I
The adventure of journalism which has been mine--as editor, reporter,
and war correspondent--is never a life of easy toil and seldom one of
rich rewards. I would not recommend it to youth as a primrose path, nor
to anyone who wishes to play for safety in possession of an assured
income, regular hours, and happy home life.
It is of uncertain tenure, because no man may hold on to his job if
he weakens under the nervous strain, or quarrels on a point of honor
with the proprietor who pays him or with the editor who sets his task.
Even the most successful journalist--if he is on the writing side of
a newspaper--can rarely bank on past achievements, however long and
brilliant, but must forever jerk his brain and keep his curiosity
untired.
As nobody, according to the proverb, has ever seen a dead donkey, so
nobody has ever seen a retired reporter living on the proceeds of his
past toil, like business men in other adventures of life. He must go on
writing and recording, getting news until the pen drops from his hand,
or the little bell tinkles for the last time on his typewriter, and
his head falls over an unfinished sentence.... Well, I hope that will
happen to me, but some people look forward to an easier old age.
I have known the humiliation of journalism, its insecurity, its
never-ending tax upon the mind and heart, its squalor, its fever,
its soul-destroying machinery for those who are not proof against its
cruelties. Hundreds of times, as a young reporter, I was stretched to
the last pull of nervous energy on some “story” which was wiped out for
more important news. Often I went without food and sleep, suffered in
health of body and mind, girded myself to audacities from which, as a
timid soul, I shrank, in order to get a “scoop”--which failed.
The young reporter has to steel his heart to these disappointments.
He must not agonize too much if, after a day and night of intense and
nervous effort, he finds no line of his work in the paper, or sees
his choicest prose hacked and mangled by impatient subeditors, or his
truth-telling twisted into falsity.
He is the slave of the machine. Home life is not for him, as for other
men. He may have taken unto himself a wife--poor girl!--but though she
serves his little dinner all piping hot, he has to leave the love feast
for the bleak streets, if the voice of the news editor calls down the
telephone.
So, at least, it was in my young days as a reporter on London
newspapers, and many a time in those days I cursed the fate which had
taken me to Fleet Street as a slave of the press.
Several times I escaped; taking my courage in both hands--and it
needed courage, remembering a wife and babe--I broke with the spell of
journalism and retired into quieter fields of literary life.
But always I went back! The lure of the adventure was too strong. The
thrill of chasing the new “story,” the interest of getting into the
middle of life, sometimes behind the scenes of history, the excitement
of recording sensational acts in the melodrama of reality, the meetings
with heroes, rogues, and oddities, the front seats at the peep show of
life, the comedy, the change, the comradeship, the rivalry, the test
of one’s own quality of character and vision, drew me back to Fleet
Street as a strong magnet.
It was, after all, a great game! It is still one of the best games in
the world for any young man with quick eyes, a sense of humor, some
touch of quality in his use of words, and curiosity in his soul for
the truth and pageant of our human drama, provided he keeps his soul
unsullied from the dirt.
Looking back on my career as a journalist, I know that I would not
change for any other. Fleet Street, which I called in a novel _The
Street of Adventure_, is still my home, and to its pavement my feet
turn again from whatever part of the world I return.
When I first entered the street, twenty years ago alas! the social
status of press men was much lower than at present, when the pendulum
has swung the other way, so that newspaper proprietors wear coronets,
the purlieus of Fleet Street are infested with barons and baronets,
and even reporters have been knighted by the King. In my early days
a journalist did not often get nearer to a Cabinet Minister than the
hall porter of his office. It was partly his own fault, or at least,
the fault of those who paid him miserably, because the old-time
reporter--before Northcliffe, who was then Harmsworth, revised his
salary and his status--was often an ill-dressed fellow, conscious of
his own social inferiority, cringing in his manner to the great, and
content to slink round to the back doors of life, rather than boldly
assault the front-door knocker. Having a good conceit of myself and a
sensitive pride, I received many hard knocks and humiliations which, no
doubt, were good for my soul.
I resented the insolence of society women whom I was sent to interview.
Even now I remember with humiliation a certain Duchess who demanded
that, in return for a ticket to her theatrical entertainment, I should
submit my “copy” to her before sending it to the paper. Weakly, I
agreed, for my annoyance was extreme when an insolent footman demanded
my article and carried it on a silver salver, at some distance from
his liveried body, lest he should be contaminated by so vile a thing,
to Her Grace and her fair daughters in an adjoining room. I heard them
reading it, and their mocking laughter.... I raged at the haughty
arrogance of young government officials who treated me as “one of those
damned fellows on the press.” I laughed bitterly and savagely at a
certain Mayor of Bournemouth who revealed in one simple sentence (which
he thought was kind) the attitude of public opinion toward the press
which it despised--and feared.
“You know,” he told me in a moment of candor, “I always treat
journalists as though they were gentlemen.”
For some time I disliked all mayors because of that confession, and a
year or two later, when conditions were changing, I was able to take a
joyous revenge from one of them, who was the Mayor of Limerick. He did
not even treat journalists as though they were gentlemen. He treated
them as though they were ruffians who ought to be thrust into the outer
darkness.
King Edward was making a Royal Progress through Ireland--it was before
the days of Sinn Fein--and, with a number of other correspondents, some
of whom are now famous men, it was my duty to await and describe his
arrival at Limerick and report his speech in answer to the address.
Seeing us standing in a group, the Mayor demanded to know why we dared
to stand on the platform where the King was about to arrive, when
strict orders had been given that none but the Mayor and Corporation,
and the Guard of Honor, were permitted on that space. “Get outside the
station!” shouted the Mayor of Limerick, “or I’ll put my police on to
ye!”
Explanations were useless. Protests did not move the Mayor. To avoid an
unpleasant scene, we retired outside the station, indignantly. But I
was resolved to get on that platform and defeat the Mayor at all costs.
I noticed the appearance of an officer in cocked hat, plumes, and full
uniform, whom I knew to be General Pole-Carew, commanding the troops
in Ireland, and in charge of the royal journey. I accosted him boldly,
told him the painful situation of the correspondents who were there
to describe the King’s tour and record his speeches. He was courteous
and kind. Indeed, he did a wonderful and fearful thing. The Mayor and
Corporation were already standing on a red carpet enclosed by brass
railings, immediately opposite the halting place of the King’s train.
General Pole-Carew gave the Mayor a tremendous dressing down which
made him grow first purple and then pale, and ordered him, with his
red-gowned satellites, to clear out of that space to the far end of
the platform. General Pole-Carew then led the newspaper men to the red
carpet enclosed by brass railings. It was to us that King Edward read
out his reply to the address which was handed to him, while the Mayor
and Corporation glowered sulkily.
Unduly elated by this victory, perhaps, one of my colleagues who had
been a skipper on seagoing tramps before adopting the more hazardous
profession of the press, resented, a few days later, being “cooped
up” in the press box at Punchestown races which King Edward was to
attend in semi-state. Nothing would content his soul but a place on
the Royal Stand. I accompanied him to see the fun, but regretted my
temerity when, without challenge, we stood, surrounded by princes and
peers of Ireland, at the top of the gangway up which the King was to
come. I think they put down my friend the skipper as the King’s private
detective. He wore a blue reefer coat and a bowler hat with a curly
brim. By good luck I was in a tall hat and morning suit, like the rest
of the company. Presently the King came, in a little pageant of state
carriages with outriders in scarlet and gold, and then, with his
gentlemen, he ascended the gangway, shaking hands with all who were
assembled on the stairs. The skipper, who was a great patriot, and
loved King Edward as a “regular fellow,” betrayed himself by the warmth
of his greeting. Grasping the King’s hand in a sailorman’s grip, he
shook it long and ardently, and expressed the hope that His Majesty was
quite well.
King Edward was startled by this unconventional welcome, and a few
moments later, after some whispered words, one of his equerries touched
the skipper on the shoulder and requested him politely to seek some
other place. I basely abandoned my colleague, and betrayed no kind of
acquaintance with him, but held to the advantage of my tall hat, and
spent an interesting morning listening to King Edward’s conversation
with the Irish gentry. Prince Arthur of Connaught was there, and I
remember that King Edward clapped him on the back and chaffed him
because he had not yet found a wife. “It’s time you got married, young
fellow,” said his illustrious uncle.
That memory brings me to the importance of clothes in the career of
a journalist. It was Lord Northcliffe, then Alfred Harmsworth, who
gave me good advice on the subject at the outset of my journalistic
experience.
“Always dress well,” he said, “and never spoil the picture by being in
the wrong costume. I like the appearance of my young men to be a credit
to the profession. It is very important.”
That advice, excellent in its way, was sometimes difficult to follow,
owing to the rush and scurry of a reporter’s life. It is difficult to
be correctly attired for a funeral in the morning and for a wedding in
the afternoon, at least so far as the color of one’s tie.
I remember being jerked off to a shipwreck on the Cornish coast in a
tall hat and frock coat which startled the simple fishermen who were
rescuing ladies on a life line.
A colleague of mine who specialized in dramatic criticism was suddenly
ordered to write a bright article about a garden party at Buckingham
Palace. Unfortunately he had come down to the office that morning in a
blue serge suit and straw hat, which is not the costume worn on such
occasions. One of the King’s gentlemen, more concerned, I am sure, than
the King, at this breach of etiquette, requested him to conceal himself
behind a tree.
The absence of evening dress clothes, owing to a hurried journey, has
often been a cause of embarrassment to myself and others, with the risk
of losing important news for lack of this livery.
So it was when I was invited to attend a banquet given to Doctor Cook
in Copenhagen, when he made his claim of having discovered the North
Pole. For reasons which I shall tell later in these memories, it was
of great importance to me to be present at that dinner, where Doctor
Cook was expected to tell the story of his amazing journey. But I
had traveled across Europe with a razor and a toothbrush, and had
no evening clothes. For a shilling translated into Danish money, I
borrowed the dress suit of an obliging young waiter. He was a taller
man than I, and the sleeves of his coat fell almost to my wrists, and
the trousers bagged horribly below the knees. His waistcoat was also
rather grease-stained by the accidents inevitable to his honorable
avocation. In this attire I proceeded self-consciously to the Tivoli
Palace where the banquet was held. I had to ascend a tall flight of
marble steps, and, being late, I was alone and conspicuous.
Feeling like Hop-o’-my-Thumb in the giant’s clothes, I pulled myself
together, hitched up my waiter’s trousers, and advanced up the marble
stairs. Suddenly I was aware of a fantastic happening. I found myself,
as the fairy tales say, receiving a salute from a guard of honor.
Swords flashed from their scabbards and my fevered vision was conscious
of a double line of figures dressed in the scarlet coats and buckskin
breeches of the English Life Guards.
“This,” I said to myself, “is what comes to a man who hires a waiter’s
clothes. I have undoubtedly gone crazy. There are no English Life
Guards in Copenhagen. But there is certainly a missing button at the
back of my trousers.”
It was the chorus of the Tivoli Music Hall which was providing the
Guard of Honor, and they were tall and lovely ladies.
I was caught napping again, not very long ago, when the King of the
Belgians granted my request for a special interview. An official of the
British Embassy, who conveyed that acceptance to me, also advised me
that I must wear a frock coat and top hat when I visited the Palace,
for that appointment which, he said, was at four o’clock. I had come
to Brussels without a frock coat--and indeed I had not worn that
detestable garment for years--and without a top hat. I decided to buy
or hire them in Brussels.
It was Saturday morning, and I spent several hours searching for
ready-made frock coats. Ultimately I hired one which had certainly been
made for a Belgian burgomaster of considerable circumference--and I am
a lean man, and little. I also acquired a top hat which was of a style
favored by London cabbies forty years ago, low in the crown and broad
and curly in the brim. I carried these parcels back, hoping that by
holding my hat in the presence of Majesty, and altering the buttons on
the frock coat, I might maintain a dignified appearance.
I did not make a public appearance in that costume however, as I missed
the hour for the interview owing to a mistake of the British Embassy.
As a young man, before serious things like wars and revolutions,
plagues and famines entered into my sphere of work, I spent most of my
days on _The Daily Mail_, _The Daily Chronicle_, and other papers,
chasing the “stunt” story, which was then a new thing in English
journalism, having crossed the water from the United States and excited
the imagination of such pioneers as Harmsworth and Pearson. The old
dullness and dignity of the English Press had been rudely challenged
by this new outlook on life, and by the novel interpretation of the
word “news” by men like Harmsworth himself. Formerly “news” was
limited in the imagination of English editors to verbatim reports of
political speeches, the daily record of police courts, and the hard
facts of contemporary history, recorded in humdrum style. Harmsworth
changed all that. “News,” to him, meant anything which had a touch of
human interest for the great mass of folk, any happening or idea which
affected the life, clothes, customs, food, health, and amusements of
middle-class England. Under his direction, _The Daily Mail_, closely
imitated by many others, regarded life as a variety show. No “turn”
must be long or dull. Whether it dealt with tragedy or comedy, high
politics or other kinds of crime, it was admitted, not because of its
importance to the nation or the world, but because it made a good
“story” for the breakfast table.
In pursuit of that ideal--not very high, but not a bad school for
those in search of human knowledge--I became one of that band of
colleagues and rivals who were sent here, there, and everywhere on
the latest “story.” It led us into queer places, often on foolish and
futile missions. It brought us in touch with strange people, both high
and low in the social world. It was my privilege to meet kings and
princes, murderers and thieves, politicians and publicans, saints and
sinners, along the roads of life in many countries. As far as kings
are concerned, I cannot boast that familiarity once claimed by Oscar
Browning who, when he showed the ex-Kaiser over Cambridge, asserted to
the undergraduates who questioned him afterward that “He is one of the
nicest emperors I have ever met.”
With rogues and vagabonds I confess I have had a more extensive
acquaintance. The amusement of the game of finding a “story” was the
unexpectedness of the situation in which one sometimes found oneself,
and the personal experience which did not appear in print. As a trivial
instance, I remember how I went to inquire into a ghost story and
became, surprisingly, the ghost.
Down in the West of England there was, and still is, a great house so
horribly haunted (according to local tales) that the family to which
it has belonged for centuries abandoned its ancient splendor and lived
near by in a modern villa. Interest was aroused when a young chemist
claimed that he had actually taken a photograph of one of the ghosts
during a night he had spent alone in the old house. I obtained a copy
of this photograph, which was certainly a good “fake,” and I was asked
to spend a night in the house myself with an Irish photographer who
might have equal luck with some other spirit.
Together we traveled down to the haunted house, which we found to be an
old Elizabethan mansion surrounded by trees, and next to a graveyard.
It was dark when we arrived, with the intention of making a burglarious
entry. Before ten minutes had passed the Irish photographer was saying
his prayers, and I had a cold chill down my spine at the sighing of
the wind through the trees, the hooting of an owl, and the little
squeaks of the bats that flitted under the eaves. With false courage we
endeavored to make our way into the house. Every window was shuttered,
every door bolted, and we could find no way of entry into a building
that rambled away with many odd nooks and corners. At last I found a
door which seemed to yield.
“Stand back!” I said to the Irish photographer. I took a run and
hurled my shoulder against the door. It gave, and I was precipitated
into a room--not, as I found afterward, part of the Elizabethan
mansion, but a neighboring farmhouse, where the farmer and his family
were seated at an evening meal. Their shrieks and yells were piercing,
and they believed that the ghosts next door were invading them.... I
and the photographer fled without further explanation.
On another day I went down into the country to interview a dear old
clergyman, who had reached his hundredth year, and had been at school
with the famous Doctor Arnold of Rugby. The old gentleman was stone
deaf and for some time could not make out the object of my visit.
At last it seemed to dawn on him. “Ah, yes!” he said. “You are the
gentleman who is coming to sing at our concert to-night. How very kind
of you to come all the way from London!” Vainly I endeavored to explain
that I had come to interview him for a London paper. Presently he took
me by the arm, and led me into his drawing-room, where a charming old
lady was sitting by the fire knitting.
“My dear,” said the centenarian parson, “this gentleman has come all
the way from London to sing at our concert to-night.”
I explained to her gently that it was not so, but she was also deaf,
and could only hear her husband when she used her ear trumpet.
“How very kind of you to come all this way!” she said graciously.
Presently another old gentleman appeared on the scene and I was
presented to him as the young gentleman who had come down from London
to sing at the concert.
“Pardon me,” I said; “it’s all a mistake. I’m a newspaper reporter.”
But the second old gentleman ignored my explanation. He had only caught
the word “concert.”
“Delighted to meet you!” he said. “We are all looking forward to your
singing to-night!”
I slunk out of the house later, and drove back fifteen miles to the
station. On the way I passed an old horse cab conveying a young man in
the opposite direction. I felt certain that he actually was the young
gentleman who was going to sing at the concert that night.
On another occasion I had the unfortunate experience of being taken for
Mr. Winston Churchill. It was his luck and not mine, because it was at
a time when a great number of Irishmen were lusting for his blood. I am
no more like Mr. Churchill than I am like Lloyd George, except that we
are both clean shaven and both happened to be driving in a blue car. It
was on a day when there was trouble in Belfast (that city of peace!)
and the Orangemen had sworn to prevent Churchill from speaking to the
Catholic community on the Celtic Football Ground. They lined up for
him thousands strong outside the railway station where he was due to
arrive, and their pockets were loaded with “kidney” stones, and iron
nuts from the shipyards. Churchill is a brave man, and faced them with
such pluck that they did not attempt to injure him at that moment of
his arrival, though afterwards they attacked his car in Royal Avenue
and would have overturned it but for a charge of mounted police. He
made his speech to the Catholic Irish and slipped out of Belfast by
a different station. The mobs of Orangemen were awaiting his return
in a blue car to a hotel in Royal Avenue, and it was my car, and my
clean-shaven face under a bowler hat which went back to that hotel
and caused a slight mistake among them. I was suddenly aware of ten
thousand men yelling at me fiercely and threatening to tear me limb
from limb. The police made a rush, and I and my companion escaped with
only torn collars and the loss of dignity after a wild scrimmage on the
steps of the hotel. For hours the mob waited outside for Mr. Winston
Churchill to depart, and I did not venture forth until the news of his
going spread among them.
Such incidents are not enjoyable at the time. But a newspaper man with
a sense of humor takes them as part of his day’s work, and however
trivial they may be, bides his time for big events of history in which,
after his apprenticeship, he may find his chance as a chronicler of
things that matter.