As I look back upon my editorial experiences during the year and a half that I spent at Preston, the salient questions which stand out in my recollection are the war between Denmark and the Austro-Prussian allies, in which this country was so nearly involved, and the concluding struggles in the American Civil War, which may be said to have had their culmination in the tragical a.s.sa.s.sination of Lincoln. It may seem a strange thing to say, and yet I believe that Lincoln's cruel death did more to hasten the return of peace and goodwill, not only in the United States, but all over the world, after the close of the war, than anything else could have done. It is certain that it produced a remarkable effect in England. The "cla.s.ses" in England were, as I have said, almost unanimously opposed to the North, and there was no single person engaged in the great struggle whom they more persistently misunderstood and misrepresented than Abraham Lincoln. Even now I feel a sense of shame as I recall the abuse which was showered upon that great man at the time when he was leading his country through the most terrible crisis in her history. But his death, coming as it did in the moment of victory, and also at the moment when he had shown that he knew how to be moderate and magnanimous in victory, opened the eyes of the world, and showed him, even to those Englishmen who had hated him, in his true colours--one of the wisest and n.o.blest men of our time.

This revelation of the blunder which "the cla.s.ses" had committed in their estimate of Lincoln had an even greater effect in softening the asperities which the war left behind it than had the exposure of the egregious miscalculations of English statesmen as to the comparative military strength of North and South. One must not blame Englishmen too severely, however, for their lack of appreciation of Lincoln. It is doubtful if even now he is appreciated at his true worth by Americans themselves. Some years ago I had the privilege of taking in to dinner a charming young lady who was Lincoln's direct descendant. I said to her, "You can hardly understand how pleased I am to have met you. There is scarcely any man whose name is familiar to me whom I honour as I honour the memory of your grandfather." The young lady opened her eyes in innocent amazement, and confessed subsequently that she had been very much surprised by my little speech. "At home they never say anything about grandpapa." Lowell, however, has said something about him which will live for ever in the elegiac poetry of the world.

My stay at Preston came to an end in January, 1866. I had become engaged whilst staying there, and, feeling stronger in health, was anxious to obtain a more active position than the editorship of a newspaper published only twice a week. My wishes were realised when I received an offer from the proprietors of the _Leeds Mercury_ of a position on that journal, which had long been one of the most important of provincial newspapers. I accepted the offer, and left Preston at the beginning of 1866 with feelings of nothing but goodwill and respect for my old chief, Mr. Toulmin.

CHAPTER V.

WORK ON THE _LEEDS MERCURY_.

My New Duties--Betrothal--The Writing of Leading Articles--The Founder of the _Leeds Mercury_--Edward Baines the Second--Thomas Blackburn Baines--Patriotic Nonconformists--Another Colliery Explosion: A Story of Heroism--An Abortive Fenian Raid at Chester--Reminiscences of the Prince of Wales's Visits to Yorkshire--Mr. Bright and the Reform Demonstrations of 1866--The Closing Speech at St. James's Hall--The Tribune of the People Vindicates the Queen.

I did not know, when I arrived in Leeds one wintry day in the beginning of 1866, how long my connection with that town was to last, and how closely I was to become a.s.sociated with its public life. Beyond one or two members of the _Mercury_ staff, I knew n.o.body in Leeds, so that once more I found myself amongst strangers. But whereas at Preston I had remained a stranger and a wayfarer during the whole period of my sojourn in the place, I had not been long in Leeds before I began to feel that I had found a second home. This was, no doubt, due in part to the fact that old friends of mine were already employed on the _Mercury_ staff, through whom I speedily made a number of acquaintances among the townspeople. But I think that the sense of being at home which I acquired so soon was chiefly due to the character of the inhabitants of Leeds.

Whatever may be the case now, at that time the Leeds people were typical representatives of the best characteristics of Yorkshire. They were frank, outspoken, warm-hearted, and hospitable. They were not, indeed, so refined in speech as they might have been, and to the stranger their blunt utterances were at times rather disconcerting. They criticised one's work freely, and never hesitated to say when they did not like it.

They had strong prejudices and prepossessions, to both of which they gave free expression. But if they never hesitated to criticise, they were just as ready, when they were pleased, to utter words of praise and encouragement; and it was not long before I had the gratification of finding that my humble efforts on the _Leeds Mercury_ had made for me many friends whom I did not know in the flesh.

Next to the delight of a first appearance in print, there is nothing that brings so much joy to the heart of a young writer as the discovery that something which he has written has won the sympathy and secured for him the friendly approval of some unknown reader. It is in this that there lies, after all, the highest reward of the journalist. No honours, no money, no fame can ever satisfy him as does the knowledge that by means of his pen he is influencing the thoughts, and winning the affections, of some at least of that vast unknown public whom it is his duty to address.

A sheet of paper is but a flimsy thing, yet, as a rule, when used by the journalist it cuts off the electric current of sympathy which pa.s.ses between speaker and auditor when they are visible to each other. The discovery that it may sometimes be a conductor, instead of an obstruction, to the current warms the heart of a young writer in a wonderful fashion, and is the best stimulus that he can have in the pursuit of his profession. To my dying day I shall think of Leeds with pleasure and grat.i.tude, in remembrance of the fact that it was there that I first enjoyed this delightful experience.

My duties on the _Leeds Mercury_ were, in the first instance, both varied and modest. I had to superintend the work of the reporting staff, taking part myself, when necessary, in the reporting of large meetings and important speeches. I had to do all the descriptive work of the journal, and in those days more importance was attached to the work of the descriptive writer than appears to be the case at present. Russell, of the _Times_, the ill.u.s.trious "pen of the war," furnished the model for descriptive journalism in the 'sixties. There was none of that slap-dash statement of bare facts, embellished by the more or less impertinent personal impressions and opinions of the reporter, to which we have become accustomed in recent times. It was expected that a descriptive article should be in the nature of an essay, and that it should actually describe, more or less vividly, the scene with which it dealt. If anyone cares to search the files of our leading newspapers between 1860 and 1870, he will come upon some pieces of descriptive writing of astonishing literary merit.

In addition to acting as descriptive writer, I had, when required, to contribute leading articles to the _Mercury_. At first I did this at rare intervals. It was an innovation for anyone connected with the reporting staff to contribute to the leading columns, and I remember the alarm and indignation of the older members of the staff when they learned that work of this character was to be entrusted to me. But I had practised leader-writing at Preston; I liked it (though my preference was for descriptive writing), and it was not long before I found that I had got into the regular leader-writer's stride. I was barely four-and-twenty, and I had, therefore, a consuming sense of the value of my lucubrations and the importance of my opinions. It is emphatically true, as Sir William Harcourt once wrote to me, that "Youth is the age of Wegotism." When I wielded that magnificent editorial "we," and was able to back up my own crude ideas with all the authority of a great daily newspaper, I felt that I, too, was somebody in the world of affairs, and that though I might live in modest lodgings and possess but narrow means, I was not without a distinct place and influence of my own in the great commonwealth. Such are the illusions of the youthful leader-writer-- foolish, perhaps, but not ign.o.ble.

Some of my early leaders pleased the proprietors of the paper, one of whom was also the editor. It was arranged that I was to contribute regularly the chief article for Monday's paper. Now, as I have said, I had become engaged, and my cousin, Miss Kate Thornton, to whom I was betrothed, lived at Stockport, at a distance of more than two hours from Leeds. I had been in the habit of visiting Stockport almost every Sat.u.r.day, returning to my duties on Monday morning. This leader-writing for Monday's paper threatened to interfere with this arrangement.

Fortunately for me, the proprietors of the _Mercury_--of whom I shall have more to say presently--had a great reverence for Sunday. The _Leeds Mercury_, indeed, had not become a daily paper until long after this change in its character was expected by the public, simply because an ordinary daily newspaper entailed a certain amount of Sunday work upon those engaged in producing it. It was not until the proprietors had satisfied themselves that it would be possible to produce a Monday morning's newspaper, and at the same time to keep the office closed from midnight on Sat.u.r.day till midnight on Sunday, that they resolved to publish daily. The arrangement was costly; it was vastly inconvenient to everybody concerned. I am afraid that it did not conduce to the keeping of the Sabbath, seeing that the compositors, who were not allowed to enter the office until midnight of that day, were tempted to spend an hour or two in some public-house before commencing their belated work.

But with all its drawbacks, the plan had at least the advantage of keeping the office doors shut for the whole of the twenty-four sacred hours, and thus the appearance of evil, if not the evil itself, was avoided. As a consequence of this system, the greater part of Monday's paper had to be set on Sat.u.r.day, and the leader, in particular, was always furnished to the printers on that day. So far, therefore, there was nothing to prevent my writing the Monday's leader, and still paying my usual weekly visit to Stockport. All that was necessary was that the editor should give me my subject early enough on Sat.u.r.day morning.

This, however, was what I could not induce him to do. He was supposed to be at the office shortly after eleven o'clock, and my train for Stockport did not leave until half-past one. If the editor had been punctual, and if he had given me my subject at once, I should have had ample time in which to write my leader. But unfortunately he was not punctual, and too often when he came he was occupied with other business, whilst I hung about miserably counting the minutes until I was summoned to his presence. Then, when at last I had received my subject, or had got leave to write upon some topic suggested by myself, I hurried to the sub-editor's room, and, sitting at a corner of a table upon which I laid my watch, dashed off my precious article at the top of my speed. When I began my practice as a leader-writer I took from an hour and a half to two hours to write my fifteen hundred words; but, under the pressure of that terrible half-past one o'clock train, I gradually improved my pace, until at last, if I took more than an hour in the production of an article, I felt dissatisfied. Mere speed in writing is a very small accomplishment. It is not necessarily a virtue, and it may even be a vice; but it is undoubtedly an accomplishment that I possess. In later days my regular time for turning out an article of the length I have named was from forty to fifty minutes. I could write my leaders with people talking around me, and felt no difficulty in joining in the conversation. I am told that many journalists regard it as incredible that an article of fifteen hundred words could be written in from forty to fifty minutes. All I can say is that it is a fact, and I attribute this speed in writing to the pressure of that half-past one o'clock train on Sat.u.r.days in the good old days of my first residence in Leeds.

The story of the _Leeds Mercury_ is an honourable one in the annals of English journalism. It was first established, if I remember aright, in the year 1718. In the editor's room at Leeds a file of the paper is preserved, dating from the year 1727. This file is complete for more than 170 years, with one melancholy exception. In the volume for 1745 the numbers of the paper published during the second Jacobite Rising are omitted. But in spite of this omission, these volumes, extending over so long a period, are of immense value and interest. In its earliest days the _Mercury_, though published in a provincial town, sought to reproduce in its columns not so much the news of the locality as the humour of the Metropolis; and the very first leading article in the earliest volume preserved at Leeds bears the quaint t.i.tle, "To the Ladies who affect showing their stockings."

Comparatively early in the Georgian era the _Mercury_ became distinguished for the excellence of its news, both local and general. It was not, of course, a large newspaper in those days, but the four pages of which it consisted were full of meat. There was no descriptive reporting; but what could be more expressive than the announcement of a marriage in such terms as these:--"On Tuesday se'n-night, Squire Brown of b.u.mpkin Hall was married to Miss Matilda Midas of Halifax, a handsome young lady with ten thousand pounds to her dowry"? We are much more florid nowadays, but by no means so precise. The leader-writer did not spread himself abroad a hundred years ago. Indeed, soon after the _Leeds Mercury_ gave up discussing the amiable weakness that it attributed to ladies with well-turned ankles, it ceased for a time to discuss anything at all. It was only in the beginning of the nineteenth century that it resumed its leading articles. But what leading articles they were! Fine writing and redundancy of style were both discarded, and when the news of Waterloo arrived, the editor's comment upon the great epoch-making victory was expressed in a dozen lines. One sighs at the thought of the miles of "long primer" that would be expended if we had the opportunity of commenting upon such a theme to-day. Yet the twelve-line article in the _Leeds Mercury_ of June, 1815, really said everything that was to the point on the subject with which it dealt.

It was in the year 1800 that the _Mercury_ took that new stand in its history which was to place it in the front rank among English provincial journals. Three or four years earlier a young journeyman printer, named Edward Baines, had tramped across the moors which form the dividing line between Lancashire and Yorkshire, and after walking the whole distance from Preston to Leeds, had found employment in the small printing office in which the _Leeds Mercury_ was produced. Edward Baines, the first, was undoubtedly a man of great ability and remarkable character. Very soon after he began his humble work as a compositor in Leeds he attracted the attention not only of his employer, but of some of the gentry of the town. He was seen to be a person of uncommon intelligence, strict integrity, and distinct political sagacity. The _Leeds Mercury_, at the close of the eighteenth century, was still a mere news-sheet, professing no opinions of its own, and consequently making no attempt to mould the opinions of its readers. The Whig party in the West Riding felt that they needed an organ of their own to support their cause in that great district. Accordingly, they subscribed funds sufficient to acquire the _Mercury_ and to provide capital for carrying it on, and they placed the paper in the hands of Edward Baines, the young printer who, but a few years previously, had made his first appearance in Yorkshire.

The trust they reposed in Mr. Baines was more than justified. Under his direction the _Mercury_ became in a few years the leading journal in the north of England. The money that had been advanced to him for its purchase he speedily repaid, and by the time that Wellington was dealing his death-blow at French Imperialism, Edward Baines had made himself a power, not only in Leeds but in Yorkshire. I remember being told by very old men that when the news of Waterloo reached him a chair was taken out of his office in Briggate to the street, where an eager crowd had gathered. Mounting upon this chair, Mr. Baines read the despatch announcing the great victory to his enthusiastic fellow townsmen. An earnest Liberal, he fought by the side of the Liberal leaders both with his pen and his tongue during the long struggle for Parliamentary Reform, and he was in due time rewarded by being elected to represent Leeds in the House of Commons. His may fairly be described as an ideal career. He gained friends, influence, wealth, in the town he had entered as a penniless workman. But, better than all, he witnessed the triumph of nearly all the great political and social movements to which he had lent his powerful aid. Having represented his fellow-townsmen in three successive Parliaments, he was honoured at his death, at a ripe age, in 1848, with a public funeral, which people in Leeds still recall as a unique demonstration of grat.i.tude and esteem. In Yorkshire, where his career was better known than elsewhere, the name given to him by the generation that followed him was that of "the English Benjamin Franklin."

It was Mr. Baines's good fortune to leave behind him in his sons men who were worthy to succeed him. His eldest son, Matthew Talbot Baines, went to the Bar. After his father's death he entered Parliament, where he had a distinguished career, becoming eventually a Cabinet Minister under Lord Palmerston. He died at a comparatively early age, and it was well known to the initiated that, if he had not died thus young, it was the intention of the Government to propose him for the Speakership. The second son of the man who really founded the fortunes of the _Leeds Mercury_ was, like his father, called Edward. He, too, attained distinction in the public service. From his youth he was his father's chief a.s.sistant in the editorship of the _Mercury_, and by his enterprise, sagacity, and fine abilities as a journalist he greatly extended the influence and reputation of the paper. As a boy he was present at the so-called Battle of Peterloo--the riot which took place at Manchester in 1819, when a political meeting was being held on the site of the present Free Trade Hall. Young Edward attended the meeting as a reporter for the _Mercury_. He observed everything that happened, and it was his evidence, given subsequently at Lancaster a.s.sizes, that saved many innocent persons, who had been hunted down by the cruel authorities of the day, from the punishment of transportation.

Edward Baines the second edited the _Mercury_ down to 1859, when, on the death of his brother, he was chosen by his fellow-townsmen to succeed him as their representative in Parliament. He had there a most honourable career. He was, like his father, a Nonconformist, and he was also a strict teetotaller. When he entered the House of Commons there was only one other teetotaller in that body. A generous and cultured man, filled with enthusiasm for the public good, he succeeded during his Parliamentary career in winning the respect of the House, not only for himself personally, but for those Nonconformist and teetotal principles which Society, at that time, held in such low esteem. Strangely enough, this life-long advocate of temperance reform lost his seat in the General Election of 1874 through an outburst of teetotal fanaticism on the part of the advocates of the Permissive Bill. As he refused to vote for that measure, they ran an intemperate temperance advocate named Lees against him, and by doing so gave the seat to a local brewer. On his eightieth birthday, in 1880, he was knighted by Queen Victoria in recognition of his life-long devotion to the public service.

I am not, however, telling the story of the Baineses. I have not even referred to it at such length merely because I feel it to be an honourable and instructive chapter in English local history, but because it throws light upon the peculiar position and authority enjoyed by the _Leeds Mercury_ when I first became connected with it in 1866. At that time, the son of the second Edward Baines, Thomas Blackburn Baines, was editor of the paper, but his father took as active a part in its political direction as was consistent with the performance of his duties in Parliament. While Tom Baines edited the paper, the management was in the hands of his uncle, Frederick Baines, a man for whom I retain to this day something of the affection and respect of a son for a father. The paper, it will be seen, was thus the exclusive possession of the Baines family. It represented the views to which they had clung so tenaciously from the first. It was the great organ of Nonconformity in the English Press, and it was at the same time the advocate of a p.r.o.nounced, though not an extreme, Liberalism. Its influence in the politics of Yorkshire was great, but no small part of that influence was due to the fact that the character of its conductors was known to the world, and that they were everywhere recognised as high-minded men, to whom journalism was something more than a trade. It was, indeed, a fortunate accident that brought me, whilst still in my youth, into intimate a.s.sociation with so high-minded a family.

They had their peculiarities. I have spoken already of their strict regard for the Sabbath. In other matters also they clung to many of the notions of the Puritans of an older generation. They never allowed the _Mercury_ to publish betting news, or to pander to the national pa.s.sion for gambling sport in any manner whatever. It would have been a good thing for the Englishman of to-day if, in this respect, their action, instead of being the exception, had been the rule among newspaper proprietors. The love of sport and of betting which has had so bad an effect upon the national character during the last thirty years would have been greatly curbed if other newspaper proprietors had been as mindful of their responsibilities as were the Baineses. As it was, they met with no reward for the heavy sacrifice they made in refusing to cater for the tastes of the sport-loving populace.

Another peculiarity which marked the _Mercury_ in those days, though founded upon equally admirable motives, was not so happy in its character as this exclusion of betting news. Edward Baines the second regarded the theatre from the old Nonconformist point of view. He looked upon it, as so many did, as being an agent for the demoralisation of the young, and he refused to allow any notice of it to appear in the columns of his paper. This naturally excited the anger and ridicule of a large section of the public, who were not insensible to the change that was gradually taking place on the British stage. But no arguments and no ridicule could move the st.u.r.dy old Nonconformist. I remember once pleading with him for some relaxation of this rule. He heard all I had to say with courteous attention, but when I had exhausted my stock of arguments he delivered himself as follows: "My dear Mr. Reid, I feel sure that you are quite sincere and conscientious in the views you hold, but you do not know the theatre as I do. I speak from personal experience when I say that both in itself and in its surroundings it is immoral and demoralising." I stared aghast at this utterance. I knew that I went to theatres occasionally, but until then I had believed that Edward Baines had never crossed the threshold of a playhouse. He saw my look of surprise, and continued, "Yes, I am sorry to say that between the years 1819 and 1822 I attended the theatre frequently in London, and I can never forget the shocking immorality I witnessed both on the stage and among the audience." Dear, simple, high-principled, and most scrupulous soul! It was impossible to make way against his sixty-year-old memories.

But I must not omit to mention one characteristic of the proprietors of the _Mercury_ which had a marked influence upon their manner of conducting that paper. This was their intense love of country. Both Edward Baines and his brother Frederick, though they never called themselves patriots, were among the most patriotic men I have ever known.

They were Nonconformists and Liberals, and consequently, in the belief of their ignorant political opponents, they ought also to be Little Englanders of the huckster cla.s.s. Instead of being Little Englanders, they were all through their lives the advocates of a sane but ardent Imperialism. They loved their country, and they believed in it--believed in it not only as the foremost nation of the earth, but as a great instrument for good among the peoples of the world. It followed that, whilst the _Mercury_ advocated advanced Liberal opinions on most domestic questions, it was always in foreign affairs the supporter of an enlightened and reasonable Imperialism, and on any question affecting international policy it resolutely refused to take the mere partisan point of view. I have dwelt at this length upon some of the characteristics of the _Leeds Mercury_ and its proprietors when I first became acquainted with them because they had a great and abiding influence upon my own character and opinions. At Preston I had learned to sympathise with the democracy, and to believe ardently in the cause of political reform. At Leeds I came in contact with a wider and loftier standard of Liberalism, and, whilst retaining my faith in the principles of my party on domestic questions, I added to it a conviction, not less profound, of the duty of advancing the interests of the British Empire throughout the world by every means in my power. In later years, when I was myself the editor of the _Leeds Mercury_, some of my excellent friends in London--and notably Mr. Stead--were wont to deplore my tendency in favour of Imperialism in foreign affairs, and to attribute it to the influence upon me of the Pall Mall clubs. As a matter of fact, I was led in this direction by the influence of these two estimable Yorkshire Nonconformists.

My first stay in Leeds in the somewhat anomalous position I have described lasted for little more than eighteen months. During that period I found plenty of work to do as a descriptive writer and reporter, and was brought into contact with some notable and interesting persons. Some months after I had become connected with the _Mercury_, I renewed my acquaintance with the tragical vicissitudes of colliery life. An explosion occurred at the Oaks Pit, near Barnsley, which led to the sacrifice of three hundred lives. Such a loss of life, exceeding that on many an historic battlefield, was in itself terrible, but the circ.u.mstances attending the accident at the Oaks Pit added to the grimness of the tragedy. When I reached the colliery a few hours after the explosion occurred I found that some two hundred of the men who had been working in it were known to have been killed, but that many more were believed to be still alive in the distant workings, and that a large rescue party had gone below to recover them. Having sent my last despatch to Leeds, I went to an inn at Barnsley to s.n.a.t.c.h a few hours of sleep before resuming work at daybreak. In the morning, as I was hastening back to the colliery to learn what progress had been made during the night, I suddenly saw a dense volume of black smoke shoot out of the mouth of the pit, and, rising high in the air, spread in a fan-shaped cloud of enormous size. Immediately afterwards the dull reverberation of an underground explosion fell upon my ear. A rough collier was walking beside me, and when he heard that ominous sound he turned white, and staggered against the wall which lined the road. "G.o.d have mercy on us!"

he cried, "she's fired again." It was an awful moment. Both I and the pitman knew that, in addition to any survivors of the first explosion, there were twenty or thirty brave men risking their lives in a work of mercy when this new catastrophe took place.

We ran to the pit at our utmost speed, and when we reached the bank we found ourselves in the midst of a distressing scene. The engineers and workmen who had been engaged at the mouth of the pit were completely unnerved by this unexpected disaster, and were weeping like children. The second explosion had driven the "cage" completely out of the shaft, and it hung in a wrecked condition in the gallows-like scaffolding which surmounted the pit. There was thus no means of descending the shaft, even if anyone had been courageous enough to do so. This renewed explosion was, I ought to say, almost unprecedented in the long story of colliery accidents. In a few minutes the wives and friends of the search party below came thronging around us with agonised inquiries as to the safety of those whom they loved. For a time all was confusion and despair; but very quickly the voice of authority was heard, and the pit platform was cleared of all except the small party that remained on duty and myself.

It was, as a matter of fact, a place of danger, for, as a second explosion had occurred, it was quite possible that it might be followed by a third. In spite of this risk, it was resolved to communicate, if possible, with the bottom of the shaft.

By order of the engineer in charge, we all lay down at full length on the platform, and one of our number was pushed forward until his head and shoulders protruded over the black chasm of the pit, from which a thin column of smoke was still rising. He was armed with a hammer, and with this he struck one of the metal guiders of the ruined cage, giving the pitman's "jowl" or signal, "three times three, and one over." Lying breathless, we listened, hoping for some response. But there was only the silence of death. Thrice the brave man repeated the signal, but no answering sound came from the depths of the pit, and sadly we came to the conclusion that all had perished. The signal man was dragged back from his post of peril, and we were consulting eagerly as to the next step to be taken, when a third explosion suddenly took place, shaking the platform on which we stood, and covering us with fragments of burning wood. Several of us were slightly hurt, but no one sustained any serious injury. The painful fact that was forced upon us, however, by this new explosion was that nothing could for the present be done to ascertain the fate of the gallant fellows who had apparently been lost in their attempt to rescue their comrades. It was clear that the pit was making gas, and that a fire was burning somewhere in the workings, which in due time might--and, as a matter of fact, did--cause fresh explosions. In these circ.u.mstances nothing could be done except to pour water into the pit in the hope of extinguishing the fire. Sorrowfully the band of workers abandoned the pit-heap, leaving only a couple of young mining engineers to keep watch above the scene of death.

In the middle of the following night--repeated explosions having taken place during the day--a remarkable incident occurred. One of the engineers left in charge--named, if I remember aright, Jeffc.o.c.k--was suddenly startled by hearing a sound proceeding, apparently, from the depths of the pit. He went to the edge of the shaft, and then heard unmistakably, far below him, the "jowl" for which we had listened in vain on the previous morning. It proved that there was someone living in the pit, and Mr. Jeffc.o.c.k instantly determined to save him if he could. The shaft was a very deep one. The cage which was the ordinary means of descent had, as I have already explained, been destroyed, whilst the pit-sides had been torn by the successive explosions, so that they were in a highly dangerous state. But undaunted by these difficulties and dangers, Jeffc.o.c.k carried out his heroic task. Summoning a.s.sistance, he caused himself to be lowered at the end of a rope to the bottom of the shaft. Heaven only knows what were the terrors and dangers of that descent. He faced them all unflinchingly. At the bottom of the pit he discovered not any member of the search party, for they had all succ.u.mbed, but one of the men employed in the colliery, who, by some extraordinary chance, had escaped with his life not only from the original explosion, but from all those which followed it. With immense labour and risk he brought this man, the sole survivor of more than three hundred, to the pit's mouth, and the next night the thoughtless fellow for whom a brave man had risked so much, and whose own escape from death had been almost miraculous, was carousing in a public-house in Barnsley, and pocketing the coppers which hundreds of curious persons paid for the privilege of seeing him.

One evening, in the summer of 1866, when I was on duty in the _Mercury_ office, I received a telegram which Mr. Baines had despatched from the House of Commons half an hour before. It stated that the Home Secretary had just received information that Chester Castle had been attacked by five hundred Fenians from Manchester, and that troops were being despatched from London to meet them. I saw that a train which left Leeds late in the evening would land me at Chester an hour or so after midnight, and I at once made up my mind to take it. When I reached Chester all was quiet at the station, and there were no signs of a Fenian rising. I asked the chief official on duty if he knew anything about the affair. All he could tell me was that during the early hours of the evening the waiting rooms, and even the platform itself, had been filled with crowds of "working men in their Sunday clothes," who had seemed to be waiting for somebody or something. There were many hundreds of them, and their unexplained presence had greatly puzzled the railway officials.

Some time before I arrived they had disappeared.

I went out into the streets of the old city. The darkness of the summer night still brooded over me, but there was light enough to see that at every street corner and every open s.p.a.ce a crowd was gathered. They were curious crowds. In every case the men were cl.u.s.tered in a circle, their faces all turned towards the centre. They seemed to be listening intently to someone who, in the middle of each little group, was speaking in low but earnest tones. I made my way to one of the small crowds, and, joining it, tried to hear what it was that the speaker in the middle was saying; but instantly a strange thing happened. The crowd fell apart, melted away into the gloom, and I suddenly found myself standing alone. Thrice did I thus attempt to learn what was pa.s.sing in these mysterious groups, and every time the result was the same. I accosted individuals in the streets, and questioned them as to the meaning of the curious scene, so unusual in the dead of night in a quiet cathedral city. No man answered me, except in some unintelligible syllable. I was not molested, n.o.body was uncivil, but from no one could I get a word of explanation.

Gradually, as morning began to break, the throng became thinner. It was dispersed like the mist by the sunshine.

By four o'clock Chester was apparently deserted by its strange visitors.

I went to the castle, and found that all was quiet there. I went to the police office, and here I was told that the men were undoubtedly Fenians, but that they had been guilty of no violence, and had given no excuse to the police to interfere with them. They had apparently come to Chester from every quarter, Liverpool, Manchester, and Stafford having each contributed a contingent. But few had come by rail, most having entered the city on foot. What it all signified the police declared they could not understand, though they had no doubt that it had meant mischief. At five o'clock I returned to the station, and saw two special trains arrive within a few minutes of each other. These brought down a full battalion of the Guards from London. It was a fine sight to see the regiment marching with fixed bayonets from the station to the Castle. When the last man had disappeared within the Castle gates, we knew that, whatever plot had been hatched, it had miscarried.

The next day I gave in the _Leeds Mercury_ a full account of what I had seen at Chester, and stoutly upheld the theory that a Fenian raid, which had somehow or other miscarried, had been intended. But, on the same morning, almost every other newspaper in the United Kingdom published an account of the affair that had been supplied by a Liverpool news agency. In this account the whole matter was turned into ridicule, and the authorities were said to have been hoaxed, or carried away by their own excited imaginations. But I had seen those strange, mysterious groups, planted so thickly in the streets of Chester under the silent night, and I could not accept the explanation of the Liverpool reporter.

Still, for the moment his story was that which was generally believed, and I had to submit to the suspicion of having allowed myself to be befooled. Not until more than twelve months later was the truth revealed.

It came out in the course of the trial of certain Fenian prisoners that there really had been a plot to seize, not Chester Castle, but the arms it contained. The conspirators knew that the guard in the Castle was very weak. They hoped to get into the place by stratagem, and to seize the contents of the armoury. Then they meant to capture a train, and, having destroyed the telegraph wires, to carry their booty to Holyhead, where they expected to find a steamer which would land them in Ireland. It was about as mad a plan as was ever devised--as mad as John Brown's seizure of the a.r.s.enal at Springfield. But desperate men attempt daring deeds.

Fortunately for the peace of the realm, the plot against Chester was revealed to the Government in time, and when the little army of Fenians knew that they had been betrayed, they silently dispersed without striking a blow. It was, I confess, a satisfaction to me when the informer--Corydon, if I remember the name aright--confirmed the truth of my interpretation of that strange scene at Chester; and I had the additional satisfaction of feeling that I was one of the few living men who had, with his own eyes, actually seen a hostile army a.s.sembled on English soil.

A reporter's life brings him into contact both with tragedy and comedy. I have an amusing recollection of a visit paid by Edward VII., when Prince of Wales, to Upper Teesdale during my stay in Leeds, for the purpose of shooting on the Duke of Cleveland's moors. I travelled in the special train which took the Prince and his party to the little station of Lartington, then the terminus of the line which now connects the east and west coasts. No royal personage had visited that beautiful valley before.

It was Sunday, and the whole population seemed to have turned out to see the train, in which the heir to the throne travelled, fly past them.

Everywhere it was greeted with the waving of hats and handkerchiefs; but I saw one old man, apparently an agricultural labourer, who was not content with uncovering his head when the train went by. Reverently he sank down upon his knees, and remained in that position until long after we had sped past him. From Lartington the Prince and his party were to drive to the inn at High Force, a dozen or fourteen miles away. I, and a companion, representing a Sheffield newspaper, were to take up our quarters for the night at the little village of Middleton-in-Teesdale, halfway to High Force. A country omnibus had been provided for the Prince and his friends, and in this they drove off. We had to walk, as no vehicle was to be got.

When we had tramped a mile or more on our way, we met two men who were walking quickly towards Lartington. One of them, who from his appearance might have been a village schoolmaster, accosted us politely. "Can you tell me if his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales has arrived at Lartington station yet?" "Yes," I replied, "he got there more than half an hour ago." "Then where is he?" said my interlocutor in an injured tone of voice. "He surely cannot be stopping there?" I told him that this was not the case, and that he had already preceded us along that very road.

"Impossible!" retorted the schoolmaster. "I've been on this road ever since the morning, and I can a.s.sure you that his Royal Highness has not pa.s.sed this way." "Did you not see a small omnibus pa.s.s," I asked, "with some luggage on the roof?" The schoolmaster's companion, who was younger, admitted that he had done so. "Well, then," I continued, "you must have seen a gentleman in a brown felt hat sitting beside the driver, and smoking a cigar. That was the Prince of Wales." "Don't attempt to make a fool of me, you impertinent jackanapes!" roared my schoolmaster friend in a mighty rage, and, setting off again at full speed, he proceeded on his way towards Lartington, in search of the kingly vision he expected to discover.

There was another occasion, during those early Yorkshire days, when I had a little experience connected with the Prince. He and the Princess were about to be received as the guests of a great--a very great--dignitary.

It was the first occasion on which this really eminent man had entertained their Royal Highnesses, and he had specially furnished certain rooms in his stately abode for their use. He gave a polite intimation that he would be glad to see one representative of the Press of the United Kingdom, in order that he might show him these apartments, with a view to their being properly described in print. My colleagues of the Yorkshire Press unanimously selected me to represent them on this great occasion, and were good enough to warn me that they would expect at least a column of descriptive matter detailing the glories of the upholstery provided for the Royal apartments.

To my surprise, when I got to the house I was at once brought face to face with the Great Man himself. He was mighty affable, and most desperately anxious that I should do justice to his newly bought furniture. I shall never forget my tour of the bedrooms and boudoirs to which I was expected to do justice. The Great Man pounded the beds to prove their elasticity. He turned down the bedclothes to convince me of the fineness of the linen. He lifted up chairs in order that I might satisfy myself of the solidity of their construction, and he expatiated upon the beauties of curtains, window-hangings, and carpets in periods as sonorous as any with which he had thrilled the House of Lords. I frankly confess that I was astounded, and not a little shocked. I could see that the Great Man was disappointed at my somewhat stolid reception of a florid eloquence of which George Robins, the auctioneer, might have been proud. I do not think, however, he was half so much disappointed as my colleagues were when I returned to them and dictated a dozen lines of severe catalogue as the only "description" I was capable of giving of the furniture of two commonplace bedrooms. I never met the Great Man in after life without seeing him, in my mind's eye, flourishing a chair upside down, or lovingly patting with his mighty hand an embroidered coverlet.

Upon the whole, the most important of the events in which I took part as reporter and descriptive writer during this period at Leeds was the series of Reform demonstrations in which Mr. Bright played the leading part in the autumn of 1866. I remember no public meetings in the course of my life that equalled them in enthusiasm. The Russell administration had been defeated in the previous session on the question of Parliamentary Reform, the defeat having been brought about by the action of the Adullamites, so-called, under the leadership of Lord Grosvenor and Mr. Lowe. John Bright, to use a phrase that has since become historic, "took off his coat" at the end of that session, and went to the country with the avowed determination of raising such a movement in favour of Parliamentary Reform that even the Tory Government, which was now in office under the Premiership of Lord Derby, would be compelled to yield to it. His plan of campaign was as simple as are most great plans. He arranged to address meetings in the chief cities of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Each meeting was to be preceded by a Reform demonstration held on some open piece of ground in or near the city where the meeting was to be held. These demonstrations took place at Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Glasgow, Dublin, and London. I was present at all of them.

Never were such open-air gatherings held in England before. On more than one occasion the attendance exceeded a hundred thousand. The gatherings were without exception orderly and enthusiastic. All the smaller towns and villages near the scene of meeting sent deputations. There were great processions through the streets, headed by bands and political banners.

At the place of meeting many different platforms were erected, and resolutions calling upon the Government to introduce a measure of Parliamentary Reform were put simultaneously from all the platforms.

Nothing could have been more impressive as a demonstration of national feeling than these wonderful gatherings, so vast, so resolute in their bearing, and yet so orderly. They made even Ministers feel that the time had pa.s.sed for trifling with the question of Reform. The Government were compelled to yield, and, as everybody knows, the session of 1867 witnessed the pa.s.sing of the Household Suffrage Act. But by far the most important factor in each of these successive gatherings was the evening meeting that followed the open-air demonstration. At this Mr. Bright was always the chief speaker. I do not think he ever made better speeches than those which he delivered during this autumn of 1866. I have recorded the first occasion on which I heard Bright speak, and have said that his oratory was not so impressive on a first hearing as people might suppose.

For my own part, I found that the spell of his magic grew stronger every time that it was renewed, and before I had listened to the last of this wonderful series of orations I had become what I remained to the end--the most enthusiastic of his admirers.

The opening speech of the series was delivered at Birmingham, and it contained one pa.s.sage that, after all these years, is still stamped upon my memory. It was a brilliant vindication of Mr. Gladstone, as the apostle of Parliamentary Reform, from the sharp attacks made upon him by the Adullamites. Even then the intrigues against Mr. Gladstone's leadership of the Liberal party--intrigues which did not cease until the day of his final retirement nearly thirty years later--had begun. Bright treated them with characteristic contempt. He inveighed with all his force against the men who were going about declaring that Mr. Gladstone was unfit to be the leader of the party, and, with that accent of withering scorn which was one of his most formidable weapons as an orator, he cried, "If they have another leader who can take Mr.

Gladstone's place, why do they not let us see him? _Where have they been hiding him until now?_" That single sentence fell like a hammer upon the heads of the intriguers of the Cave. In face of it they could not continue their absurd attempt to rob Mr. Gladstone of his appointed place.

The most florid and poetical of Bright's Reform speeches was that which he delivered at Glasgow. It consisted, for the most part, of a n.o.ble appeal to ministers of religion, and to all interested in the social welfare of the people, to try what a Reformed Parliament could do to remove the burdens laid upon the shoulders of common humanity. "The cla.s.ses have failed, let us try the nation." The speech closed with a fine peroration in which the speaker, after referring to the effect already produced by the public movement in favour of Reform, declared that he could see "as it were upon the hill-tops of Time, the glimmerings of the dawn of a new and a better day for the country and the people that he loved so well." It was with this peroration still ringing in my ears that I hurried from the meeting to the telegraph office. I was palpitating with excitement under the influence of Bright's magic eloquence. Judge of my astonishment when I heard two worthy citizens of Glasgow who had just left the hall comment upon the speech in these words. First Citizen: "A varra disappointing speech!" Second Citizen: "Ou aye! He just canna speak at all." This extraordinary incident at least bears out what I said as to the disappointing character of Bright's eloquence upon people who listened to it for the first time. A man needed to grow into an appreciation of it. There was, by the way, an amusing incident in connection with the reporting of this Glasgow speech. Bright, as I have said, had referred to the influence of the great popular demonstrations in favour of Reform, and had spoken of them as "those vast gatherings, sublime in their numbers and in their resolution." Some unhappy reporter, by a very slight slip, made him speak of the meetings as sublime in their numbers and their resolutions--a very different matter.