CONCERNING W. E. FORSTER AND OTHERS.
The Beginning of Mr. Stead's Journalistic Career--His Methods--Birth of
the New Journalism--Madame Novikoff and Mr. Stead--Mr. Stead's Attacks
upon Joseph Cowen--How he dealt with a Remonstrance--W. E. Forster--Mr.
Chamberlain's Antagonism--The _Leeds Mercury's_ Defence of
Forster--How he was Jockeyed out of the Cabinet--Forster's
Resignation--News of the Phoenix Park Murders--Forster's Reflections--Mr.
Gladstone's Pity for Social Outcasts--Mr. Chamberlain's Brothers
Blackballed at the Reform--Failure of an Attempt to Crush the _Leeds
Mercury_--Forster's Gratitude.
I now approach an episode in my life which not only had a strong and
permanent influence on my own career, but is of interest in its bearing
on the politics of my time. I refer to my intimate friendship with
William Edward Forster, and to my close association with him in the
stormy episodes which attended the close of his career as a Minister of
the Crown. But before I enter into the story of my relations with this
truly great and noble-minded man, I may say something about another
distinguished person who shared my regard for Mr. Forster, though we had,
perhaps, few other tastes in common. One day in 1871 or 1872--that is to
say, soon after I became editor of the _Leeds Mercury_--I was told
on returning home that a gentleman was waiting to see me who had brought
a letter of introduction, which my servant placed in my hands. The letter
was from my father, and its object was to introduce to me the son of his
old friend, the Rev. William Stead, of Howden, near Newcastle. I need not
say that an introduction from my father would in itself have sufficed to
ensure for the bearer a warm reception; but in any case the story which
young Mr. Stead had to tell me at once enlisted my interest and sympathy.
Like myself, he was the son of a Nonconformist minister, and on leaving
school he had entered upon a business career as a clerk on the quayside
at Newcastle. But he had been irresistibly drawn towards journalism, just
as I myself had been a dozen years earlier, and after contributing
articles to various newspapers, he had received the offer of the
editorship of the _Northern Echo_, a halfpenny newspaper which had
been recently established at Darlington.
Strange to say, when this post was offered to and accepted by him, he was
not only absolutely without editorial experience, but, as he himself told
me, had never seen the inside of a newspaper office in his life. With
that remarkable promptitude and directness of action which, as I
afterwards discovered, was one of his great characteristics, he had no
sooner accepted the editorship than he sought to qualify himself for it
by making the acquaintance and obtaining the advice of someone who had
actual experience in editorial work. It happened that I was the only
editor to whom he could get a personal introduction, and so he came to me
at Leeds to get what guidance and help I could afford him at the outset
of his journalistic career. Remembering to what a height of fame he has
since risen as a journalist, I confess that I look back upon the days
when he thus approached me as a neophyte with some amusement. No doubt I
was already, in his eyes, one of the old fogeys of the Press, and it must
be admitted that there was something of the ugly duckling about his first
appearance in my comparatively tame editorial establishment.
Stead interested me immensely during this first visit that he paid me. He
was pleasingly distinguished by an entire lack of diffidence, and from
the first made no concealment of his own views upon any of the subjects
we discussed together. It is true that when I took him down to the
_Mercury_ office that evening, and wrote my leader whilst he sat at
my desk beside me, he regarded me with the admiring eyes of the novice;
but he had, even then, his own ideas as to how leaders ought to be
written and newspapers edited, and he did not affect to conceal them.
There was something that was irresistible in his candour, his enthusiasm,
and his self-confidence. The Press was the greatest agency for
influencing public opinion in the world. It was the true and only lever
by which Thrones and Governments could be shaken and the masses of the
people raised. In all this I was in strong sympathy with his opinions.
But I was staggered by the audacity of the schemes for revolutionising
English journalism which he poured into my ears on this the first evening
on which he had ever entered a newspaper office. For hour after hour he
talked with an ardour and a freshness which delighted me. If he had come
to me in the guise of a pupil, he very quickly reversed our positions,
and lectured me for my own good on questions of journalistic usage which
I thought I had settled for myself a dozen years before I had met him.
Often I thought his ideas ridiculous: once or twice I thought that he
himself must be mad; but even then I admired his splendid enthusiasm and
his engaging frankness. Occasionally I said to him, "If you were ever to
get your way, you would make the Press a wonderful thing, no doubt; but
you would make the Pressman the best-hated creature in the Universe." At
this he would burst into a roar of laughter, in which I was constrained
to join. "I see, you think I'm crazy," he said once. "Well, not crazy,
perhaps, but distinctly eccentric. You will come all right, however, when
you have had a little experience." Thus, in my blind belief in my own
superior experience and wisdom, I thought and spoke. Many a time since
then I have recalled that long night's talk when I have recognised in
some daring development of modern journalism one of the many schemes
which Stead then flashed before my eyes. We had talked--or, rather, he
had talked--for hours after getting home from work. I was far from being
weary of his conversation, but I knew that the night had passed, and I
rose and drew aside the curtains. Never shall I forget the look of
amazement that overspread Stead's face when the sunshine streamed into
the room. "Why, it is daylight!" he exclaimed, with an air of
bewilderment. "I never sat up till daylight in my life before."
This was my first knowledge of one of the most remarkable and brilliant
journalists of my time. We parted with, I think, mutual feelings of
regard and goodwill, feelings which I, at least, have never lost. I
recognised my visitor from the first as a man of remarkable gifts, of
something that came near to genius. I recognised, too, his honesty and
sincerity, though I had, even then, forebodings as to what might be the
consequences of his impetuous ardour and reckless defiance of old customs
and conventions.
After this, I heard a good deal from Stead during his remarkable
editorship of the _Northern Echo_, nor was I long in discovering
that he was really determined to put what I regarded as his wild theories
of journalism into practice. Of course, it took time to enable him to
make his personality felt in the little paper he edited, but he took care
to keep me acquainted with all that he was doing. Whenever an article of
special interest appeared in the _Echo_ I received a copy of it,
marked with a blue pencil by Stead. At the end of twelve months from his
first engagement as editor, he wrote to me asking if I would give him my
opinion in writing of his work during the year, and the capacity he had
shown as a journalist. With great willingness I wrote to express my high
opinion, not only of his ability, but of his growing aptitude as an
editor. Back in a few days came a reply from this extraordinary man. It
was to tell me that he had shown my letter to the proprietor of the
_Northern Echo_, Mr. Bell, and on the strength of it had succeeded
in obtaining an increase of salary, an increase which I am sure was fully
deserved. For two years, if I remember aright, he went through this
formality. I am confident that Mr. Stead himself, if he should read these
lines, will not make any objection to my revelation of these little
episodes in his early career. I have told them because, whilst they are
so thoroughly characteristic of the man, they are not in any way
derogatory to his reputation.
By-and-by, however, a change took place in our relationship. Stead was
rapidly working his way to the front, and some of the means which he
employed did not commend themselves to my judgment. For example, he was
in the habit of sending marked copies of any article he wrote on
political questions to the statesmen or other public men to whom he had
chanced to refer. I had always been very sensitive myself as to this
practice, regarding it as an attempt to force oneself upon the notice of
public men in a way that was not consistent with an editor's
independence, to say nothing of his dignity.
I may have been wrong in my view. Certainly I have known other
journalists besides Stead who adopted his practice, and I have no right
to sit in judgment upon any of them. But my personal view was that an
editor ought to say honestly what he thought for the benefit of the
readers of his journal, and that he ought neither to obtrude his own
individuality upon those readers, nor to seek to come into close contact
with the men whose actions it was his duty to criticise. Long before this
period in my life I had laid down a rule for myself which I have
consistently observed ever since. This was that I would never seek an
introduction to any public man, or bring under his personal notice
anything that I had written. Stead took another course, and though I
could no longer regard him as a _protégé_ of my own, I did not like
it, and I daresay I did not conceal my feelings from him. But he could
well afford to treat my disapproval with contempt, for his policy
answered even beyond his own expectation. The fact that his paper was a
very small one, published in a small town, gave, I have no doubt,
additional zest to his very acute and intelligent criticisms of public
affairs. Mr. Bright, if I remember rightly, was the first public man of
eminence who drew attention to the articles in the _Northern Echo_,
and he very soon afterwards received a visit from the enterprising
editor. Then Stead, carrying still further his theory of a journalist's
duties, sought interviews with others among the foremost men of the time.
Carlyle was one of those who succumbed to his fascinations, and when
Carlyle one day referred to him in conversation as "that good man Stead,"
the fact quickly became known to the public. Mr. Forster was another of
Stead's earlier heroes and friends, and by-and-by the young editor at
Darlington became known to a considerable circle of prominent persons.
Thus was the New Journalism born. To me, as an Old Journalist, it is not
a thing with which I can pretend to have much sympathy, but I must
acknowledge its brightness, its alertness, its close grip of actualities,
and its rapid and remarkable success. I need hardly say that it was no
longer necessary for the editor of the _Northern Echo_, the friend
of many of the distinguished personages of the day, to seek my testimony
as to his value to his employer. He quickly became recognised for what he
was--a journalist of exceptional capacity and of great originality and
daring.
Differences upon political questions drove us further apart, however,
than any question of the ethics of editorial conduct. The Eastern
Question, of which I have already spoken, excited Stead greatly, and he
distinguished himself not so much by the vehemence of his attacks upon
the unspeakable Turk, as by his uncompromising championship of Russia and
her policy in South-Eastern Europe. It was not a popular line to take,
but Stead followed it with something like enthusiasm. It was at this time
that he fell under the influence of Madame Novikoff, who, whether
accredited or unaccredited, was generally regarded as the unofficial
representative of Russia in this country. She was, and is, a lady of
great talent and plausibility, and she undoubtedly exercised at one time
an extraordinary amount of influence over many distinguished British
politicians. I am not prepared to say that Stead took his inspiration
upon Russian politics solely from Madame Novikoff; but at any rate he
never wrote anything in the _Northern Echo_ in those days of which
that lady could not heartily approve, and thus he made another powerful
and enthusiastic friend in the political society of our time.
Years afterwards, somewhere in the 'nineties, I happened to sit beside
Madame Novikoff at a luncheon party in Mayfair. "I believe you know my
great friend, Stead?" she said, by way of opening our conversation at the
table. I told her I had known him for many years. "And what do you think
of him?" she asked, with an air of innocent curiosity that sat well upon
her guileless countenance. "Is he not wonderful? I think him, for my
part, one of the greatest men alive. What do you think?" I replied, in a
more restrained spirit, that I thought him extremely able, and that he
had certainly accomplished some wonderful achievements as a journalist.
"Ah!" said Madame Novikoff, with an air of quickened curiosity, "you
think that? Now tell me what, in your opinion, is his most wonderful
achievement." I told her that I thought it was his success in championing
the cause of a certain lady. (The story has nothing to do with this
narrative, but it was a _cause célèbre_ in which Stead employed the
methods of the New Journalism in order to secure justice for a woman who
had been gravely wronged.) No sooner had I explained myself to Madame
Novikoff than that lady's face fell. "Ah, I am sorry to hear you say
that. That was not his greatest achievement. But Stead has always been
ready to go crusading at a woman's bidding." Madame Novikoff must have
known what she was talking about.
Among the leading politicians of the North in those days was my old
friend and fellow-townsman, Joseph Cowen, of Newcastle. He had been to
some extent alienated from Mr. Gladstone and from the Liberal party by
disappointment, but he still called himself a Liberal, and there was no
reason to doubt that his political instincts were sound, and that he
might again become one of the Liberal leaders of the North. He took, as
he had always taken, a strong line with regard to Russia, which he looked
upon as the parent of Continental despotism and the traditional enemy of
human freedom. Mr. Stead, full of zeal for the cause represented by
Madame Novikoff, made a series of vehement and persistent attacks upon
Cowen because of his views regarding Russia and the Eastern Question
generally. One day he sent me one of his marked papers containing a
particularly impassioned onslaught upon the member for Newcastle. I
considered that he had invited comment by sending me this article, and I
wrote to him to expostulate with him on the line he was taking, pointing
out that Cowen, who was a very sensitive man, was not unlikely to be
driven out of the party if these attacks were persisted in, and that his
loss would be a serious one to the Liberalism of the North of England. I
don't think I said anything particularly harsh in this letter, which was
in my opinion justified by my relations both with Cowen and with Stead.
The rejoinder was not what I had expected. It came in the shape of an
immensely long article in the _Northern Echo_ entitled, if I
remember aright, "The Editor of the _Leeds Mercury_ and Mr. Cowen."
In this article something I had written about Cowen in the
_Mercury_--I forget what--was held up to ridicule, and was compared
with my private sentiments regarding the member for Newcastle as they had
been gleaned by Mr. Stead in that night-long conversation under my roof,
of which I have spoken in this chapter. Needless to say, my talk was not
faithfully remembered or accurately represented. That, in itself, was a
small matter, but the illustration thus afforded me of the practical
working of the New Journalism was not altogether a pleasant one, and for
some years after this episode there was a distinct coolness between Mr.
Stead and myself. The incident arouses no bitterness now. Mr. Stead
honestly believed that he was entitled to use my frank _obiter
dicta_ for the purpose of correcting what he regarded as my public
errors. I was not the last and by no means the greatest sufferer from
this theory on the part of the founder of the New Journalism; but, as
having been in some small degree a sufferer at his hands, I am, perhaps,
the better able to bear testimony to his absolute honesty of intention,
and to his unfailing conviction that in even his greatest indiscretions
he was acting under the justification of a high moral purpose.
In the spring or summer of 1880 I received a note from John Morley, who
had by this time become editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. It was to
inform me that he had secured a notable man from my part of the world to
assist him in his editorial duties. He was Mr. Stead of Darlington, and
Morley wished to know my opinion of him. My reply did not please Mr.
Morley; for while I told him how highly I admired Mr. Stead's abilities,
I warned him that he would need to be watched closely, as he was a man of
such extreme views and of such daring originality in his manner of
conducting a journal that, if he were not kept under strict control, he
might at any moment seriously commit the newspaper with which he was
connected. At the time Morley took this warning with a very bad grace,
plainly implying that he thought that my feeling with regard to Mr. Stead
was founded on the fact that he was a more real Liberal than myself. But
there came a time when the distinguished politician and man of letters
acknowledged that my hint had been only too fully justified.
One day in 1879 William Edward Forster came into my room at the
_Mercury_ office. For some time he had been in the habit of calling
at intervals to have a chat with me. I believe that each of us was
secretly rather afraid of the other. I had for years regarded him with a
strong feeling of admiration, and I looked confidently to him as the man
who, when Mr. Gladstone in the fulness of time retired from public life,
would take his place and become the recognised leader of the great forces
of English Liberalism. I had supported him with unfaltering loyalty both
in his educational policy and at the time when his name was put forward
in the candidature for the leadership of the party in 1875, and I found
myself in strong sympathy with his views on those foreign and colonial
questions on which I could take sides neither with the Little England nor
with the Jingo school. Forster's visit was chiefly for the purpose of
chatting over the prospects of the Liberal party, but incidentally our
conversation turned upon Mr. Stead. "He has one great fault," said
Forster, "and that is that he does not mix with other people." Certainly
Forster had every reason to think well of Mr. Stead, for he was his loyal
friend and admirer in those dark days when few were found to speak well
of the member for Bradford.
It was in 1881 that Forster became the target of the missiles of that
section of the Liberal party which in those days followed Mr.
Chamberlain. Mr. Chamberlain's followers were naturally anxious that
their hero should arrive at the summit of his ambition, and Mr. Forster
was the man who stood most directly in his path. I do not wish to allege
that there were not real differences of opinion between Mr. Forster and
Mr. Chamberlain, though when one remembers the subsequent history of the
latter it is difficult to understand his constant antagonism to Forster,
the founder of the Imperial Federation movement, and the first Liberal
Imperialist. But whatever his motives might be, Mr. Chamberlain's dislike
of Forster was obvious to everyone. He had powerful means of making that
dislike felt. The caucus in those days was absolutely under his thumb,
and at a sign from him more than half the Liberal Associations in the
country were inclined to pass any resolution that he was pleased to
suggest to them. The _Pall Mall Gazette_ became virtually his
mouthpiece, and one read it as much in those days to ascertain the
thoughts of Mr. Chamberlain as those of its distinguished editor. In the
Cabinet he had secured one or two valuable allies, over whom, by virtue
of his great abilities, he exercised an extraordinary influence. In the
House of Commons the most active wing of the Radical Party was, with
certain notable exceptions, devoted to him. He was the man to whom they
looked as their leader, and as the future chief of a Radical
Administration.
In the winter of 1881-2 all the forces controlled by the caucus were
employed in the work of disparaging and weakening Mr. Forster. The latter
was engaged in his almost hopeless struggle with the disaffected classes
in Ireland--in other words, with four-fifths of the nation. I have told
elsewhere the story of Mr. Forster's public career, and it is not
necessary that I should enter into any defence of his Irish
administration here. But this I must say, that at a time when he was
beset with difficulties of the most formidable and distressing kind, and
when he had a right to expect the loyal support at least of his own
colleagues in the Cabinet, he found himself exposed to intrigues and
cruel side-attacks that still further embarrassed him, and that fatally
weakened his hands. As the winter passed the storm artificially raised
against him increased in violence. All the animosities of Birmingham were
let loose upon his head. The old cries of trimmer and traitor were again
raised against him. The Liberal Press, with hardly an exception, took its
cue from the _Pall Mall Gazette_, whilst the organs of the
Conservative party naturally felt under no obligation to defend him from
the misrepresentations and innuendoes of his formidable foes in his own
party.
I do not think I exaggerate when I say that it was only in the columns of
the _Leeds Mercury_ that he was consistently and steadily defended.
It was a labour of love on my part thus to stand by a man for whom I
entertained so great and affectionate an admiration, and who was, as I
conceived, being so cruelly ill-treated by those of the same political
household as himself. It was said at the time that Forster inspired the
_Leeds Mercury_, and that the articles defending him which I
published were really written by himself. In the interests of honourable
journalism, and of Mr. Forster's reputation, I must state the actual
facts. I was, as I have already said, on terms of personal friendship
with him, and I was in the fullest sympathy with his Irish policy; but
from the moment when he became Chief Secretary until he retired from that
office, Forster held no communication with me, either direct or indirect.
I never saw him, and he never wrote to me, nor did I address a single
word to him. This was characteristic of Forster's high sense of public
duty. He was too proud and too high-spirited to try to enlist any man's
sympathies, or to secure any newspaper advocacy. Men spoke of him as a
clever wire-puller who could manufacture a spurious public sentiment in
his own favour. How little they knew him! If he had chosen to resort to
those arts with which his assailants were so familiar he might have won
the support of many tongues and pens. He preferred, then as always in his
public career, to devote himself with a single-minded purpose to the
performance of his duty, leaving the consequences to take care of
themselves. It was in this way that it came to pass that his only
defender in the Press in those dark and troublous days was a little-known
journalist in Yorkshire.
For my part, I look back with pride and deep satisfaction to the line
which I then took, and from which I never swerved. It was not a
successful line. Mr. Forster's enemies were too powerful for him, and, as
everybody knows, he became their victim. But there are better things in
this world than success, and I am more content to have been Forster's
associate in his unmerited fall than I would have been to share in the
personal triumph which Mr. Chamberlain gained over him. Although
complaint was made, when my "Life" of Forster appeared, that I had made
too full a revelation of Cabinet secrets, the fact remains that a good
deal of truth has still to come out with regard to his resignation of
office in 1882. I do not propose to lift the veil here, but it is well
known that an ingenious trap was laid for him, and that, with
characteristic confidence in the good faith of his fellow-men, he walked
unsuspectingly into it. His resignation, it will be remembered, was due
to his refusal to accept as satisfactory a letter written by Mr. Parnell,
in which he undertook, if he were released from Kilmainham, to give
certain assistance to the Government in putting down outrages in Ireland.
Forster would willingly have accepted Mr. Parnell's word as a gentleman
that he would exert himself to this end, but he was not prepared to
accept the skilfully framed words in which Mr. Parnell sought to convey
the impression that was desired whilst avoiding all personal
responsibility in the matter. Those who wish to know how Mr. Forster was
jockeyed out of office must learn the history of Parnell's letter, and
how and by whom the sentences were devised which seemed acceptable to the
sanguine temperament of Mr. Gladstone, but which Forster, with his closer
knowledge of the situation, regarded as wholly unsatisfactory. The time
has not yet come for the story to be told, but when the precise facts are
revealed they will be found to throw a curious light upon this episode.
Forster's resignation was a great personal blow to me. It was a blow also
both to his personal friends and admirers in Yorkshire, and to a large
section of politicians who knew him to be an upright and single-minded
man, struggling with all his might to maintain order in Ireland and to
preserve the unity of the United Kingdom. There was, however, one further
step that was possible that would have immeasurably increased our
mortification. This was the appointment of Mr. Chamberlain as Forster's
successor. Mr. Chamberlain's friends confidently expected that the
appointment would be made, and for a day or two it seemed certain that
this would be the case. I saw a member of the Government who was the
confidential friend of Mr. Gladstone, and told him that if Mr.
Chamberlain were to be appointed, the _Leeds Mercury_, and all whom
it could influence in Yorkshire would at once enter upon a most strenuous
and thorough-going opposition to the new Irish policy. I was told in
reply that, whatever Mr. Chamberlain himself might have expected, Mr.
Gladstone had not for a single moment contemplated his appointment to the
vacant post, and that his choice had fallen in another quarter.
The Leeds Liberal Club resolved to invite Forster to a complimentary
dinner, in order that he might have the assurance that there was one
great city, at least, in which he retained the confidence and gratitude
of his party. I wrote to Forster to convey this intimation to him, and
had a reply, in which he asked me to meet him in London. On Friday, May
6th, 1882, the appointment of Lord Frederick Cavendish as Irish Secretary
was announced in Parliament, and the writ moved for his re-election after
taking office. The next night, about 11 o'clock, I was sitting in the
morning-room at the Reform Club, talking to the late Mr. William Summers,
then member for Huddersfield. There were but few men in the room, though
amongst those few were one or two Irish members, including Mr. Shaw, who
had been Chairman of the Home Rule party in the House of Commons until he
was superseded by Mr. Parnell. We had all been reading the telegrams on
the board in the hall announcing the enthusiastic reception of the new
Lord Lieutenant, Earl Spencer, and the new Secretary, Lord Frederick
Cavendish, in Dublin. I was discussing with Summers the meaning of the
new departure and of the success of Forster's assailants, when the old
hall-porter of the club burst into the room, and in a state of great
agitation announced to us that a message had been received at the Carlton
Club stating that the Lord Lieutenant and the Chief Secretary had been
assassinated. I cannot describe the mingled amazement, horror, and
incredulity with which the news was received, but I remember well the
extreme distress shown by Mr. Shaw and the other Irish members. "This is
the end of Ireland!" cried Mr. Shaw, with tears in his eyes. For some
time most of us steadily refused to believe the story, for no authentic
news could be gathered respecting it; but, as time passed, the Reform
Club was besieged with inquiries from the other clubs in Pall Mall, the
members of which naturally supposed that authentic news would be
procurable at the Ministerial club. At last someone came in who had been
at Lord Frederick's house in Carlton House Terrace, and he brought the
dreaded confirmation of the story. The Lord Lieutenant, it is true, had
not been attacked, but Lord Frederick had been killed, and with him Mr.
Burke, the Under-Secretary. A shudder ran through the crowd when we were
told that the vile deed had been done with knives.
Inside the club there was now a large assemblage of members, although it
was past midnight. Men came into the club, too, on that eventful night
who were not members, but who were moved by an irrepressible anxiety to
learn the truth as to what had happened. Among these I remember Abraham
Hayward, Q.C., the essayist and Society rattle, who, characteristically
enough, proclaimed to us all the fact that the gentleman who accompanied
him was my Lord So-and-so. But it was outside the club that I witnessed
the most extraordinary scene I ever saw in London. Rumours of the tragedy
had spread through the clubs, but the tidings had not reached the
streets. The clubs, as by a common impulse, emptied themselves, and the
members with one accord flocked to the Reform. On the broad pavement in
Pall Mall some hundreds of men, nearly all in evening dress, were
clustered together, discussing in low tones the horrible event, of which,
as yet, the details were wholly unknown. On the roadway a hundred cabs
were gathered, their drivers evidently bewildered by the unwonted
spectacle, and wondering what had brought together in the stillness of
the early Sunday morning this unwonted crowd.
Suddenly, as I looked upon the scene from the steps of the club, I saw
the crowd fall back on either hand, opening a narrow lane through it.
Along this lane, with bent head, came Lord Hartington, brother of one of
the murdered men, passing from the newly-made house of mourning in
Carlton House Terrace to his home at Devonshire House. No one ventured to
speak to him, but every hat was lifted in token of silent sympathy. It
was a memorable, never-to-be-forgotten night. Years afterwards I heard
from Sir William Harcourt himself an account of how the news first
reached London. There was a big Ministerial dinner party, if I remember
rightly, at Lord Northbrook's; Mr. Gladstone was there, and so was Sir
William Harcourt, then Home Secretary. Dinner was nearly over when Mr.
(now Sir) Howard Vincent, who at that time held a high post at Scotland
Yard, arrived and demanded an immediate interview with the Home
Secretary. To Sir William he showed the official telegram that had just
been received, all other messages having been stopped by the authorities
in Dublin. It was decided, after a consultation, that nothing was to be
said until the ladies had left the dinner table, and that then the news
was to be broken to Mr. Gladstone, who, apart from all other reasons for
feeling the tragedy, had the additional one of a close relationship with
Lady Frederick Cavendish. Mr. Gladstone, though deeply moved, was then,
as always, master of his emotions, and it was he who at once went to
Carlton House Terrace to break the dreadful tidings to his niece, Mrs.
Gladstone accompanying him on the errand.
There was little sleep that night for any of us who had heard the news
before retiring to rest. The next day was such a Sunday as I never
remember to have seen in London before or since. The newspapers spread
the tidings far and wide. In numberless cases men first learned the news
as they were going to church. They turned aside in scores, and hurried
down to Pall Mall to learn the latest particulars of a tragedy that was
instantly recognised as being one that affected the nation as a whole.
From early morning until late at night the fine hall of the Reform Club
was crowded with members, and with friends who came to inquire for
further news. In the forenoon a strange thing happened. Mr. Forster, the
man whose life the villains who struck down Lord Frederick Cavendish and
Mr. Burke had chiefly sought, and who had passed through perils so
terrible that even now the recollection of them raises a shudder, came
into the club. He was besieged at once by a host of members, but breaking
away from them, he came to me, and taking me by the arm, led me to one of
the seats in the hall. Instantly, and as it seemed instinctively, the
great crowd of men formed in a semicircle around us, out of earshot, but
gazing with wondering and sympathetic eyes upon the man who had escaped
so cruel a fate.
I remember the first words that Forster spoke to me. "They may say what
they like," he said, "but it is Mr. Parnell who has done this. He is the
man who sowed the seed of which this is the fruit." And then he talked of
the victims, of Lord Frederick, so gentle, kindly, honourable in all the
relations of life, and of Burke, "the most loyal man," he declared, "who
ever served the Crown." Indeed, at the moment he seemed to feel the death
of poor Burke more acutely than that of Lord Frederick, and he was full
of the idea that if he himself had been in Ireland the lives of both
would have been saved. "I shall go back to Ireland," he said to me
presently. "They must want someone to manage pressing affairs, and I
shall tell Mr. Gladstone that I am at his service." He went straight from
the club to Downing Street, and saw Mr. Gladstone--who, unlike most other
men in London, had been to church that morning. He made the offer, one in
every respect noble and magnanimous as well as courageous; but it was not
accepted. The bitterness of party passion which had been aroused by the
events that culminated in his own resignation had not yet sufficiently
subsided to render such a step possible, and Forster, to my keen regret,
was not permitted to have this fresh opportunity of showing that
unfailing fearlessness in the face of danger which was one of his most
eminent characteristics.
On the following day the adjournment of the House of Commons was moved by
Mr. Gladstone in a speech which betrayed his grief and emotion. That
evening a certain Irish Tory member was dining out, and he told the
following story to a party in which there were women as well as men. "I
was crossing St. James's Park after the rising of the House this
afternoon, when I saw Mr. Gladstone walking in front of me. For the first
time in my life I felt sorry for the fellow, for I knew what a terrible
blow this affair must have been to him. I said to myself, 'Well, there
was no playacting in his speech this afternoon, at all events. The fellow
really felt what he said.' Can you conceive, then, my indignation when on
getting to the top of the steps at the Duke of York's column I saw him
lurking behind the column talking to an abandoned woman?"
A lady who was present at the dinner-party, and who was a great admirer
of Mr. Gladstone, thought it her duty to write to him, and tell him the
charge that had been made against him. She did not mention the name of
her informant, but merely stated the facts that had been reported to her.
She received an immediate reply, on a postcard. It was as follows:--"The
presence of ---- was not unperceived on the occasion to which you refer;
but the conversation he has reported to you was not of the nature he
imagined, and possibly desired." The voice of slander often pursued Mr.
Gladstone, but the reply which he gave to this particular accusation was
recognised, even by his enemies, as complete and conclusive. All through
his life Mr. Gladstone was filled with pity for the outcasts of the
streets, and whenever he could hold out a helping hand to them he did so
with a fearlessness that was characteristic of his courage--the courage
of the pure in heart.
I must turn aside from the Irish tragedy to speak of a small agitation,
in which I and other persons were concerned at the time, that had a
certain connection, not with the Phoenix Park murders, but with the
events that led up to them. Two of Mr. Chamberlain's brothers had been
nominated as candidates for the Reform Club. It was, perhaps, unfortunate
for them that they came up for election in this spring of 1882, when
there was much hostility towards Mr. Chamberlain himself on the part of
many Liberals, who believed that he was intriguing in order to drive Mr.
Forster out of the Cabinet. At all events, the two candidates were
black-balled, and great was the ferment that arose in consequence. In
Birmingham the action of the Reform Club was regarded as an outrageous
insult not only to Mr. Chamberlain himself, but to that section of the
Liberal party to which he then belonged. "The good people of Birmingham
are simply furious," wrote Mr. Chamberlain to his friend, Mr. Peter
Rylands, M.P., "and they even talk of marching upon London," It was an
astounding assertion, but really Mr. Chamberlain's organs in the
Birmingham Press dealt with the black-balling of his brothers in such a
fashion as almost to warrant the expectation that Pall Mall would be
invaded, and the Reform Club sacked, if it did not repent in dust and
ashes of the affront it had offered to the leader of Birmingham
Radicalism. Nothing less would suit Mr. Chamberlain and his friends, as
an atonement for the misdeeds of the club, than such an alteration in the
rules as would deprive the members of the power of black-balling
candidates by transferring elections from the club at large to a special
election committee.
I was present at the meeting of the club at which a resolution to this
effect was proposed by Lord Hartington. The meeting was held only a
couple of days before the Phoenix Park tragedy. It was largely attended,
and many distinguished persons were present. "I saw the whole Cabinet
crowded into the glass and bottle room," said George Augustus Sala, in
speaking of the scene afterwards. Sala himself took a prominent part in
the proceedings, for, provoked by a speech from Mr. Bright, in which he
had denounced black-balling as an odious and ungentlemanly practice, Sala
delivered himself of an impassioned oration in which he asserted that
there was no right more sacred in the eyes of every true-born Englishman
than the right to black-ball anyone he pleased at a club election. I
remember Lord Granville's attempt to reply to Sala's sweeping assertion,
but judging by the cheers, it was the essayist, rather than the earl, who
had the sympathy of the members. Lord Hartington's resolution was carried
by a small majority, and a ballot of the whole club was demanded, to
settle the question finally. When this ballot took place, it was seen
that the feeling of the club as a whole was distinctly adverse to the
proposed change of rules, and Lord Hartington's resolution was rejected
by a large majority. The rejection was due in part, at least, to the
feeling which Mr. Chamberlain had inspired among the moderate Liberals.
Shortly afterwards, Mr. Chamberlain resigned his membership of the club,
and the question of an alteration of the rules fell to the ground.
The Phoenix Park tragedy confirmed many persons in the belief that
Forster had been right, and the rest of the Government wrong, with regard
to Irish policy. In Yorkshire we felt keenly on the subject, and in the
_Leeds Mercury_ I lost no opportunity of vindicating my friend from
the attacks which a section of the advanced Radicals, who claimed Mr.
Chamberlain as their leader, made upon him. The result was to bring about
a strained state of the relations between myself and the official leaders
of the Liberal party. Leeds had given the Government its most signal
victory in the General Election of 1880. It was felt in the Cabinet to be
a serious thing that the _Leeds Mercury_, and with it no
inconsiderable section of the Liberal electors, regarded Mr. Forster's
supersession with indignation, and by some influential member of the
Government a proposal was made to crush the _Mercury_, and prove
that it did not really represent Liberal opinion in Leeds, by convening a
meeting of the Liberal Association for the purpose of expressing
confidence in the Irish policy of the Ministry. It was an absurd device,
and it failed, as it deserved to do. Although we were very angry at the
treatment which Mr. Forster had received, we were perfectly loyal to
Liberal principles and to the leadership of Mr. Gladstone. There was no
need, therefore, to ask us to testify to our confidence in Ministers. But
the men who had succeeded in driving Mr. Forster from office desired to
complete their work by bringing his defenders into open contempt, and
they thought that they would accomplish this by means of a meeting of
Liberal electors in Leeds which should prove to the world that the editor
of the _Leeds Mercury_ represented nobody but himself in his
championship of Forster's cause.
They put pressure upon the Association to summon a meeting, which was
duly held. It turned out to be a demonstration in favour of Forster
rather than the Government, and the attempt to crush independence of
opinion in the Liberal ranks was thus signally foiled. I do not know who
the member of the Cabinet was who was responsible for this manoeuvre, but
whoever he may have been--and I have my suspicions upon that point--he
had little reason to congratulate himself upon the result of his
strategy. For a time the incident caused a certain degree of coldness
between myself and my Liberal friends on the executive of the Liberal
Association. Sir James Kitson and I had worked together so harmoniously
in raising up a united party in Leeds that this partial breach between us
was rather painful. Happily it did not last long. I stood to my own
opinions, and for the future our local Liberal leaders were content that,
whilst supporting them in every matter upon which I was in agreement with
them, I should not be attacked for maintaining my absolute independence
on those questions on which I took a line of my own. No further attempts
were made, I need scarcely add, to intimidate the _Mercury_ by means
of public meetings in Leeds, nor do I think I suffered in the long run in
the estimation of friends from whom I then differed, by the steps I took
to vindicate my character, both as a responsible journalist and as an
independent critic of public affairs.
Naturally I was drawn closer to Forster by the fact that I was thus
constituted his representative and champion in the Press, and I became a
somewhat frequent visitor at his delightful but unpretentious residence
on the banks of the Wharfe at Burley. It was on my first visit to him
after his resignation that an incident took place which touched me
deeply. I was sitting with his and my old friend, Canon Jackson, of
Leeds, in the library after breakfast. Forster, of whose blunt manner I
have already spoken, came into the room. For some time he walked up and
down without speaking, and was apparently somewhat troubled. Suddenly he
turned to Jackson and asked him if he would go out of the room. When the
Canon had gone Forster closed the door behind him, took another turn up
and down the apartment, and then, speaking with evident difficulty, said
to me, "I cannot let you leave this house without letting you know what I
feel with regard to all that you have done for me. When nobody else dared
to say a word in my favour in public during that terrible time in
Ireland, you were always ready to defend me from attack. I needed
defending, Heaven knows! My colleagues left me absolutely alone; they
left me to take my own way, just as if I had been the Czar of Russia. I
was attacked, as you know, both in England and Ireland, by the papers and
public men of all parties. I knew I had very powerful enemies who were
determined to make the worst of everything I did, and none of my own
colleagues defended me. You can never know what a comfort it was to me at
that time to know that I had one staunch friend in the Press, and that
the dear old _Leeds Mercury_ would always judge me fairly and try to
make the public see the truth. God bless you!"
I do not know whether he or I was the more deeply moved by this sudden
and most unexpected outburst of feeling from a man who, as a rule,
stubbornly concealed the sensitiveness of his nature and the warmth of
his heart under a rugged and at times almost forbidding exterior. I do
not pretend to have deserved what he said, but the words he uttered sank
into my heart, never to be forgotten. Henceforth the censures of a caucus
and the sneers of those superior critics who derided me as the victim of
an absurd prejudice in favour of a statesman who had fallen, were as less
than nothing to me.