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Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842 1885

S >> Stuart J. Reid, ed. >> Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842 1885




In that election of 1868 I recorded my first parliamentary vote. Living
at 24, Addison Road North, I was an elector of Chelsea, and I duly
supported at the polling booth the joint candidature of Sir Charles Dilke
and Sir Henry Hoare. This was the last General Election before the
passing of the Ballot Bill. Representatives of the different candidates
sat on either side of the poll clerk, and duly thanked each elector as he
recorded his vote for the man whom they represented.

I wrote an article in the _St. James's Magazine_ describing the
opening day of the session of the new Household Suffrage Parliament. It
was called "The Birthday of an Era," and, looking back, I think I was
fully entitled to make use of that somewhat high-sounding phrase. It was
the beginning of the Gladstonian epoch in English history, and, for good
or for evil (in my own opinion mainly for good), it was destined to make
a deep impression on the institutions and fortunes of the nation. When
Mr. Gladstone entered upon his first term of office as Prime Minister, he
was certainly surrounded by a wonderful band of colleagues. They included
Lord Granville, Lord Hartington, Lord Kimberley, Mr. Lowe, Mr. Bright,
Mr. Cardwell, Mr. Childers, Mr. Bruce, and Mr. Forster. In my time no
stronger ministry than this has had power in England. The men I admired
most after Mr. Gladstone were Mr. Bright and Mr. Forster. I had not yet
made the personal acquaintance of Forster, and did not dream of the close
ties by which we were eventually to be united; but I was drawn to him
from the very first by an instinctive feeling of liking and esteem. His
blunt speech, his careless dress, his unpolished but genuine manners, all
seemed to me to mark him out as that rare creature a thoroughly honest
politician; and whilst I sat in the Reporters' Gallery, there was no one
after Mr. Gladstone whose speeches delighted me more than did those of
Forster.

Before the Ministry had been long in office I was brought into contact
with one of its members, Mr. W.E. Baxter, the Secretary to the Admiralty.
Mr. Baxter was a great reformer and a financial purist. When he went to
the Admiralty he found extravagance and confusion, not to speak of
corruption, pervading all the departments connected with the provision of
_matériel_ for the Fleet. He set to work at once, with the vigour of
the new broom, to cleanse the Augean stable. Naturally he excited the
bitter hostility of those whose personal interests were affected by his
action, and these, being in many cases persons of influence, were able to
inspire attacks upon his policy in the leading organs of the daily press
in London. I, in my small way, as London correspondent of the _Leeds
Mercury_, had defended him against some of these attacks. Baxter
noticed my defence, and sought me out in order to thank me for it. He did
more than this. He proposed that I should hear from him from time to time
how he was advancing in his work of reorganisation and reform, and should
make the facts known to the public through the columns of the
_Mercury_. This was great promotion for me. In those days the
provincial press had no direct connection with Ministers or the leaders
of parties; and the "London correspondent" was not in a position to
supply his readers with news at first hand, or with any news, indeed,
that was at once original and authentic. Through Mr. Baxter I suddenly
found myself placed in a position that enabled me to provide the _Leeds
Mercury_ with political and administrative news that was not only of
the highest importance, but that had not appeared anywhere else. For Mr.
Baxter was better than his word. When I went, as I did several times a
week, to see him at the Admiralty, he not only told me all that was going
on in his own department, but all that could be published with regard to
the proceedings of the Government as a whole. I think I am correct in
saying that I was at that time the only correspondent of a provincial
newspaper who was favoured in this way, and my letter to the
_Mercury_ began to be read and quoted in many different quarters.
Certainly my position was made both easier and more important by this
friendship with Mr. Baxter.

During the whole of 1869 I attended the debates in Parliament, and
watched with eager sympathy the progress of the Government in the heavy
task that it had set itself. The passing of the Bill for disestablishing
the Irish Church was the chief business of that memorable session. The
speaking on both sides was at the highest level. In the House of Commons,
Gladstone, Disraeli, Bright, Lowe, and Gathorne Hardy distinguished
themselves above all others. But the palm for oratory, as has so often
been the case, was borne off by the House of Lords. That House presented
a brilliant spectacle during the debates on the second reading of the
Bill which the majority of the peers detested so heartily. The speaking
against the measure was far more effective than that in its favour.
Indeed, at this distance of time I can only recall one speech by a
supporter of the Bill which impressed itself so strongly upon me as to
remain fresh in my memory after the lapse of more than thirty years. That
was the speech of Dr. Connop Thirlwall, Bishop of St. David's, who was
courageous enough to stand against his brethren, and to prefer the claims
of justice to those of the Establishment in which he was a leading
figure. On the other hand, two at least of the speeches delivered against
the Bill are still vividly present to my mind. The first was the speech
of Dr. Magee, Bishop of Peterborough, an extraordinary display of florid
and flowing eloquence. It moved the House so greatly that when he sat
down the Tory peers rose, almost in a body, and rushing across the floor,
offered him their personal congratulations and handshakes in recognition
of his success. Such a scene, common enough in foreign Chambers, was
almost without precedent in our cold and stately House of Lords. The
other memorable speech was that of Lord Derby, "the Rupert of debate."
Though I had no sympathy with his views, I could not but admire the
almost passionate fervour with which he pleaded for the Irish Church, and
the indignation with which he denounced those who were bent upon
despoiling it. I remember his quoting with dramatic effect the curse
uttered by Meg Merrilees upon Ellan-gowan--a curse which he intended, of
course, to apply to Mr. Gladstone. It was the last speech that Lord Derby
ever made. When the announcement of the final surrender of the Peers,
after the Bill had passed through Committee, was made by Lord Cairns, I
saw Lord Derby rise from his seat and, with a face inflamed with
indignation, hobble swiftly out of the Chamber. He never entered it
again.

This incident belongs to the tragedy of politics; but the debates on the
Irish Church Bill in the House of Lords were not without their touches of
comedy. One of these was supplied by Lord Westbury, the ex-Liberal Lord
Chancellor. He made a very amusing, a very bitter, and an almost wholly
inaudible speech against the Bill. The older peers, with their hands
behind their ears, clustered round him to catch his witticisms, some even
kneeling on the floor in order to be near enough to hear him. They
chuckled and laughed consumedly, but we unfortunate reporters in the
Gallery had but the faintest idea of what it was they were laughing at.
One sentence I did indeed catch, and still remember. It was to the effect
that if the Irish Church were disestablished there would be no provision
for the celebration of holy matrimony in Ireland in accordance with
Protestant rites. "Was it possible," Lord Westbury asked, with simulated
indignation, "that the authors of this iniquitous measure really meant to
drive all the unmarried Protestants of Ireland into mortal sin?" The old
peers around him enjoyed this effort of the imagination mightily.

The other comic incident I remember was of a different kind. The
Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Trench, on behalf of his fellow-prelates, made
a long speech against the Bill. Dr. Trench was a man of very high
character and fine talent, but he was not at home in the House of Lords,
or, indeed, in a political speech. When he advanced to the table of the
House, he caused a slight titter by producing an unmistakable black
sermon case, and spreading it open before him. By-and-by, as he proceeded
with his sonorous but somewhat melancholy discourse, everybody perceived
that he was preaching a sermon. The intonation of his voice, the
phraseology, the measured sweep of the hands, all smacked of the pulpit.
The whole House listened eagerly, and watched intently for the accident
that was certain to happen. At last it came. "I beseech you, my
brethren," said the Archbishop, in a moment of apostolic absence of mind,
and the whole House exploded in a roar of long-suppressed laughter, which
made it impossible to learn the nature of the Primate's appeal.

For any man of intelligence the position of a parliamentary reporter is
one of great interest and full of great possibilities. In my days in the
Gallery there was, as I have already stated, little communication between
the Gallery and the House proper. The art of exploiting the Press had not
yet become familiar to the politicians, and a great gulf seemed to be
fixed between the reporters and the members. Since then, that gulf has
almost disappeared, and not a few men have stepped down from the
Reporters' Gallery to the floor of the House. But our very aloofness from
the inner side of parliamentary life, with its personal interests and its
incessant intrigues, strengthened our position as independent critics and
observers. We looked on as at a play in which we ourselves had no part,
and those who possessed the instinct for politics which is the gift of
the born journalist were able to see more and learn more from our
independent standpoint than many of the actual actors saw and learned.
Some of the most capable of our political writers and critics were
trained in the Gallery. One of my most intimate friends in those days was
Mr. Mudford, who subsequently became known to fame as the editor of the
_Standard_, and who built up that journal's great reputation. Of
Mudford's capacity as an editor it is hardly necessary to speak here, but
I may note in passing that even in his early days in the Gallery he
displayed the marked characteristics which distinguished him when he was
at once the ablest and the least known of London editors. His
independence of character was even then combined with a strong
indisposition to make many acquaintances, or to cut any figure in public.
It was my privilege to be counted thus early in his career among his
friends, and I am glad to say that it is a privilege which I still enjoy.

My stay in London was brought to an end in the early part of 1870, amid
circumstances that changed the whole tenor of my life, and for a time
left me a crippled and wounded man. I have said nothing in these pages of
my private life or my domestic happiness. My marriage had proved to be,
in all respects save one, everything that the heart of man could desire.
The one drawback was my wife's delicate health; but she had shown such
marvellous recuperative powers at times when the doctors had spoken in
the gravest manner of her case, and she possessed so unfailing a flow of
natural good spirits, that it was impossible for one who, perhaps, saw
only that which he desired to see, to believe that her case was hopeless.
Yet hopeless it really was during the whole of the two short years of her
married life. Her death--it took place on the 4th of February--was a blow
that seemed to shatter my own life to its very foundations. I cannot
dwell upon it, unless it be to say that at that time of unspeakable
sorrow I first learned the value of human sympathy, and made the
discovery that there are, happily, in this world not a few men and women
who seem to have the gift of being able, not indeed to remove, but to
share and to lighten the burdens of their fellow-creatures. It is only
those who have gone through such an ordeal as this of mine who can fully
understand all that human sympathy may be in that hour of darkest woe
when a man, still standing on the threshold of life, finds himself alone
in a world which to him has suddenly become an empty desert.

One incident, and one only, of those days I will venture to recall. I was
walking along the Strand in the blackest hours of my misery, when I saw
an old man approaching me whose depth of mourning showed that he had
sustained the same bereavement as myself. There was probably a difference
of fifty years in our ages, but we were alike in the sacred kinship of
sorrow. As he drew near me I saw his eyes fixed upon mine with a long
look of tenderness and sympathy that went to my very heart, and comforted
me subtly. I envied him his age, which seemed to bring him so much nearer
to the end. I do not think he envied me my youth. It was but for a moment
that we were thus drawn to each other in the crowded street--"ships that
passed in the night," in the darkest night, indeed; but that moment I
have never forgotten.



CHAPTER VII.

EDITOR OF THE _LEEDS MERCURY_.

Forming Good Resolutions--Provincial Journalism in the 'Seventies--
Recollections of the Franco-German War--The Loss of the _Captain_
and its Consequences to me--Settling Down at Leeds--Acquaintance with
Monckton Milnes--Visits to Fryston--Lord Houghton's Chivalry--His
Talk--His Skill in Judging Men--Stories about George Venables--Lord
Houghton's Regard for Religious Observances.


In April, 1870, there came to me most unexpectedly the offer of the
editorship of the _Leeds Mercury_. It came, as readers of the
preceding pages know, at a time when my whole life was unsettled by the
bereavement which had made me a lonely, restless man. It was, I need
hardly say, an offer of a very tempting character. After little more than
two years of the life of a journalist in London, the prospect was held
out to me of a recognised position on the Press as chief of one of the
principal provincial dailies. The position meant increased remuneration,
freedom from the anxieties of miscellaneous work, and the possession of
influence of no ordinary kind. All my friends and relatives urged upon me
the madness of refusing such an offer, especially since it had come to me
unsought and at an unusually early age. Yet for a time I was more
inclined to refuse than to accept the proposal. I loved London, and the
freedom of its literary life, and I knew by experience how sharp was the
contrast between the social life of the capital and that of a provincial
town like Leeds. Besides, London drew my sympathies more strongly than
ever as the scene of those short years of married happiness which had now
come to an end. So, for a time, I wavered as to the acceptance of the new
position offered to me, and it was only under the sharp pressure of
friends and relatives that I at last wrote to my old friend, Mr.
Frederick Baines, and accepted the editorship of the _Mercury_.

No one not a member of the Baines family had edited the journal since it
became the property of the first Edward Baines, so that it was a new
departure in more respects than one that the proprietors were making in
placing the editorship in my hands. The cause of the vacancy which I
undertook to fill was a rather curious one. Mr. Tom Baines, who had been
editor since his father, Edward Baines, entered Parliament, had become an
adherent of the religious body known as Plymouth Brethren. A man of
culture, of fine ability, and of high character, he had deliberately
associated himself with a sect which regarded the affairs of the world as
being outside the scope of a Christian's duties. He found it impossible
to combine attention to the many questions of politics and public
business that must engage the thoughts of a newspaper editor, with the
Bible readings and sermons upon spiritual truth to which he specially
desired to devote himself. It was a sore trouble to his excellent father
when Mr. Tom Baines decided that the life of a journalist and that of a
Plymouth Brother were not consistent; but, with that noble respect for
all conscientious convictions which distinguished Edward Baines both in
public and in private, he bowed to his son's decision, and regretfully
acquiesced in his retirement from a post that he had filled with eminent
distinction.

So it came about that on May 15th, 1870, I found myself in the train on
my road to Leeds to take charge of the duties of the important post to
which I had been called. I do not think that I had any conception at that
time of the real importance of that post, or of the heavy
responsibilities attaching to it. I was barely eight-and-twenty, and
hitherto the bent of my inclination had been towards literature rather
than political journalism. The ideal life, I thought, was that of a
successful writer of fiction. Though a sincere and convinced Liberal, I
had always possessed an unfortunate capacity for seeing the defects and
blunders of my own party, and I had a strong distaste for the doctrine
which finds expression in the phrase, "My party, right or wrong."
Besides, I was then, as I still am, strongly attracted towards different
personalities. There were men on the Conservative side of the House of
Commons whom I regarded with deep respect and esteem. There were others,
sitting on the Liberal benches, whom I held in something like contempt.
Upon the whole, therefore, I did not feel so much attracted by the
responsible editorship of a great political journal as might have been
expected, and it was with considerable trepidation, and many doubts as to
my own capacity, that I made that fateful journey to Leeds. I remember
distinctly the current of my thoughts as the train flew northwards. The
death of my wife had sobered me, and all youthful levity seemed to have
been buried in her grave. I spent the four hours of the railway journey
in making good resolutions as to my conduct in my new position.

The resolution which impressed itself most forcibly upon my mind was a
determination not to make any enemies. I could honestly say that I had
made none so far in the course of my life. If my circle of acquaintances
was but a narrow one, it consisted wholly of persons who were truly my
friends. In my innocence I believed that in the public position I was
about to take this pleasant condition of things might be continued. I
would be fair, just, and courteous to everybody, I resolved; and thus I
should pass through life as one of those fortunate men who enjoy
everyone's goodwill. I can smile now as I recall the speedy shattering of
that illusion which awaited me at Leeds; but I well remember the almost
tragical sense of surprise and disappointment which I felt when I first
found that in honestly doing what I conceived to be my duty, in a public
matter with which I had to deal, I had most unexpectedly made a personal
enemy. Speaking now with long years of experience behind me, I may be
allowed to bear my testimony to the fact that it is impossible for a
public man in this country to deal honestly with the many controversial
questions that politicians have to handle without finding that, in the
course of his life, he must of necessity make some enemies. Human nature
being what it is, it seems impossible for a man to take a clear and
independent line on great questions without at times giving offence to
others, who may be just as honest and conscientious as himself. It would,
of course, be ridiculous to say that the test of a man's worth as a
politician, whether in Parliament or the editorial chair, is the number
of his enemies; but I am convinced that a public man who has absolutely
no enemies must be a person who has deliberately shirked his duties and
stifled his conscience.

My first step on entering on my duties as editor of the _Mercury_
was to make a complete change in the editor's hours. My predecessor had
been in the habit of writing his leader in the middle of the day, and it
was very seldom that he was to be seen in the office after four o'clock
in the afternoon. In common with all, or nearly all, the editors of the
provincial dailies of his time, he never attempted to write upon late
news. It was the fashion then for the provincial editor to wait until he
had ascertained the opinions of the London daily papers upon current
questions before he ventured to express his own. It was a delightful
system so far as the ease and comfort of the provincial editor were
concerned. To be able to finish the labours of the day in the early hours
of the afternoon was an ideal state of things from the personal point of
view. Fortunately I did not yield to the temptation to continue the old,
easygoing _régime_. My experience in London had made me acquainted
with the interiors of the offices of more than one of the daily
newspapers, and I was no longer oppressed with a provincial reverence for
London editors as beings who dwelt apart. I saw no reason why I should
not express my own views upon the questions with which I had to deal,
instead of waiting to pen a mere reflection of the views of other
persons. So, almost from the first day of my editorship, I went to the
office late, and wrote upon some subject that was absolutely fresh.
Barely three weeks had passed before I was able to make a distinct
impression upon the readers of the _Mercury_ as a result of this
changed system.

It was on the night of June 9th, 1870. I had finished my leader for the
next morning's paper, and was just preparing to leave the office, when a
telegram was brought to me with the sad announcement of the death of
Charles Dickens. My old leader was instantly thrown aside, and, sitting
down, I wrote out of a full heart of the irreparable loss which English
literature and the Englishmen of that generation had suffered. No matter
what the faults of the article might be, it made a great impression upon
the readers of the _Mercury_ next morning, for the death of Dickens
was one of those events that touch the heart of the nation, and everybody
was anxious to read any comments upon it. The impression made by my
article was deepened by the fact that no other provincial paper had
commented upon the absorbing topic. From that moment I seemed to have
gained the ear of my readers, and Leeds, which, not unnaturally, had
taken coldly to me in the first instance, began to open its heart and
extend its sympathies to the new and unknown editor. All this sounds like
sheer egotism; but as to the fact that, with my editorship of the
_Mercury_, the practice of writing upon the latest topics in the
provincial daily press first became general, there can be no dispute, and
as it is a fact of interest in the history of the Press, I have dwelt
upon it at this length.

Very soon the attention of newspaper readers all over the world was
absorbed by one engrossing topic--the great war between France and
Germany. The experiences of an editor during those exciting days were not
uninteresting. There have been no such days since in my recollection. In
the first instance, when the clouds were gathering with startling
suddenness, few persons in this country believed that war was possible.
It was incredible, they held, that two civilised nations should fight
over such a question as the candidature for the Spanish throne. All the
orthodox authorities were furiously angry with those journals that
pointed out the real dangers of the situation, and the difficulty of
arresting two great nations like France and Prussia when they had once
begun to approach each other with the language of menace. One day Mr.
Frederick Baines brought into my room one of the most influential
citizens of Leeds. His purpose in calling was to protest against the
alarmist tone of the articles in the _Mercury_, and nothing could
have been better than the imposing air of authority with which he
informed me that he knew for a fact that neither the members of the
English Government nor any other well-informed persons looked upon a war
as being even remotely possible. I felt very uncomfortable, and somewhat
overweighted by the air of my visitor. I could see, too, that Mr.
Frederick Baines, though thoroughly loyal to me, was also impressed by
his friend's statement. But in spite of the high authority on which this
gentleman spoke, just three days later war was declared.

Never in my time has the world looked on at a drama at once so stupendous
and so enthralling in its excitement as that of the Franco-German War. We
have had wars since then which have affected this country more nearly,
and have, of course, stirred deeper emotions in our breasts, than this
war between France and Germany; but as a dramatic spectacle on which,
thank God, we Englishmen could look as spectators merely, this great
struggle was unsurpassed and unapproached. The march of events was so
swift, the surprises were so great and numerous, the field of operations
was so near and so familiar, and the political upheaval so terrible and
so complete, that we onlookers were kept in a state of perpetual, almost
breathless, suspense whilst the struggle lasted.

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