dinner party given by my friend Sir John R. Robinson, then and until
quite lately manager of the London "Daily News." The dinner was given at
the Reform Club, and took place, I think, some time before Labouchere's
election for Northampton. I had never seen Labouchere before that time,
and had somehow failed to learn his name before we sat down to dinner.
We were not a large party, and the conversation was general. I was soon
impressed by the vivid and unstrained humor of Labouchere's talk and by
the peculiarity of his manner. He spoke his sentences in quiet, slow,
and even languid tones; there was nothing whatever of the "agreeable
rattle" in his demeanor; he had no appearance of any determination to be
amusing, or even consciousness of any power to amuse. He always spoke
without effort and with the air of one who would just as soon have
remained silent if he did not happen to have something to say, and
whatever he did say in his languorous tones was sure to hold the
attention and to delight the humorous faculties of every listener. My
curiosity was quickly aroused and promptly satisfied as to the identity
of this delightful talker, and thus began my acquaintanceship with
Labouchere, which has lasted ever since, and is, I hope, likely to last
for some time longer. Labouchere is a wonderful teller of stories drawn
from his various experiences in many parts of the world, and, unlike
most other story-tellers, he is never heard to repeat an anecdote,
unless when he was especially invited to do so for the benefit of some
one who had not had an opportunity of hearing it before. If he were only
a teller of good stories and an utterer of witty sayings, he would well
deserve a place in the social history of England during our times; but
Labouchere's skill as a talker is one of his least considerable claims
upon public attention. Nature endowed Labouchere with what might be
called a fighting spirit, and I believe that whenever he sees any
particular cause or body of men apparently put under conditions of
disadvantage, his first instinctive inclination is to make himself its
advocate, so far at least as to insist that the cause or the men must
have a fair hearing.
In the House of Commons it could not have happened very often that Henry
Labouchere was found on the side of the strong battalions. I know that
during the heaviest and the fiercest struggles of the Irish National
party against coercive laws and in favor of Ireland's demand for Home
Rule, Henry Labouchere was always found voting with us in the division
lobby. Some of those days were very dark indeed. Before Gladstone had
become converted to the principle of Home Rule for Ireland, and before
the later changes in the system of Parliamentary representation had
given an extended popular suffrage to the Irish constituencies, the
number of Irish representatives who followed the leadership of Charles
Stewart Parnell was for many sessions not more than seven or eight.
There were some English members who always voted with us, and
conspicuous and constant among these were Sir Wilfred Lawson and Henry
Labouchere. Unquestionably neither Labouchere nor Lawson had anything
whatever to gain in Parliamentary or worldly sense by identifying
himself with our efforts in the House of Commons. As soon as Ireland got
her fair share of the popular franchise, Parnell was followed by some
eighty or ninety members out of the hundred and three who constitute the
whole Irish representation. This was the very fact which first brought
Gladstone, as I heard from his own lips, to see that the demand of
Ireland was in every sense a thoroughly national demand, and that the
whole principle of the British constitution claimed for it the
consideration of genuine statesmanship. Labouchere had identified
himself with the national cause in the days before that cause had yet
found anything like representation in the House of Commons. Through all
his political career he remained faithful to that principle of
nationality, and in the time--I hope not distant--when the Irish claim
for Home Rule is recognized and accepted by the British Parliament,
Ireland is not likely to forget that Henry Labouchere was one of the
very few English members who recognized and championed her claim in the
hour when almost every man's hand was against it.
Perhaps the inborn spirit of adventure which makes itself so apparent in
Labouchere's temperament and career may have had something to do with
his championship of the oppressed. I do not say this with any intention
to disparage Labouchere's genuine desire to uphold what he believes to
be the right, but only to illustrate the peculiarities of his nature.
Certainly his love of adventure has made itself conspicuous and
impressive at many stages of his varied career. There is a legend to the
effect that Labouchere joined at one time the company of a traveling
circus in the United States for the novelty and amusement of the
enterprise. I do not know whether there is any truth in this story, but
I should certainly be quite prepared to believe it on anything like
authentic evidence. The adventure would seem quite in keeping with the
temper of the man. Most of us know what happened when the Germans were
besieging Paris during the war of 1870. It suddenly occurred to
Labouchere that it would be a most interesting chapter in a man's life
if he were to spend the winter in the besieged city. No sooner said, or
thought, than done. Labouchere was then one of the proprietors of the
London "Daily News," and he announced his determination to undertake the
task of representing that journal in Paris as long as the siege should
last. Of course he obtained full authority for the purpose, and he
contrived to make his way into Paris, and when there he relieved the
regular correspondent of the "Daily News" from his wearisome and
perilous work by sending him off, in a balloon, I believe, to Tours,
where he was out of the range of the German forces, and could continue
his daily survey of events in general. Then Labouchere set himself down
to enjoy all the hardships of the siege, to live on the flesh of horse
and donkey and even cat and rat, to endure the setting in of utter
darkness when once the sun had gone down, and to chronicle a daily
account of his strange experiences. This was accomplished in his "Diary
of a Besieged Resident," which appeared from day to day in the columns
of the "Daily News," and was afterwards published as a volume, and a
most entertaining, humorous, realistic, and delightful volume it made.
The very difficulties of its transmission by means of balloons and
pigeons and other such floating or flying agencies must have been a
constant source of amusement and excitement to the adventurous besieged
resident.
Labouchere has always been in the habit of seeking excitement by
enterprises on the Stock Exchange. I do not believe that these ventures
have been made with the commonplace desire to make money, but I can
quite understand that they are prompted by the very same desire for new
experiences which prompted the residence in besieged Paris. I remember
meeting Labouchere one day many years ago in a West End London street,
and being told by him that he had just incurred a very heavy loss by one
of his financial ventures on the Stock Exchange. He told me in his usual
tones of almost apathetic languor the amount of his loss, and it seemed
to my modest experiences in money affairs to be a positive fortune
sacrificed. He was smiling blandly while recounting his adventure, and I
could not help asking him how he had felt when the loss was first made
known to him. "Well," he replied, in the same good-humored tone, "it was
an experience, like another." That, I think, is a fair illustration of
Labouchere's governing mood. The great thing was to get a new
sensation. At one time Labouchere became the founder and the owner of a
new theater in London, and he took part in many a newspaper enterprise.
He was, as I have said, for a long time one of the proprietors of the
"Daily News," and he entered into that proprietorship at the very time
when the "Daily News" was making itself most unpopular in capitalist
circles and in what is known as society, by its resolute and manly
adherence to the side of the Federal States during the great American
Civil War. It suited Labouchere's pluck and temper to join in such an
undertaking at the time when the odds seemed all against it; and it is
only fair to say that I am sure no love for a new sensation could induce
Labouchere to take up any cause which he did not believe to be the cause
of right.
Labouchere was one of those who went in with the late Edmund Yates in
founding "The World," then quite a new venture as a society journal.
Labouchere, however, did not long remain a sharer in this enterprise.
Yates was the editor of the paper, and Yates went in altogether for
satirical or at least amusing pictures of West End life, and did not
care anything about politics and the struggles of this or that
political movement. Labouchere could not settle down to any interest in
a newspaper which dealt only with changes of fashion and the
whimsicalities of social life. His close interest in political questions
filled him with the resolve to start a journal which, while dealing with
the personages and the ways of society, should also be the organ of his
own views on graver subjects. He therefore withdrew from all concern in
Edmund Yates's "World" and started his own weekly newspaper, "Truth,"
which has since enjoyed a life of vigor and success. There is room
enough for both papers apparently. The "World" has not lost its circle
of readers, while "Truth" is beyond question a great power in political
and financial as well as in social movements.
One of Labouchere's special delights is to expose in "Truth" some
successful adventurer in pretentious financial schemes, some
hypocritical projector of sham philanthropic institutions, some
charlatan with whom, because of his temporary influence and success,
most other people are unwilling to try conclusions. Such an impostor is
just the sort of man whom Labouchere is delighted to encounter.
Labouchere's plan is simple and straightforward. He publishes an
article in "Truth" containing the most direct and explicit charges of
imposture and fraud against the man whom he has determined to expose,
and he invites this man to bring an action against him in a court of law
and obtain damages, if he can, for slander. Labouchere usually intimates
politely that he will not avail himself of any preliminary and technical
forms which might interpose unnecessary delay, and that he will do all
in his power as defendant to facilitate and hasten the trial of the
action. It happens in many or most cases that the personage thus invited
to appeal to a court of law cautiously refrains from accepting the
invitation. He knows that Labouchere has plenty of money, perceives that
he is not to be frightened out of his allegations, and probably thinks
the safest course is to treat "Truth" and its owner with silent
contempt. Sometimes, however, the accused man accepts battle in a court
of law, and the attention of the public is riveted on the hearing of the
case. Perhaps Labouchere fails to make out every one of his charges, and
then the result is formally against him and he may be cast in damages,
but he cares nothing for the cost and is probably well satisfied with
the knowledge that he has directed the full criticism of the public to
the general character of his opponent's doings and has made it
impossible for the opponent to work much harm in the future. Even the
strongest political antagonists of Labouchere have been found ready to
admit that he has rendered much service to the public by his resolute
efforts to expose shams and quackeries of various kinds at whatever
pecuniary risk or cost to himself.
I do not know whether it would be quite consistent with the realities of
the situation if I were to describe Labouchere as a favorite in the
House of Commons. He has provoked so many enmities, he has made so many
enemies by his sharp sarcasms, his unsparing ridicule, and his sometimes
rather heedless personalities, that a great many members of the House
must be kept in a state of chronic indignation towards him. A man who
arouses a feeling of this kind and keeps it alive among a considerable
number of his brother members could hardly be described with strict
justice as a favorite in the House of Commons. Yet it is quite certain
that there is no man in the House whose sayings are listened to with a
keener interest, and whose presence would be more generally missed if
he were to retire from public life.
One of the many stories which I have heard about Labouchere's peculiar
ways when he was in the diplomatic service is worth repeating here. It
has never been contradicted, so far as I know. When Labouchere was
attaché to the British Legation at Washington--it was then only a
Legation--his room was invaded one day by an indignant John Bull, fresh
from England, who had some grievance to bring under the notice of the
British Minister. That eminent personage was not then in the house, and
the man with the grievance was shown into Labouchere's room. Labouchere
was smoking a cigarette, according to his custom, and he received the
visitor blandly, but without any effusive welcome. John Bull declared
that he must see the Minister at once, and Labouchere mildly responded
that the British Minister was not in the Legation buildings. "When will
he return?" was the next demand, to which Labouchere could only make
answer that he really did not know. "Then," declared the resolute
British citizen, "I have only to say that I shall wait here until he
returns." Labouchere signified his full concurrence with this proposal,
and graciously invited his countryman to take a chair, and then went on
with his reading and noting of letters and his cigarette just as before.
Hours glided away, and no further word was exchanged. At last the hour
came for closing the official rooms, and Labouchere began to put on his
coat and make preparations for a speedy departure. The visitor thereupon
saw that the time had come for some decided movement on his part, and he
sternly put to Labouchere the question, "Can you tell me where the
British Minister is just now?" Labouchere replied, with his usual
unruffled composure, "I really cannot tell you exactly where he is just
now, but I should think he must be nearly halfway across the Atlantic,
as he left New York for England last Saturday." Up rose John Bull in
fierce indignation, and exclaimed, "You never told me that he had left
for England." "You never asked me the question," Labouchere made answer,
with undisturbed urbanity, and the visitor had nothing for it but to go
off in storm.
Labouchere is the possessor of a beautiful and historic residence on the
banks of the Thames--Pope's famous villa at Twickenham. There he is in
the habit of entertaining his friends during the summer months, and
there one is sure to meet an interesting and amusing company. I have had
the pleasure of being his guest many times, and I need hardly say that I
have always found such visits delightful. Labouchere is a most charming
host, and although he is himself a wonderful talker, full of anecdote
and reminiscence, he never fails to see that the conversation is
thoroughly diffused, and that no guest is left out of the talk. In
London he always mixes freely with society, and his London home is ever
hospitable. Many of his friends were strongly of opinion that he ought
to have been invited to become a member of a Liberal administration. I
suppose, however, that most of the solid and steady personages who form
a Cabinet would have been rather alarmed at the idea of so daring and
damaging a free lance being appointed to a high place in the official
ranks of a Government, and it would have been out of the question to
think of offering any subordinate position to so brilliant a master of
Parliamentary debate. For myself I do not feel any regret that
Labouchere, so far, has not taken any place in an administration. He has
made his fame as a free lance, and has done efficient public work in
that capacity, such as he could hardly have accomplished if he had been
set down to the regular and routine duties of an official post. He has
made a name for himself by his independent support of every cause and
movement which he believed to have justice on its side, and I could not
think with any satisfaction of a so-called promotion which must submerge
his individuality in the measured counsels and compromises of a number
of administrative colleagues. I prefer still to think of him as Henry
Labouchere, and not as the Right Honorable Gentleman at the head of
this, that, or the other department of State.
[Illustration: Photograph copyright by London Stereoscopic Co.
JOHN MORLEY]
JOHN MORLEY
No English public man of the present day has had a more remarkable
political career than that of John Morley. Almost everything that could
be against success in political life was against John Morley when he
arose from the student's desk to take his place on the political
platform. I am not now making any allusion to the difficulties set in a
man's way by those accidents which the first Lord Lytton described
grandiloquently as the "twin gaolers of the human heart, low birth and
iron fortune." I am not quite certain what iron fortune may be, but if I
assume it to be early poverty I do not regard it as a very formidable
obstruction to human genius in our times. We have many successful men in
public life just now who were born in humble station and had to struggle
hard for a long time against poverty. John Morley was not born in humble
life, as the phrase goes, and had not, so far as I know, to struggle
against early poverty. He had an Oxford University education and was
called to the bar, but did not make any effort after success in that
profession. The difficulties to which I have alluded as standing in his
way when he determined to seek a career in political and Parliamentary
life had nothing to do with birth and with poverty--they were of quite a
different order.
Morley had taken to literature as a profession, and had made for himself
a distinguished name as a writer of books and an editor of reviews and
newspapers before he obtained a seat in the House of Commons. Now, there
is, or used to be, a sort of fixed belief in the British public mind
that a literary man is not, in the nature of things, qualified for
success in Parliamentary work. We are somewhat getting over this idea of
late, and indeed there were at all times living evidences enough to
shake such a faith. The generation which recognized the success won in
Parliamentary debate by a Macaulay, a Disraeli, and a Bulwer-Lytton
might well have got over the notion that literary men cannot succeed in
Parliament; but even up to the time of John Morley's election to the
House of Commons the idea found still a very general acceptation.
Another and much more serious difficulty in John Morley's way was the
fact that he was a proclaimed agnostic in questions of religious faith.
Now, the average Englishman can hardly be described as one imbued with
profound and exalted religious convictions, but it may be taken for
granted that he thinks every respectable person who is fit to be a
member of Parliament ought to conform to some recognized creed and to
attend some authorized place of worship. John Morley was at one time not
merely an agnostic, but an avowed and somewhat aggressive agnostic, and
his brilliant pen had often been employed to deal satirically with some
established doctrine.
In England there is little or no general objection to freedom of opinion
so long as it is a question merely of opinion. We may know that a man
holds free-thinking opinions, but we feel no wish to inflict any manner
of punishment or deprivation on him so long as he keeps his opinions to
himself and does not endeavor to make them prevail with others. This,
however, was what John Morley had got into the way of doing. When he
felt a strong conviction on any subject which seemed to him important,
he always endeavored to justify his faith by argument and to bring
others round to his views of the question.
I can well remember that many of Morley's admirers and friends were but
little gratified when it was first made known that he intended to seek
for a seat in the House of Commons. Their impression was that he was
just then doing in effective and admirable style the very kind of work
for which he was best qualified, and that it was a pity he should run
the risk of marring such a career for the sake of entering a political
field in which he might possibly win no success, and in which success,
even if won, would be poor compensation for the sacrifice of better
work. Morley, however, seems to have made up his mind, even at an early
period of his career, that he would try his chance in Parliament. So
long ago as 1865 he became a candidate for a constituency in the North
of England, but was not successful; and in 1880, after he had won
genuine celebrity by his biography of Edmund Burke, that of Voltaire,
that of Rousseau, and other books of the same order, he became a
candidate for the great metropolitan division of Westminster. Here
again he was unsuccessful, and it was only in 1883 that he first
obtained a seat in the House of Commons as the representative of
Newcastle-on-Tyne. I can well remember listening with the deepest
interest to his maiden speech in the House of Commons. The general
impression of the House was that the speech would prove a failure, for
only too many members had already made up their minds, according to the
usual fashion of the day, that a successful literary man was not likely
to become a Parliamentary success. There was a common impression also
that, despite his great gifts as a writer and his proved capacity as a
journalist and editor, John Morley must be an impracticable sort of
person. He had been at one time well known as an associate of the famous
Positivist order of thinkers--the order to which men like Frederic
Harrison and Richard Congreve belonged. The average member of Parliament
could see no chance for a disciple of that school, which this average
member regarded merely as a group of dreamers, to make any mark in a
practical assembly where the routine business of legislation had to be
carried on. Morley's speech was, however, a distinct and unmistakable
success.
What first impressed the House of Commons was the ready, quiet force of
Morley's delivery. He had a fine, clear voice, he spoke without notes
and without any manifest evidence of preparation, every sentence
expressed without effort the precise meaning which he wished to convey,
and his style had an eloquence peculiarly its own. What most men
expected of him was the philosophical discourse of a student and a
thinker no longer in his fitting place, and what was least expected of
him was just that which he delivered, a ready, telling, and powerful
Parliamentary speech. He had some unexpected difficulties to encounter,
because he gave out his opinions so forcibly and so boldly that their
utterance called forth frequent interruptions--an unusual event in the
case of a maiden speech, which is generally regarded as a mere
introductory ceremonial and is taken politely as a necessary matter of
form. The House soon found, however, that John Morley's speech did not
by any means belong to the ordinary category of maiden performances, and
the very interruptions were therefore a positive tribute to the
importance of the new member's argument. The interruptions were in every
sense fortunate for Morley, because they enabled him at this very first
opportunity to prove his ready capacity for debate. He replied on the
spur of the moment to every interruption and every interjected question,
and he showed all the composure, all the promptitude and the command, of
a practiced Parliamentary debater. Every man in the House whose opinion
was worth having at once recognized the fact that a new force had come
up in Parliamentary debate, and when John Morley resumed his seat he
must have known that he had accomplished a complete success. From that
time onward John Morley has always been recognized as one of the most
powerful speakers in the House of Commons. His voice is clear, resonant,
and musical, the light of intellect gleams in his earnest eyes, his
argument is always well sustained and set off with varied and
appropriate illustration, and whenever he rises to speak he is sure to
have a deeply attentive audience.