A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842 1885

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




It was about this time that I had an amusing experience of my own in
connection with Haworth and the Brontës. I was staying with my wife and
children at a country inn at Burnsall, a delightful spot on the Upper
Wharfe above Bolton Abbey. The inn was a small one, and by arrangement
with the landlord I had, in addition to a sitting-room, the exclusive use
of the coffee-room when my family partook of meals. The truth was that
the "Red Lion" had but few visitors, at any rate of the coffee-room
class. Coming down to breakfast one morning, the landlord met me with a
perturbed countenance. "There's a young gentleman from London in the
coffee-room, sir," he said, "and though I've told him the room is
engaged, he won't go out, but insists upon having his breakfast there." I
assured the landlord that I did not in the least object to his doing so,
and accordingly the young man breakfasted at the same table as myself and
my family. I found he was an entire stranger to the district, and he
volunteered the statement that he had never been in Yorkshire before his
present visit. An enthusiast upon Yorkshire scenery, I was anxious to
know what he had seen of the beautiful broad shire. "I've been nowhere,"
he replied, "except to a little place called Haworth."

Now what attraction could there be in such a place as Haworth for a
stranger from London unless it were the attraction of the Brontës? So I
reasoned; and reasoned, as it appeared, most erroneously. "Oh, no," he
said, in reply to my question, "I didn't go to Haworth because of the
Brontës. In fact, I knew nothing about them when I went there, but my
friends gave me a book to read about them, and I tried to read it. It was
written by somebody called Wemyss Reid, but I thought it a poor book." I
knew that my friend the landlord was quite certain to tell the stranger
my name, and I thought it better to take the bull by the horns, and
reveal the truth to him. So, as gently as I could, and with a keen
appreciation of the good story with which I saw that he had furnished me,
I made him understand that I was the culprit who had produced that poor
book. He took the revelation so much to heart that I really regretted
having made it, and it was not until after more than an hour's talk on
irrelevant topics that I eased him, as I hope, of his pain and
mortification, and induced him to join me in laughing at the
extraordinary stroke of ill-fortune by which I was the first person to
whom he innocently revealed his bad opinion of my book. Perhaps the
incident taught him to be more cautious ever afterwards in the expression
of his literary verdicts, at all events when in the company of a chance
acquaintance. It must be confessed that in this case the doctrine of
coincidences upon which I have touched in a former chapter was not so
pleasant in its application as it usually is. For my part, I have always
recalled that breakfast with keen delight.



CHAPTER XVII.

TO THE DEFEAT OF THE GOVERNMENT (1885).

More Antagonism towards Forster--A Household Suffrage Demonstration at
Leeds--A Meeting at the Carlton Club and a Coincidence--Forster and "the
most Powerful Man in Europe"--Single-Member Constituencies and the
Cumulative Vote--Dynamite Outrages--Police Protection for Statesmen--I
Receive Threatening Letters and Get a Fright--Death of Lord
Houghton--Lord Derby and how he was Misunderstood--An Unconventional
Dinner at Lord Houghton's--A Visit to Tangier--In Peril of the
Sea--Gibraltar "a Magnificent Imposture"--Captain W. and the M.P.--To the
North Cape--Cheering a Funeral Party--News of Mr. Gladstone's
Overthrow--Home Again.


The extension of Household Suffrage to the counties was the chief
political topic of 1884. I have told how Forster was the first to
announce his resolve to support a Household Suffrage Bill for Ireland. He
was always an ardent reformer, and a genuine, as opposed to a sham,
Radical. In the public agitation for the Bill Forster took a leading
part, though he was still regarded with suspicion by many advanced
Liberals. Sometimes these gentlemen treated him with distinct unfairness,
because they could not forgive him his resolute antagonism to Mr.
Chamberlain. In the autumn before the Bill passed we held a great
Yorkshire demonstration in its favour on Woodhouse Moor, Leeds. John
Morley had promised to attend as the principal speaker, and it was
understood that the whole of the Liberal members for the West Riding
would also be invited. I need hardly say that by far the most eminent of
these gentlemen was Mr. Forster. When the executive committee, of which I
was a member, met to make arrangements for the demonstration, I found, to
my intense indignation, that many members were opposed to the sending of
an invitation to Mr. Forster! He was our nearest neighbour, for his house
was only a few miles from Leeds; he was our most distinguished
representative, and he was an ardent supporter of the Franchise Bill. Yet
not even these facts could serve him in the eyes of men who regarded Mr.
Chamberlain as being, next to Mr. Gladstone, the heaven-born leader of
English Liberalism. I hotly contested the proposal to exclude Forster
from the gathering, and succeeded in carrying my point, though I could
only do so by agreeing that instead of a special invitation, such as we
sent to all other men in his position, he should receive nothing but the
ordinary printed circular sent wholesale to the known Liberals of the
district. Forster, who cared nothing about forms and ceremonies, wrote
promptly declaring his intention to be present.

The meeting was to be addressed from three platforms, at each of which
was a principal speaker. To John Morley, as a stranger, we assigned the
leading position on the middle platform. Herbert Gladstone took a similar
post on one of the side platforms, and on the third Forster was to be the
chief speaker. To my great amazement, a couple of days before the
meeting, we received word from Mr. Morley that under the new arrangements
he did not think it desirable to attend. It was the first evidence I had
received of what I now know to be one of the peculiarities in the
character of this eminent and gifted man. The new arrangement which led
to his wishing to withdraw from the meeting seemed to be the announcement
that Forster was to be one of the speakers. I saw at once that if Morley
did not come it would not only lessen the effect of the meeting, but
would lead to a fresh outbreak of what I may call the Forster dissensions
in the party. This was a disaster at all hazards to be prevented, and
accordingly I took what most of my readers, I imagine, will consider not
only strong but somewhat presumptuous action. I telegraphed to Morley,
warning him that if he maintained his determination to stay away, the
reason for his absence would undoubtedly become public property, and his
"laudable ambition" would not be aided by the revelation of the truth. A
strong measure, indeed; and I am prepared for the censure of my critics;
but I succeeded in my purpose. Morley promised to come, and contented
himself with writing a letter to me in which he disclaimed the imputation
that he carried about with him any of that "perilous explosive" called
ambition. The meeting was a great success; all the chief speakers were
well received, but I confess I was not altogether grieved when I saw that
the greatest crowd was that which gathered round platform number three,
and that the loudest cheers of the vast multitude were those given to
Forster.

It will be remembered that the Tories offered a stubborn opposition to
the passing of the Household Suffrage Bill, and it was only carried in
the end in a winter session, specially convened for that purpose.
According to popular rumour at the time, it was eventually passed as the
result of compromise between Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury. I do not
believe that there is a word of truth in this story. Mr. Gladstone, at
all events, stoutly denied that there had been any such compromise, and
once wrote a long letter to me, maintaining this denial. But before the
Tories could be induced to accept the Bill, a meeting of their party had
to be held at the Carlton Club, and in connection with that meeting I
have to tell a curious story of my own.

As most of my readers know, the Carlton Club and the Reform stand side by
side in Pall Mall, only separated from each other by a narrow street
which gives access to Carlton House Gardens. The windows of the
smoking-room at the Reform Club face those of the large library of the
Carlton, so that the members of the two clubs may, if they choose, see
each other across the narrow roadway. The Conservative meeting was held
in the big library of the club. Going into our own smoking-room on the
afternoon of the meeting, I saw a well-known member of the club gazing
intently across the way at the corresponding apartment in the Carlton.
"If you come here," he said, turning to me, "you can see all the members
of the Tory party gathering for their meeting." I saw no harm in
accepting X.'s invitation, and joined him at the window. We picked out
the various notables of the party. By-and-by an evil inspiration seized
X. "Let us go upstairs to F.'s room," he said. "We shall see much better
from there." I am ashamed to say that I yielded to the temptation, and
accompanied X. to the room of a friend who occupied one of the club
chambers facing the Carlton.

The window happened to be open, so that we had an unimpeded view of the
meeting of the Tory party. We could not, of course, hear anything that
was said, nor could we see the speakers, who were evidently placed with
their backs to us between two of the windows; but we saw the audience,
and were amused by the varying expression upon their faces as they
listened to their leaders. X.'s insatiable curiosity led him to snatch up
an opera-glass that was lying on F.'s dressing-table, and, despite my
remonstrance, he took a long survey of the Tory gathering through this
instrument. Suddenly I saw a man in the body of the meeting rise to his
feet and point straight at our window. Instantly every face in the room
flashed round, and I found myself under the concentrated gaze of some
hundreds of manifestly indignant men. I seized the wretched X. by the
collar and dragged him back from the window. "See what you have done with
that abominable opera-glass of yours!" I cried; and then, to my shame and
mortification, I saw the blinds pulled down at every window of the
Carlton library, and I felt that by our foolish curiosity we had caused
this gathering of political opponents to hold their conference in the
dark. It is quite true that neither I nor X. had any ulterior motive in
our observation of the meeting at the Carlton Club, but all the same I
cannot pretend that the use of the opera-glass was not indefensible.

I was dining that evening at the Oxford and Cambridge Club with Mr.
Andrew Lang. When I arrived there I was ushered into the club
drawing-room, with the intimation that Mr. Lang would join me in a
moment, and that I would find another of his guests already in the room.
I stepped to the fireplace, where this gentleman was standing, and my
feelings may be imagined when I discovered that it was the very man who
had pointed us out at the window of the Reform Club a few hours earlier.
He was Mr. Charles Elton, then one of the members for Somersetshire. I
saw that he did not recognise me, but the desire to confess my offending
was irresistible. "You were at the meeting at the Carlton Club this
afternoon, were you not?" I said to him. He looked at me rather
curiously, before replying in the affirmative, and then added, "But you
were not there?" "No," I said, "but did you observe anything curious at
the Reform Club?" At once his face lighted up with angry intelligence.
"Yes!" he said, "I did. There were a couple of scallywags"--it was the
first time I had ever heard this modern term of reproach, and it is not
surprising that I have nearly forgotten it--"watching us through
opera-glasses from one of the windows, and signalling to a man whom they
had put on the top of our club, and who was listening through the
ventilator to the speeches." No words can express the sense of relief I
felt when I heard this absurd statement. "No," I replied, "I assure you
that you are mistaken. I am sorry to say that I was one of the scallywags
who were looking out of the Reform Club, and I apologise sincerely for my
untimely curiosity; but we had only one opera-glass between us, and we
had nobody posted on the top of the Carlton Club to listen to the
speeches. Upon that you may rely." Elton stared at me for a moment, and
then burst into a roar of laughter, in which I joined him. It was an
immense relief to me to have got the burden off my soul; but I had
received another proof of the frequency with which that long arm of
coincidence asserts itself.

As a result of the passing of the Franchise Bill, and the creation of
single-member constituencies which accompanied it, a Boundary Commission
had to be appointed, to settle the boundaries of the new electoral
divisions. In order to prevent gerrymandering it was agreed that this
Commission should not only be quite independent of both parties, but that
it should have absolute powers. Its chairman was Sir John Lambert,
secretary of the Local Government Board; and his powers were, of course,
very great. Forster, coming to see me one day, began to talk to me about
the Boundary Commission, and the supreme powers vested in Sir John
Lambert. Suddenly he burst into a chuckling laugh, and I knew that he had
a story to tell me. "I was going up the stairs of the Local Government
office to see Lambert the other day," he said, "and I met ----,"
mentioning the name of the former holder of a subordinate Government
post, "coming down. 'Hullo, Forster!' he cried, 'what in the world are
you doing here?' 'Well, I was just going to call on the most powerful man
in England,' I replied. ---- took off his hat and made me a low bow. 'I
hope you didn't undeceive him,' I said. 'Oh, yes, I did,' replied
Forster. I told him that I didn't mean him, but Sir John Lambert." I
wrung my hands over this fresh illustration of my friend's inability to
set his sails in such a fashion as to catch the approval of others.

It was over this redistribution question that I had the only difference
of opinion I ever had with Forster. He was an ardent supporter of the
single-member constituency, or _scrutin d'arrondissement_, as the
French call it, in opposition to _scrutin de liste_. I, on the other
hand, foresaw that the new system would break up the powerful political
associations in our great towns, and thus destroy a political force which
I believed to be of great value. I fought strenuously in the _Leeds
Mercury_ against what I styled the vivisection of the great boroughs;
but I need not say that I fought in vain. I had many a good-humoured
argument with Forster on the subject, but he would never admit that I was
right, though after twenty years' experience and observation I am only
now strengthened in my original opinion.

Before this time I had aroused Forster's anger--anger which never
hurt--by the action I had taken, in common with some of my Liberal
friends in Leeds, with regard to the School Board election. We found that
the cumulative vote in a large constituency was almost unworkable. It had
resulted in Leeds in the election, at the head of the poll on one
occasion, of a mere demagogue of no account. In order to obviate any
further misfortune of this kind my friend Mathers, the honorary secretary
of the Liberal Association, devised a plan under which the town was
divided by the Liberals into different divisions. To each of these
divisions we allotted certain candidates, and we asked the electors who
sympathised with us to vote only for the candidate allotted to the
division in which they lived. The plan proved a brilliant success, for we
carried all our candidates at that election, and this method of getting
over the difficulties of the cumulative vote was afterwards adopted in
all large towns, including London. Forster was greatly wroth at the time,
and told me that he looked upon the scheme as a dishonest attempt to
evade an Act of Parliament.

Those were the years of the dynamite outrages. Certain desperate Irish
societies, chiefly financed and recruited from the United States, were
seeking to advance the Home Rule cause by terrorising the people of
England. "Holy dynamite," as that powerful explosive was christened, was
the weapon employed, and some very daring outrages were committed in
London and other places. The most notable of these were the simultaneous
attempts to wreck the House of Commons, Westminster Hall, and the Tower
of London. These audacious crimes were committed on a Saturday afternoon.
I spent the whole of the next morning reading and analysing the telegrams
in which full details of the occurrences were given, and in writing an
article for Monday's _Mercury_ on the subject. In the afternoon I
went over to Wakefield to keep an engagement I had made to dine and sleep
at Thorns, the residence of my friends Mr. and Lady Catherine Milnes
Gaskell. I well remember the scene when I entered the beautiful library
at Thorns, about five o'clock. There was a large party there, including
the Duke and Duchess of St. Albans, Mr. and Mrs. Goschen, and Mr. W B.
Beaumont, of Bretton.

When I was announced, Gaskell jumped up from his seat, saying, "Now we
shall have news!" and instantly the whole party flocked round me, eager
to know the truth as to the wild rumour which was all they had as yet
heard of the devastation wrought by the dynamiters in London on the
previous day. My morning's work had, of course, qualified me to satisfy
their curiosity, but the questions they poured in upon me were so
numerous and so eager that I was at last obliged to ask them to sit down,
and let me tell the story in my own fashion, which I accordingly
proceeded to do amid the breathless attention of my auditors. The scene
is worth recording as a characteristic incident of life in England in
those days. We had an enemy, subtle, daring, and dangerous, actually
waging war upon us within our own gates; and though the invincible
courage of our race enabled us to pursue our own way in spite of the new
terror that had arisen amongst us, we were none of us, as this scene in
the library at Thorns proved, insensible to the horror of the situation,
and the deadly character of the weapons used against us.

At this time all the leading members of the Liberal Government were under
police protection, and Forster, as being the special object of Irish
animosity, was also treated in this respect as though he were still a
Minister. Some Ministers, it was asserted, not only enjoyed, but desired,
the constant companionship of armed detectives, and amusing stories were
told of the way in which they arrived at Mayfair dinner-parties
accompanied by "stern-faced men" with revolvers in their pockets. I shall
not repeat these stories, for I cannot bring myself to believe that any
English statesman has been the victim of physical cowardice. Others,
among whom Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Forster were conspicuous, loathed the
presence of the police agents dogging their footsteps, and keeping watch
at their doors, and tried in every possible way to evade them. Mr.
Gladstone, with the collar of his overcoat turned up to his ears, used
suddenly to dash out of the garden door at the back of Downing Street,
and attempt, by running across the parade at full speed, to get rid of
his bodyguard. Occasionally he succeeded, but I am told that as a
consequence he had so severe a wigging from the Home Secretary and the
Chief Commissioner of Police that he was at last compelled to abandon his
efforts to secure his unfettered liberty of action. Forster managed to
obtain exemption from the obtrusive services of a bodyguard, but a
policeman kept watch and ward by day and night in front of his house in
Eccleston Square, not only to his disgust, but to that of one of his
neighbours, who quitted his abode rather than continue to live near so
dangerous a character. "I often wonder," said Forster to me one day,
"what I shall do if I find an infernal machine on my doorstep when I come
home some night. I know what it is my duty to do. I ought to take it up,
and throw it into the middle of the square, but I am terribly afraid that
I shan't have the pluck, and shall simply turn round and run away."
Nobody who knew Forster could believe that he would ever have acted in
any such fashion.

I had my own small experience at this time of trial. Threatening letters
were flying about, and I received a fair share of them, for I was at that
time very obnoxious to the Irish party in Leeds. One evening, on going
down to my office, which I entered from a narrow thoroughfare called Bank
Street, I was startled by being suddenly called upon to halt when near
the office door, whilst a policeman's lantern was flashed in my face. One
of our workmen explained my identity to the officer, and I was allowed to
pass. I then learned that the Leeds police had received information of a
plot to blow up the _Mercury_ office, and they had, accordingly,
posted guards round the building. I was in the habit of driving home
every night, or rather every morning, to my residence at Headingley, and
the police suggested that I should be accompanied by an officer; but I
did not believe in my danger, and desired no such protection. In the
depths of one winter's night, when a thaw was dissolving a heavy fall of
snow, I had a great fright. I had left my cab, which had driven away, and
was mounting the steps leading to the porch of my house, when I suddenly
saw, lying on the half-melted snow against the door itself, a large
bundle wrapped in sacking. I drew near it cautiously, and heard a curious
ticking sound proceeding from it. "An infernal machine!" I exclaimed to
myself, and I confess I was horribly frightened. The outer door of the
porch was unlocked, and, opening it, I bounded inside, carefully avoiding
the object which I suspected. I unlocked the inner door, and, entering
the house, locked and barred it behind me.

Then, when I got into my dining-room, reason asserted itself, and I felt
heartily ashamed of my panic. If the thing were an infernal machine, it
would certainly do a great deal of damage if it exploded where it lay. I
strung my nerves up to the sticking-point, went out, unlocked the door,
seized the mysterious package in my hands, and flung it as far as I could
into a little shrubbery in the garden. There was no explosion such as I
had expected. Nothing, indeed, happened; but when I got back to my
dining-room, and saw my face in a mirror, I found it was as white as a
sheet. The next morning I went out to look for the infernal machine. It
was a coarse sack, filled with blocks of wood and sawdust, and I have a
strong suspicion that it had been placed where I found it as a practical
joke. The ticking which I had heard, and which had convinced me that I
had to deal with an infernal machine, was evidently produced by the drip,
drip of water from the bag on the step beneath it. Such were features in
the lives of men more or less before the public eye in the years of the
dynamite terror.

In the summer of 1885, along with many others, I met with a great loss.
This was the death at Vichy of my dear old friend, Lord Houghton. No
kinder friend than he man ever had. The world was inclined to laugh at
his peculiarities, which lay upon the surface, and to ignore the sterling
qualities that formed the basis of his character. If it is right to speak
of a man as you find him, then I am entitled to say that there never
lived a kinder or more generous man, or a truer friend, than Monckton
Milnes. To me he was all this. I have told already the story of our first
acquaintance in 1870, and of the debt which I very soon owed him. I could
fill a volume with reminiscences of his talk, as I used to hear it during
my frequent visits to Fryston, and of the warmth of his sympathy with one
who had no claim upon him. I have made many friends in the course of my
life, and looking back upon the list I am constrained to say that I have
made more friends through the mediumship of Lord Houghton than through
that of any other man.

Among those whom I first met at his house, I must not omit Edward,
fourteenth Earl of Derby, better known in his time as the Lord Stanley
who served as Foreign Secretary under the premiership of his brilliant
father, the thirteenth Earl. Lord Derby--the man of whom I speak--was one
of the great misunderstood figures of his generation. Men slandered him
as freely as they slandered Mr. Gladstone, and, unlike the great Liberal
leader, he did not possess that strong following of ardent adherents who
stood by their chief, no matter how sternly Fortune might frown upon him.
Lord Derby was one of the shyest of men, and, as a consequence, he was
really known, even when he was in the thick of his political work, by
only a few men and women. Those who did know him held him, however, in
the highest esteem. There was no better judge of character than Lord
Houghton, and often he would remark upon the fact that Lord Derby was
almost as unpopular as his father had been the reverse. He cited this as
a proof of the incapacity of the public for forming correct estimates of
character. I had been in confidential correspondence with Lord Derby long
before I first met him at Fryston, and in 1879 I wrote an article in
_Macmillan's Magazine_ dealing with his career at the Foreign
Office, and with his reason for resigning his post in Lord Beaconsfield's
Administration. This article was written on information which he
supplied, and he himself corrected the proof-sheets. Yet these facts did
not prevent some of the cocksure critics of the Press from announcing
that I was wholly mistaken in my account of Lord Derby's action and
motive. I have found, however, that nothing is so certain to meet with an
absolute contradiction in the Press as an indubitable fact which comes as
a piece of unexpected news to the ordinary journalist.

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