MEN I HAVE KNOWN.
It is the penalty of old age to lose all our friends and acquaintances,
but fortunately our hold on earth weakens as the end of life draws near.
In an active life, we see much of the world and the men who help to make
it better. Many ministers and missionaries came to my father's house
with wonderful accounts of the spread of the Gospel in foreign parts. At
a later time I saw a knot of popular lecturers and agitators--such as
George Thompson, the great anti-slavery lecturer, who, born in humble
life, managed to get into Parliament, where he collapsed altogether. As
an outdoor orator he was unsurpassed, and carried all before him. After
a speech of his I heard Lord Brougham declare it was one of the most
eloquent he had ever heard. He started a newspaper, which, however, did
not make much way. Then there was Henry Vincent, another natural orator,
whom the common people heard gladly, and who at one time was very near
getting into Parliament as M.P. for Ipswich, then, as now, a go-ahead
town, full of Dissenters and Radicals. He began life as a Chartist and
printer, and, I believe, was concerned in the outbreak near Newport. Of
the same class was a man of real genius and immense learning, considering
the disadvantages of his lowly birth, Thomas Cooper, the Chartist, and
author of that magnificent poem, "The Purgatory of Suicides," written
when he was in gaol for being connected with a Chartist outbreak. He had
been a Methodist, he became a Freethinker, and, when I knew him, was
under the influence of Strauss's Life of Jesus, a book which George Eliot
had translated, and which made a great sensation at the time of its
appearance, though it is utterly forgotten now. Cooper and I were
members of an obscure club, in one of the Fleet Street courts, where he
used to declaim with great eloquence on the evil doings of the Tories and
the wrongs of the poor, while at the same time he had a true appreciation
of the utter worthlessness of some of the Chartist leaders. As he
advanced in years he gave up his infidel opinions and became an earnest
advocate of the faith he once laboured to destroy. The last time I saw
him was at his house in Lincoln shortly before he died. He seemed sound
in body, considering his years, but his mind was gone and he remembered
no one. At the same time I saw a good deal of Richard Lovett--a noble
character--who worked all his life for the mental and moral improvement
of the working man, of whom he was such an illustrious example. Cooper
and Vincent and Lovett did much between them to make the working man
respected as he had never been before.
One of the grandest old men I ever knew was George Cruikshank, the
artist, in his later years an ardent advocate of Temperance, but a real
Bohemian nevertheless, enjoying life and all its blessings to the last.
At a dinner-party or at a social gathering of any kind he was at his
best, full of anecdote, overflowing with wit and mimicry; as an orator
also he had great power, and generally managed to keep his audience in a
roar of laughter. While perfectly sober himself, he was very happy in
taking off the drunkard's eccentricities, and would sing "We are not
fou," or "Willie brewed a peck o' malt," as if he deemed a toper the
prince of good fellows. In his old age he had persuaded himself that to
him Dickens owed many of his happiest inspirations, a remark which the
author of "The Pickwick Papers" strongly resented. At his home I met on
one occasion Mrs. Dickens, a very pleasant, motherly lady, with whom one
would have thought any husband could have happily lived, although the
great novelist himself seemed to be of another way of thinking.
Cruikshank's wife seems to have been devoted to him. She was proud of
him, as well she might be. He had a good head of hair, and to the last
cherished a tremendous lock which adorned his forehead. He was rather
square-built, with an eye that at one time must have rivalled that of the
far-famed hawk. He lived comfortably in a good house just outside
Mornington Crescent, in the Hampstead Road; but he was never a wealthy
man, and was always publishing little pamphlets, which, whatever the fame
they brought him, certainly yielded little cash. He had seen a good deal
of life, or what a Cockney takes to be such, and when he was buried in
Kensal Green, the attendance at the funeral showed how large was the
circle of his friends and admirers. To the last he was proud of his
whiskers.
Another friend of mine buried in the same place was Dr. Charles Mackay,
the original editor of _The Illustrated London News_, and who differed so
much with the proprietor, Mr. Ingram, M.P., on the character of the late
French Emperor, for whom Dr. Mackay had a profound contempt, that he had
to resign, and commenced _The London Review_, which did not last long.
At one time his songs, "There's a good time coming, boys," and "Cheer
boys, cheer," were played on every barrel-organ, and were to be heard in
every street. Another of the workers on _The Illustrated News_ was John
Timbs, the unwearying publisher of popular books of anecdotes, by which,
I fear, he did not make much money, as he had to end his days in the
Charter House. His department was to look after the engravings, a duty
which compelled him to sit up all night on Thursdays. Before he had
joined Mr. Ingram's staff, he had edited a small periodical called _The
Mirror_, devoted to useful and amusing literature. I fancy his happiest
hours were passed chatting with the literary men who were always hovering
round the office of the paper--like Mr. Micawber, in the hope of
something turning up. You could not be long there without seeing Mark
Lemon--a mountain of a man connected with _Punch_, who could act Falstaff
without stuffing--who was Mr. Ingram's private secretary. A wonderful
contrast to Mark Lemon was Douglas Jerrold, a little grey-haired,
keen-eyed man, who seemed to me to walk the streets hurriedly, as if he
expected a bailiff to touch him on the back. Later, I knew his son, Mr.
Blanchard Jerrold, very well, and always found him a very courteous and
pleasant gentleman. With Hain Friswell, with the ever-sparkling,
black-eyed George Augustus Sala, with that life-long agitator Jesse Jacob
Holyoake, for whom I had a warm esteem, I was also on very friendly
terms. Once, and once only, I had an interview with Mr. Charles
Bradlaugh who, when he recognised me as "Christopher Crayon" of _The
Christian World_, gave me a hearty shake of the hands. Had he lived, I
believe he would have become a Christian. At any rate, of later years,
his hostility to Christianity seemed to have considerably toned down. Be
that as it may, I always held him to be one of the most honest of our
public men. I had also the pleasure once of sitting next Mr. Labouchere
at a dinner at a friend's. He talked much, smoked more, and was as witty
as Waller, and like him on cold water. Another teetotaler with whom I
came much into contact was the late Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson, a
shortish, stout man to look at, a good public speaker, and warmly devoted
alike to literature and science. Another distinguished man whom I knew
well was Mr. James Hinton, the celebrated aurist and a writer on
religious matters which at one time had great effect. He was the son of
the celebrated Baptist preacher, the Rev. John Howard Hinton, and I was
grieved to learn that he had given up his practice as an aurist in
Saville Row, and had bought an orange estate far away in the Azores,
where he went to die of typhoid fever.
On the whole I am inclined to think I never had a pleasanter man to do
with than Mr. Cobden. "Why don't you commence a movement in favour of
Free Trade in land?" I one day said to him. "Ah," was his reply, "I am
too old for that. I have done my share of work. I must leave that to be
taken up by younger men." And, strange to say, though this has always
seemed to me the great want of the age, the work has been left undone,
and all the nation suffers in consequence. As an illustration of Mr.
Cobden's persuasiveness let me give the following. Once upon a time he
came to Norwich to address an audience of farmers there--in St. Andrew's
Hall, I think. On my asking an old Norfolk farmer what he thought of Mr.
Cobden as a speaker, his reply was, "Why he got such a hold of us that if
he had held up a sheet of white paper on the platform and said it was
black, there was not a farmer in the hall but would have said the same."
Cobden never irritated his opponents. He had a marvellous power of
talking them round. In this respect he was a wonderful contrast to his
friend and colleague, John Bright.
A leading teetotaler with whom I had much to do was the late Mr.
Smithies, founder of _The British Workman_ and publications of a similar
class. At an enormous expense he commenced his illustrated paper, full
of the choicest engravings, and published at a price so as to secure them
a place in the humblest home. For a long while it was published at a
loss. But Mr. Smithies bravely held on, as his aim, I honestly believe,
was to do good rather than make money. He was a Christian social
reformer, a Wesleyan, indifferent to politics, as Wesleyans more or less
were at one time. Square-built, of rather less than medium height, with
a ruddy face, and a voice that could be heard all over Exeter Hall--he
looked the picture of health and happiness. I never saw him frown but
when I approached him with a cigar in my mouth. Mr. Smithies was one of
the earliest to rally round the Temperance banner. His whole life was
devoted to doing good in his own way. He never married, and lived with
his mother, a fine old lady, who contrived to give her dutiful and
affectionate son somewhat of an antiquated cast of thought, and never was
he happier than when in the company of Lady Burdett Coutts or great Earl
Shaftesbury.
I had also a good deal to do with Mr. W. H. Collingridge, who founded
that successful paper, _The City Press_, which his genial son, Mr. G.
Collingridge, still carries on. By means of my connection with _The City
Press_ I came into contact with many City leaders and Lord Mayors, and
saw a good deal of City life at the Mansion House and at grand halls of
the City Companies. I think the tendency in these days is much to run
down the City Corporation. People forget that the splendid hospitality
of the Mansion House helps to exalt the fame and power of England all the
world over. Once upon a time I attended a Liberal public meeting at
which two M.P.'s had spoken. One of the committee said to me, "Now you
must make a speech." My reply was that there was no need to do so, as
the M.P.'s had said all that was required. "Oh, no," said my friend,
"not a word has been said about the Corporation of London. Pitch into
them!" "No, no," I replied. "I have drunk too much of their punch and
swallowed too much of their turtle-soup." I will never run down the City
Fathers, many of whom I knew and respected, and at whose banquets men
gathered--not merely City people, but the leading men of all the world.
The glory of the Mansion House is the glory of the land.
I could go on for a long while. Have I not been to _soirees_ at great
men's houses and met all sorts and conditions of people? Only two men
have I given myself the trouble to be introduced to--one was Barnum,
because he frankly admitted he was a humbug, though he seemed a decent
fellow enough in private life. Another was Cetewayo, the
jolliest-looking Kaffir I ever saw, and I went to see him because our
treatment of him was a shame and a national disgrace. Once on a time as
we were waiting for Royalty on a distant platform, one of the committee
offered to introduce me to H.R.H. I declined, on the plea that I must
draw the line somewhere, and that I drew it at princes, but oh! the
vanity of wasting one's time in society. Of the gay world, perhaps the
wittiest and pleasantest, as far as my personal experience is concerned,
was the late Charles Mathews. I had seen him on the stage and met him in
his brougham and talked with him, and once I was invited to a grand party
he gave to his friends and admirers. As I went into the reception-room I
wondered where the jaunty and juvenile actor could be. All at once I saw
a venerable, bald-headed old man coming down on me. Oh! I said to
myself, this must be the butler coming to account for his master's
absence. Lo, and behold! it was Charley Mathews himself!