifty minutes. I could write my leaders with
people talking around me, and felt no difficulty in joining in the
conversation. I am told that many journalists regard it as incredible
that an article of fifteen hundred words could be written in from forty
to fifty minutes. All I can say is that it is a fact, and I attribute
this speed in writing to the pressure of that half-past one o'clock train
on Saturdays in the good old days of my first residence in Leeds.
The story of the _Leeds Mercury_ is an honourable one in the annals
of English journalism. It was first established, if I remember aright, in
the year 1718. In the editor's room at Leeds a file of the paper is
preserved, dating from the year 1727. This file is complete for more than
170 years, with one melancholy exception. In the volume for 1745 the
numbers of the paper published during the second Jacobite Rising are
omitted. But in spite of this omission, these volumes, extending over so
long a period, are of immense value and interest. In its earliest days
the _Mercury_, though published in a provincial town, sought to
reproduce in its columns not so much the news of the locality as the
humour of the Metropolis; and the very first leading article in the
earliest volume preserved at Leeds bears the quaint title, "To the Ladies
who affect showing their stockings."
Comparatively early in the Georgian era the _Mercury_ became
distinguished for the excellence of its news, both local and general. It
was not, of course, a large newspaper in those days, but the four pages
of which it consisted were full of meat. There was no descriptive
reporting; but what could be more expressive than the announcement of a
marriage in such terms as these:--"On Tuesday se'n-night, Squire Brown of
Bumpkin Hall was married to Miss Matilda Midas of Halifax, a handsome
young lady with ten thousand pounds to her dowry"? We are much more
florid nowadays, but by no means so precise. The leader-writer did not
spread himself abroad a hundred years ago. Indeed, soon after the
_Leeds Mercury_ gave up discussing the amiable weakness that it
attributed to ladies with well-turned ankles, it ceased for a time to
discuss anything at all. It was only in the beginning of the nineteenth
century that it resumed its leading articles. But what leading articles
they were! Fine writing and redundancy of style were both discarded, and
when the news of Waterloo arrived, the editor's comment upon the great
epoch-making victory was expressed in a dozen lines. One sighs at the
thought of the miles of "long primer" that would be expended if we had
the opportunity of commenting upon such a theme to-day. Yet the
twelve-line article in the _Leeds Mercury_ of June, 1815, really
said everything that was to the point on the subject with which it dealt.
It was in the year 1800 that the _Mercury_ took that new stand in
its history which was to place it in the front rank among English
provincial journals. Three or four years earlier a young journeyman
printer, named Edward Baines, had tramped across the moors which form the
dividing line between Lancashire and Yorkshire, and after walking the
whole distance from Preston to Leeds, had found employment in the small
printing office in which the _Leeds Mercury_ was produced. Edward
Baines, the first, was undoubtedly a man of great ability and remarkable
character. Very soon after he began his humble work as a compositor in
Leeds he attracted the attention not only of his employer, but of some of
the gentry of the town. He was seen to be a person of uncommon
intelligence, strict integrity, and distinct political sagacity. The
_Leeds Mercury_, at the close of the eighteenth century, was still a
mere news-sheet, professing no opinions of its own, and consequently
making no attempt to mould the opinions of its readers. The Whig party in
the West Riding felt that they needed an organ of their own to support
their cause in that great district. Accordingly, they subscribed funds
sufficient to acquire the _Mercury_ and to provide capital for
carrying it on, and they placed the paper in the hands of Edward Baines,
the young printer who, but a few years previously, had made his first
appearance in Yorkshire.
The trust they reposed in Mr. Baines was more than justified. Under his
direction the _Mercury_ became in a few years the leading journal in
the north of England. The money that had been advanced to him for its
purchase he speedily repaid, and by the time that Wellington was dealing
his death-blow at French Imperialism, Edward Baines had made himself a
power, not only in Leeds but in Yorkshire. I remember being told by very
old men that when the news of Waterloo reached him a chair was taken out
of his office in Briggate to the street, where an eager crowd had
gathered. Mounting upon this chair, Mr. Baines read the despatch
announcing the great victory to his enthusiastic fellow townsmen. An
earnest Liberal, he fought by the side of the Liberal leaders both with
his pen and his tongue during the long struggle for Parliamentary Reform,
and he was in due time rewarded by being elected to represent Leeds in
the House of Commons. His may fairly be described as an ideal career. He
gained friends, influence, wealth, in the town he had entered as a
penniless workman. But, better than all, he witnessed the triumph of
nearly all the great political and social movements to which he had lent
his powerful aid. Having represented his fellow-townsmen in three
successive Parliaments, he was honoured at his death, at a ripe age, in
1848, with a public funeral, which people in Leeds still recall as a
unique demonstration of gratitude and esteem. In Yorkshire, where his
career was better known than elsewhere, the name given to him by the
generation that followed him was that of "the English Benjamin Franklin."
It was Mr. Baines's good fortune to leave behind him in his sons men who
were worthy to succeed him. His eldest son, Matthew Talbot Baines, went
to the Bar. After his father's death he entered Parliament, where he had
a distinguished career, becoming eventually a Cabinet Minister under Lord
Palmerston. He died at a comparatively early age, and it was well known
to the initiated that, if he had not died thus young, it was the
intention of the Government to propose him for the Speakership. The
second son of the man who really founded the fortunes of the _Leeds
Mercury_ was, like his father, called Edward. He, too, attained
distinction in the public service. From his youth he was his father's
chief assistant in the editorship of the _Mercury_, and by his
enterprise, sagacity, and fine abilities as a journalist he greatly
extended the influence and reputation of the paper. As a boy he was
present at the so-called Battle of Peterloo--the riot which took place at
Manchester in 1819, when a political meeting was being held on the site
of the present Free Trade Hall. Young Edward attended the meeting as a
reporter for the _Mercury_. He observed everything that happened,
and it was his evidence, given subsequently at Lancaster Assizes, that
saved many innocent persons, who had been hunted down by the cruel
authorities of the day, from the punishment of transportation.
Edward Baines the second edited the _Mercury_ down to 1859, when, on
the death of his brother, he was chosen by his fellow-townsmen to succeed
him as their representative in Parliament. He had there a most honourable
career. He was, like his father, a Nonconformist, and he was also a
strict teetotaller. When he entered the House of Commons there was only
one other teetotaller in that body. A generous and cultured man, filled
with enthusiasm for the public good, he succeeded during his
Parliamentary career in winning the respect of the House, not only for
himself personally, but for those Nonconformist and teetotal principles
which Society, at that time, held in such low esteem. Strangely enough,
this life-long advocate of temperance reform lost his seat in the General
Election of 1874 through an outburst of teetotal fanaticism on the part
of the advocates of the Permissive Bill. As he refused to vote for that
measure, they ran an intemperate temperance advocate named Lees against
him, and by doing so gave the seat to a local brewer. On his eightieth
birthday, in 1880, he was knighted by Queen Victoria in recognition of
his life-long devotion to the public service.
I am not, however, telling the story of the Baineses. I have not even
referred to it at such length merely because I feel it to be an
honourable and instructive chapter in English local history, but because
it throws light upon the peculiar position and authority enjoyed by the
_Leeds Mercury_ when I first became connected with it in 1866. At
that time, the son of the second Edward Baines, Thomas Blackburn Baines,
was editor of the paper, but his father took as active a part in its
political direction as was consistent with the performance of his duties
in Parliament. While Tom Baines edited the paper, the management was in
the hands of his uncle, Frederick Baines, a man for whom I retain to this
day something of the affection and respect of a son for a father. The
paper, it will be seen, was thus the exclusive possession of the Baines
family. It represented the views to which they had clung so tenaciously
from the first. It was the great organ of Nonconformity in the English
Press, and it was at the same time the advocate of a pronounced, though
not an extreme, Liberalism. Its influence in the politics of Yorkshire
was great, but no small part of that influence was due to the fact that
the character of its conductors was known to the world, and that they
were everywhere recognised as high-minded men, to whom journalism was
something more than a trade. It was, indeed, a fortunate accident that
brought me, whilst still in my youth, into intimate association with so
high-minded a family.
They had their peculiarities. I have spoken already of their strict
regard for the Sabbath. In other matters also they clung to many of the
notions of the Puritans of an older generation. They never allowed the
_Mercury_ to publish betting news, or to pander to the national
passion for gambling sport in any manner whatever. It would have been a
good thing for the Englishman of to-day if, in this respect, their
action, instead of being the exception, had been the rule among newspaper
proprietors. The love of sport and of betting which has had so bad an
effect upon the national character during the last thirty years would
have been greatly curbed if other newspaper proprietors had been as
mindful of their responsibilities as were the Baineses. As it was, they
met with no reward for the heavy sacrifice they made in refusing to cater
for the tastes of the sport-loving populace.
Another peculiarity which marked the _Mercury_ in those days, though
founded upon equally admirable motives, was not so happy in its character
as this exclusion of betting news. Edward Baines the second regarded the
theatre from the old Nonconformist point of view. He looked upon it, as
so many did, as being an agent for the demoralisation of the young, and
he refused to allow any notice of it to appear in the columns of his
paper. This naturally excited the anger and ridicule of a large section
of the public, who were not insensible to the change that was gradually
taking place on the British stage. But no arguments and no ridicule could
move the sturdy old Nonconformist. I remember once pleading with him for
some relaxation of this rule. He heard all I had to say with courteous
attention, but when I had exhausted my stock of arguments he delivered
himself as follows: "My dear Mr. Reid, I feel sure that you are quite
sincere and conscientious in the views you hold, but you do not know the
theatre as I do. I speak from personal experience when I say that both in
itself and in its surroundings it is immoral and demoralising." I stared
aghast at this utterance. I knew that I went to theatres occasionally,
but until then I had believed that Edward Baines had never crossed the
threshold of a playhouse. He saw my look of surprise, and continued,
"Yes, I am sorry to say that between the years 1819 and 1822 I attended
the theatre frequently in London, and I can never forget the shocking
immorality I witnessed both on the stage and among the audience." Dear,
simple, high-principled, and most scrupulous soul! It was impossible to
make way against his sixty-year-old memories.
But I must not omit to mention one characteristic of the proprietors of
the _Mercury_ which had a marked influence upon their manner of
conducting that paper. This was their intense love of country. Both
Edward Baines and his brother Frederick, though they never called
themselves patriots, were among the most patriotic men I have ever known.
They were Nonconformists and Liberals, and consequently, in the belief of
their ignorant political opponents, they ought also to be Little
Englanders of the huckster class. Instead of being Little Englanders,
they were all through their lives the advocates of a sane but ardent
Imperialism. They loved their country, and they believed in it--believed
in it not only as the foremost nation of the earth, but as a great
instrument for good among the peoples of the world. It followed that,
whilst the _Mercury_ advocated advanced Liberal opinions on most
domestic questions, it was always in foreign affairs the supporter of an
enlightened and reasonable Imperialism, and on any question affecting
international policy it resolutely refused to take the mere partisan
point of view. I have dwelt at this length upon some of the
characteristics of the _Leeds Mercury_ and its proprietors when I
first became acquainted with them because they had a great and abiding
influence upon my own character and opinions. At Preston I had learned to
sympathise with the democracy, and to believe ardently in the cause of
political reform. At Leeds I came in contact with a wider and loftier
standard of Liberalism, and, whilst retaining my faith in the principles
of my party on domestic questions, I added to it a conviction, not less
profound, of the duty of advancing the interests of the British Empire
throughout the world by every means in my power. In later years, when I
was myself the editor of the _Leeds Mercury_, some of my excellent
friends in London--and notably Mr. Stead--were wont to deplore my
tendency in favour of Imperialism in foreign affairs, and to attribute it
to the influence upon me of the Pall Mall clubs. As a matter of fact, I
was led in this direction by the influence of these two estimable
Yorkshire Nonconformists.
My first stay in Leeds in the somewhat anomalous position I have
described lasted for little more than eighteen months. During that period
I found plenty of work to do as a descriptive writer and reporter, and
was brought into contact with some notable and interesting persons. Some
months after I had become connected with the _Mercury_, I renewed my
acquaintance with the tragical vicissitudes of colliery life. An
explosion occurred at the Oaks Pit, near Barnsley, which led to the
sacrifice of three hundred lives. Such a loss of life, exceeding that on
many an historic battlefield, was in itself terrible, but the
circumstances attending the accident at the Oaks Pit added to the
grimness of the tragedy. When I reached the colliery a few hours after
the explosion occurred I found that some two hundred of the men who had
been working in it were known to have been killed, but that many more
were believed to be still alive in the distant workings, and that a large
rescue party had gone below to recover them. Having sent my last despatch
to Leeds, I went to an inn at Barnsley to snatch a few hours of sleep
before resuming work at daybreak. In the morning, as I was hastening back
to the colliery to learn what progress had been made during the night, I
suddenly saw a dense volume of black smoke shoot out of the mouth of the
pit, and, rising high in the air, spread in a fan-shaped cloud of
enormous size. Immediately afterwards the dull reverberation of an
underground explosion fell upon my ear. A rough collier was walking
beside me, and when he heard that ominous sound he turned white, and
staggered against the wall which lined the road. "God have mercy on us!"
he cried, "she's fired again." It was an awful moment. Both I and the
pitman knew that, in addition to any survivors of the first explosion,
there were twenty or thirty brave men risking their lives in a work of
mercy when this new catastrophe took place.
We ran to the pit at our utmost speed, and when we reached the bank we
found ourselves in the midst of a distressing scene. The engineers and
workmen who had been engaged at the mouth of the pit were completely
unnerved by this unexpected disaster, and were weeping like children. The
second explosion had driven the "cage" completely out of the shaft, and
it hung in a wrecked condition in the gallows-like scaffolding which
surmounted the pit. There was thus no means of descending the shaft, even
if anyone had been courageous enough to do so. This renewed explosion
was, I ought to say, almost unprecedented in the long story of colliery
accidents. In a few minutes the wives and friends of the search party
below came thronging around us with agonised inquiries as to the safety
of those whom they loved. For a time all was confusion and despair; but
very quickly the voice of authority was heard, and the pit platform was
cleared of all except the small party that remained on duty and myself.
It was, as a matter of fact, a place of danger, for, as a second
explosion had occurred, it was quite possible that it might be followed
by a third. In spite of this risk, it was resolved to communicate, if
possible, with the bottom of the shaft.
By order of the engineer in charge, we all lay down at full length on the
platform, and one of our number was pushed forward until his head and
shoulders protruded over the black chasm of the pit, from which a thin
column of smoke was still rising. He was armed with a hammer, and with
this he struck one of the metal guiders of the ruined cage, giving the
pitman's "jowl" or signal, "three times three, and one over." Lying
breathless, we listened, hoping for some response. But there was only the
silence of death. Thrice the brave man repeated the signal, but no
answering sound came from the depths of the pit, and sadly we came to the
conclusion that all had perished. The signal man was dragged back from
his post of peril, and we were consulting eagerly as to the next step to
be taken, when a third explosion suddenly took place, shaking the
platform on which we stood, and covering us with fragments of burning
wood. Several of us were slightly hurt, but no one sustained any serious
injury. The painful fact that was forced upon us, however, by this new
explosion was that nothing could for the present be done to ascertain the
fate of the gallant fellows who had apparently been lost in their attempt
to rescue their comrades. It was clear that the pit was making gas, and
that a fire was burning somewhere in the workings, which in due time
might--and, as a matter of fact, did--cause fresh explosions. In these
circumstances nothing could be done except to pour water into the pit in
the hope of extinguishing the fire. Sorrowfully the band of workers
abandoned the pit-heap, leaving only a couple of young mining engineers
to keep watch above the scene of death.
In the middle of the following night--repeated explosions having taken
place during the day--a remarkable incident occurred. One of the
engineers left in charge--named, if I remember aright, Jeffcock--was
suddenly startled by hearing a sound proceeding, apparently, from the
depths of the pit. He went to the edge of the shaft, and then heard
unmistakably, far below him, the "jowl" for which we had listened in vain
on the previous morning. It proved that there was someone living in the
pit, and Mr. Jeffcock instantly determined to save him if he could. The
shaft was a very deep one. The cage which was the ordinary means of
descent had, as I have already explained, been destroyed, whilst the
pit-sides had been torn by the successive explosions, so that they were
in a highly dangerous state. But undaunted by these difficulties and
dangers, Jeffcock carried out his heroic task. Summoning assistance, he
caused himself to be lowered at the end of a rope to the bottom of the
shaft. Heaven only knows what were the terrors and dangers of that
descent. He faced them all unflinchingly. At the bottom of the pit he
discovered not any member of the search party, for they had all
succumbed, but one of the men employed in the colliery, who, by some
extraordinary chance, had escaped with his life not only from the
original explosion, but from all those which followed it. With immense
labour and risk he brought this man, the sole survivor of more than three
hundred, to the pit's mouth, and the next night the thoughtless fellow
for whom a brave man had risked so much, and whose own escape from death
had been almost miraculous, was carousing in a public-house in Barnsley,
and pocketing the coppers which hundreds of curious persons paid for the
privilege of seeing him.
One evening, in the summer of 1866, when I was on duty in the
_Mercury_ office, I received a telegram which Mr. Baines had
despatched from the House of Commons half an hour before. It stated that
the Home Secretary had just received information that Chester Castle had
been attacked by five hundred Fenians from Manchester, and that troops
were being despatched from London to meet them. I saw that a train which
left Leeds late in the evening would land me at Chester an hour or so
after midnight, and I at once made up my mind to take it. When I reached
Chester all was quiet at the station, and there were no signs of a Fenian
rising. I asked the chief official on duty if he knew anything about the
affair. All he could tell me was that during the early hours of the
evening the waiting rooms, and even the platform itself, had been filled
with crowds of "working men in their Sunday clothes," who had seemed to
be waiting for somebody or something. There were many hundreds of them,
and their unexplained presence had greatly puzzled the railway officials.
Some time before I arrived they had disappeared.
I went out into the streets of the old city. The darkness of the summer
night still brooded over me, but there was light enough to see that at
every street corner and every open space a crowd was gathered. They were
curious crowds. In every case the men were clustered in a circle, their
faces all turned towards the centre. They seemed to be listening intently
to someone who, in the middle of each little group, was speaking in low
but earnest tones. I made my way to one of the small crowds, and, joining
it, tried to hear what it was that the speaker in the middle was saying;
but instantly a strange thing happened. The crowd fell apart, melted away
into the gloom, and I suddenly found myself standing alone. Thrice did I
thus attempt to learn what was passing in these mysterious groups, and
every time the result was the same. I accosted individuals in the
streets, and questioned them as to the meaning of the curious scene, so
unusual in the dead of night in a quiet cathedral city. No man answered
me, except in some unintelligible syllable. I was not molested, nobody
was uncivil, but from no one could I get a word of explanation.
Gradually, as morning began to break, the throng became thinner. It was
dispersed like the mist by the sunshine.
By four o'clock Chester was apparently deserted by its strange visitors.
I went to the castle, and found that all was quiet there. I went to the
police office, and here I was told that the men were undoubtedly Fenians,
but that they had been guilty of no violence, and had given no excuse to
the police to interfere with them. They had apparently come to Chester
from every quarter, Liverpool, Manchester, and Stafford having each
contributed a contingent. But few had come by rail, most having entered
the city on foot. What it all signified the police declared they could
not understand, though they had no doubt that it had meant mischief. At
five o'clock I returned to the station, and saw two special trains arrive
within a few minutes of each other. These brought down a full battalion
of the Guards from London. It was a fine sight to see the regiment
marching with fixed bayonets from the station to the Castle. When the
last man had disappeared within the Castle gates, we knew that, whatever
plot had been hatched, it had miscarried.
The next day I gave in the _Leeds Mercury_ a full account of what I
had seen at Chester, and stoutly upheld the theory that a Fenian raid,
which had somehow or other miscarried, had been intended. But, on the
same morning, almost every other newspaper in the United Kingdom
published an account of the affair that had been supplied by a Liverpool
news agency. In this account the whole matter was turned into ridicule,
and the authorities were said to have been hoaxed, or carried away by
their own excited imaginations. But I had seen those strange, mysterious
groups, planted so thickly in the streets of Chester under the silent
night, and I could not accept the explanation of the Liverpool reporter.
Still, for the moment his story was that which was generally believed,
and I had to submit to the suspicion of having allowed myself to be
befooled. Not until more than twelve months later was the truth revealed.
It came out in the course of the trial of certain Fenian prisoners that
there really had been a plot to seize, not Chester Castle, but the arms
it contained. The conspirators knew that the guard in the Castle was very
weak. They hoped to get into the place by stratagem, and to seize the
contents of the armoury. Then they meant to capture a train, and, having
destroyed the telegraph wires, to carry their booty to Holyhead, where
they expected to find a steamer which would land them in Ireland. It was
about as mad a plan as was ever devised--as mad as John Brown's seizure
of the arsenal at Springfield. But desperate men attempt daring deeds.
Fortunately for the peace of the realm, the plot against Chester was
revealed to the Government in time, and when the little army of Fenians
knew that they had been betrayed, they silently dispersed without
striking a blow. It was, I confess, a satisfaction to me when the
informer--Corydon, if I remember the name aright--confirmed the truth of
my interpretation of that strange scene at Chester; and I had the
additional satisfaction of feeling that I was one of the few living men
who had, with his own eyes, actually seen a hostile army assembled on
English soil.
A reporter's life brings him into contact both with tragedy and comedy. I
have an amusing recollection of a visit paid by Edward VII., when Prince
of Wales, to Upper Teesdale during my stay in Leeds, for the purpose of
shooting on the Duke of Cleveland's moors. I travelled in the special
train which took the Prince and his party to the little station of
Lartington, then the terminus of the line which now connects the east and
west coasts. No royal personage had visited that beautiful valley before.
It was Sunday, and the whole population seemed to have turned out to see
the train, in which the heir to the throne travelled, fly past them.
Everywhere it was greeted with the waving of hats and handkerchiefs; but
I saw one old man, apparently an agricultural labourer, who was not
content with uncovering his head when the train went by. Reverently he
sank down upon his knees, and remained in that position until long after
we had sped past him. From Lartington the Prince and his party were to
drive to the inn at High Force, a dozen or fourteen miles away. I, and a
companion, representing a Sheffield newspaper, were to take up our
quarters for the night at the little village of Middleton-in-Teesdale,
halfway to High Force. A country omnibus had been provided for the Prince
and his friends, and in this they drove off. We had to walk, as no
vehicle was to be got.
When we had tramped a mile or more on our way, we met two men who were
walking quickly towards Lartington. One of them, who from his appearance
might have been a village schoolmaster, accosted us politely. "Can you
tell me if his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales has arrived at
Lartington station yet?" "Yes," I replied, "he got there more than half
an hour ago." "Then where is he?" said my interlocutor in an injured tone
of voice. "He surely cannot be stopping there?" I told him that this was
not the case, and that he had already preceded us along that very road.
"Impossible!" retorted the schoolmaster. "I've been on this road ever
since the morning, and I can assure you that his Royal Highness has not
passed this way." "Did you not see a small omnibus pass," I asked, "with
some luggage on the roof?" The schoolmaster's companion, who was younger,
admitted that he had done so. "Well, then," I continued, "you must have
seen a gentleman in a brown felt hat sitting beside the driver, and
smoking a cigar. That was the Prince of Wales." "Don't attempt to make a
fool of me, you impertinent jackanapes!" roared my schoolmaster friend in
a mighty rage, and, setting off again at full speed, he proceeded on his
way towards Lartington, in search of the kingly vision he expected to
discover.
There was another occasion, during those early Yorkshire days, when I had
a little experience connected with the Prince. He and the Princess were
about to be received as the guests of a great--a very great--dignitary.
It was the first occasion on which this really eminent man had
entertained their Royal Highnesses, and he had specially furnished
certain rooms in his stately abode for their use. He gave a polite
intimation that he would be glad to see one representative of the Press
of the United Kingdom, in order that he might show him these apartments,
with a view to their being properly described in print. My colleagues of
the Yorkshire Press unanimously selected me to represent them on this
great occasion, and were good enough to warn me that they would expect at
least a column of descriptive matter detailing the glories of the
upholstery provided for the Royal apartments.
To my surprise, when I got to the house I was at once brought face to
face with the Great Man himself. He was mighty affable, and most
desperately anxious that I should do justice to his newly bought
furniture. I shall never forget my tour of the bedrooms and boudoirs to
which I was expected to do justice. The Great Man pounded the beds to
prove their elasticity. He turned down the bedclothes to convince me of
the fineness of the linen. He lifted up chairs in order that I might
satisfy myself of the solidity of their construction, and he expatiated
upon the beauties of curtains, window-hangings, and carpets in periods as
sonorous as any with which he had thrilled the House of Lords. I frankly
confess that I was astounded, and not a little shocked. I could see that
the Great Man was disappointed at my somewhat stolid reception of a
florid eloquence of which George Robins, the auctioneer, might have been
proud. I do not think, however, he was half so much disappointed as my
colleagues were when I returned to them and dictated a dozen lines of
severe catalogue as the only "description" I was capable of giving of the
furniture of two commonplace bedrooms. I never met the Great Man in after
life without seeing him, in my mind's eye, flourishing a chair upside
down, or lovingly patting with his mighty hand an embroidered coverlet.
Upon the whole, the most important of the events in which I took part as
reporter and descriptive writer during this period at Leeds was the
series of Reform demonstrations in which Mr. Bright played the leading
part in the autumn of 1866. I remember no public meetings in the course
of my life that equalled them in enthusiasm. The Russell administration
had been defeated in the previous session on the question of
Parliamentary Reform, the defeat having been brought about by the action
of the Adullamites, so-called, under the leadership of Lord Grosvenor and
Mr. Lowe. John Bright, to use a phrase that has since become historic,
"took off his coat" at the end of that session, and went to the country
with the avowed determination of raising such a movement in favour of
Parliamentary Reform that even the Tory Government, which was now in
office under the Premiership of Lord Derby, would be compelled to yield
to it. His plan of campaign was as simple as are most great plans. He
arranged to address meetings in the chief cities of England, Scotland,
and Ireland. Each meeting was to be preceded by a Reform demonstration
held on some open piece of ground in or near the city where the meeting
was to be held. These demonstrations took place at Birmingham,
Manchester, Leeds, Glasgow, Dublin, and London. I was present at all of
them.
Never were such open-air gatherings held in England before. On more than
one occasion the attendance exceeded a hundred thousand. The gatherings
were without exception orderly and enthusiastic. All the smaller towns
and villages near the scene of meeting sent deputations. There were great
processions through the streets, headed by bands and political banners.
At the place of meeting many different platforms were erected, and
resolutions calling upon the Government to introduce a measure of
Parliamentary Reform were put simultaneously from all the platforms.
Nothing could have been more impressive as a demonstration of national
feeling than these wonderful gatherings, so vast, so resolute in their
bearing, and yet so orderly. They made even Ministers feel that the time
had passed for trifling with the question of Reform. The Government were
compelled to yield, and, as everybody knows, the session of 1867
witnessed the passing of the Household Suffrage Act. But by far the most
important factor in each of these successive gatherings was the evening
meeting that followed the open-air demonstration. At this Mr. Bright was
always the chief speaker. I do not think he ever made better speeches
than those which he delivered during this autumn of 1866. I have recorded
the first occasion on which I heard Bright speak, and have said that his
oratory was not so impressive on a first hearing as people might suppose.
For my own part, I found that the spell of his magic grew stronger every
time that it was renewed, and before I had listened to the last of this
wonderful series of orations I had become what I remained to the end--the
most enthusiastic of his admirers.
The opening speech of the series was delivered at Birmingham, and it
contained one passage that, after all these years, is still stamped upon
my memory. It was a brilliant vindication of Mr. Gladstone, as the
apostle of Parliamentary Reform, from the sharp attacks made upon him by
the Adullamites. Even then the intrigues against Mr. Gladstone's
leadership of the Liberal party--intrigues which did not cease until the
day of his final retirement nearly thirty years later--had begun. Bright
treated them with characteristic contempt. He inveighed with all his
force against the men who were going about declaring that Mr. Gladstone
was unfit to be the leader of the party, and, with that accent of
withering scorn which was one of his most formidable weapons as an
orator, he cried, "If they have another leader who can take Mr.
Gladstone's place, why do they not let us see him? _Where have they
been hiding him until now?_" That single sentence fell like a hammer
upon the heads of the intriguers of the Cave. In face of it they could
not continue their absurd attempt to rob Mr. Gladstone of his appointed
place.
The most florid and poetical of Bright's Reform speeches was that which
he delivered at Glasgow. It consisted, for the most part, of a noble
appeal to ministers of religion, and to all interested in the social
welfare of the people, to try what a Reformed Parliament could do to
remove the burdens laid upon the shoulders of common humanity. "The
classes have failed, let us try the nation." The speech closed with a
fine peroration in which the speaker, after referring to the effect
already produced by the public movement in favour of Reform, declared
that he could see "as it were upon the hill-tops of Time, the glimmerings
of the dawn of a new and a better day for the country and the people that
he loved so well." It was with this peroration still ringing in my ears
that I hurried from the meeting to the telegraph office. I was
palpitating with excitement under the influence of Bright's magic
eloquence. Judge of my astonishment when I heard two worthy citizens of
Glasgow who had just left the hall comment upon the speech in these
words. First Citizen: "A varra disappointing speech!" Second Citizen: "Ou
aye! He just canna speak at all." This extraordinary incident at least
bears out what I said as to the disappointing character of Bright's
eloquence upon people who listened to it for the first time. A man needed
to grow into an appreciation of it. There was, by the way, an amusing
incident in connection with the reporting of this Glasgow speech. Bright,
as I have said, had referred to the influence of the great popular
demonstrations in favour of Reform, and had spoken of them as "those vast
gatherings, sublime in their numbers and in their resolution." Some
unhappy reporter, by a very slight slip, made him speak of the meetings
as sublime in their numbers and their resolutions--a very different
matter.
His last Reform speech in 1866 was delivered in London, in St. James's
Hall. It was preceded on the previous day by the usual procession through
the streets and an open-air demonstration at Lillie Bridge. The poor
Londoners were very much alarmed at the prospect of the gathering. The
editors of the morning papers opened their respective Balaam boxes and
gave the asses a holiday, to borrow a phrase of Christopher North.
Innumerable letters were published, declaring that the mob of reformers,
led by the wild man from Birmingham, would probably sack the town; and
fervent entreaties were addressed to the Government to line the streets
with troops for the protection of peaceful and law-abiding householders.
The Government, which had received its lesson in Hyde Park in the
preceding summer, did nothing of the sort; but I believe that a good many
houses and even shops in the West End were actually closed and barricaded
by their perturbed and nervous proprietors. There was one notable and
significant exception to this rule. Miss--now the Baroness--Burdett-Coutts
not only did not close her house in Piccadilly, but assembled a party of
friends at it, and, seated in the midst of them in the great bay-window
overlooking Piccadilly, saluted in friendly fashion the great army of the
unenfranchised as they passed along the road. She was cheered
vociferously, and must have felt a thrill of satisfaction at the thought
that she was recognised as the worthy representative of that stout old
Radical reformer, Sir Francis Burdett. I took up my position to see the
procession pass in Pall Mall, opposite the Reform Club. I had never before
seen that famous building. It struck me at the time as having a cold and
gloomy exterior, yet I gazed upon it with reverence as the home of the most
distinguished of the men who espoused the cause of liberty. I little
thought, on that dull winter day, how many years I was destined to spend
within its walls, or how large a part I was to take in its affairs.
Of course, all the fears of the alarmists were falsified. The only
untoward incidents were the raids of the pickpockets upon the crowds. I
myself was one of their victims, in a somewhat curious fashion. I was
riding with another reporter in a cab at the tail of the procession. The
crowd, as we approached Lillie Bridge, was very dense, pressing upon us
on all sides. Suddenly a hand was put in at the open window of the cab,
and, before I had the presence of mind to grasp the situation, the pin I
wore had been removed from my scarf, literally under my very eyes. It was
one of the neatest and most impudent robberies I ever saw.
Bright's speech at St. James's Hall was a very fine one. It contained a
memorable passage in which he described men dwelling in fancied security
on the slopes of a slumbering volcano. He demanded if those who warned
them of the peril to which they were exposed were to be accused of being
the cause of that peril. It was a brilliant and telling retort upon those
who charged him with having stirred up a seditious movement for his own
personal ends. But his best speech at St. James's Hall was a brief and
unpremeditated utterance at the close of the meeting. Mr. Ayrton, the
well-known member for the Tower Hamlets, an advanced Radical, and a man
who subsequently made himself notorious as a Minister of the Crown by his
aggressive and unconciliatory utterances, was one of the speakers who
followed Bright. He referred to the demonstration in front of Miss
Burdett-Coutts's house on the previous day, and made some remarks
comparing her with the Queen, who was just then in Scotland, by no means
to the advantage of the latter. Bright's loyalty, which was strong and
real, was outraged by Ayrton's language. In burning words, evidently born
of genuine emotion, he repudiated and rebuked the want of respect shown
to her Majesty, and declared that any woman, be she the wife of a working
man or the queen of a mighty realm, who was capable of showing an intense
devotion to the memory of her lost husband was worthy of the respect and
reverence of every honest heart. Years afterwards, I have reason to know,
that utterance was borne in mind in high quarters. It laid the foundation
of the high personal regard and friendship which her Majesty extended to
the old tribune of the people when he became a Minister of the Crown.