Christopher Crayon's Recollections / The Life and Times of the late James Ewing Ritchie as told by himself

by J. Ewing Ritchie

chief editor, but somehow or other the paper was not a success, though amongst the leader writers were William Howitt and Robertson, who had been a writer on the Westminster Review. It was there also I saw a good deal of Richard Cobden, a man as genial as he was unrivalled as a persuasive orator, who had a wonderful facility of disarming prejudice, and turning opponents into friends. I fancy he had a great deal of sympathy with Mr. John Cassell, who was really a very remarkable man. John Cassell may be described as having sprung from the dregs of the people. He had but twopence-halfpenny in his pocket when he came to town; he had been a carpenter’s lad; education he had none. He was tall and ungainly in appearance, with a big head, covered with short black hair, very small dark eyes, and sallow face, and full of ideas—to which he was generally quite unable to give utterance. I was always amused when he called me into his sanctum. “Mr. Ritchie,” he would say, “I want you to write a good article on so-and-so. You must say,” and here he would wave his big hand, “and here you must,” and then another wave of his hand, and thus he would go on waving his hand, moving his lips, which uttered no audible sound, and thus the interview would terminate, I having gained no idea from my proprietor, except that he wanted a certain subject discussed. At times

he had a terrible temper, a temper which made all his friends thankful that he was a strict teetotaler. But his main idea was a grand one—to elevate morally and socially and intellectually the people of whose cause he was ever an ardent champion and true friend. He died, alas too soon, but not till he saw the firm of Cassell, Petter, and Galpin one of the leading publishing firms of the day. The Standard of Freedom was incorporated with The Weekly News and Chronicle, of which the working editor was Mr. John Robinson—now Sir John Robinson, of The Daily News—who was at the same time working editor of The Inquirer. I wrote for The Weekly News—Parliamentary Sketches—and for that purpose had a ticket for the gallery of the House of Commons, where, however, I much preferred to listen to the brilliant talk of Angus Reach and Shirley Brooks, as they sat waiting on the back bench to take their turns, to the oratory of the M.P.’s below. Let me not, however, forget my obligations to Sir John Robinson. It was to him that I owed an introduction to The Daily News, and to his kindness and liberality, of which many a literary man in London can testify, I owe much. Let me also mention that again I became connected with Mr. John Cassell when—in connection with Petter and Galpin—the firm had moved to Playhouse Yard, next door to The Times printing office, and thence to the present

magnificent premises on Ludgate Hill. At that time it became the fashion—a fashion which has been developed greatly of late years—to print for country papers a sheet of news, or more if they required it, which then was filled with local intelligence, and became a local paper. It was my duty to attend to the London paper, of which we printed fresh editions every day. In that position I remained till I was rash enough to become a newspaper proprietor myself. Mr. John Tallis, who had made a handsome fortune by publishing part numbers of standard works, was anxious to become proprietor of The Illustrated London News. For this purpose he desired to make an agreement with Mr. Ingram, M.P., the proprietor of the paper in question, but it came to nothing, and Mr. Tallis commenced The Illustrated News of the World. When he had lost all his money, and was compelled to give it up, in an evil hour I was tempted to carry it on. It came to an end after a hard struggle of a couple of years, leaving me a sadder and a wiser and a poorer man. Once, and once only, I had a bright gleam of sunshine, and that was when Prince Albert died, of whom and of the Queen I published fine full-length portraits. The circulation of the paper went up by leaps and bounds; it was impossible to print off the steel plates fast enough to keep pace with the public demand, but that was soon over, and the paper sank

accordingly. Next in popularity to the portraits of Royalty I found were the portraits of John Bright, Cobden, Spurgeon, and Newman Hall. For generals, and actors and actresses, even for such men as Gladstone, or Disraeli, or Charles Kingsley, the public at the time did not seem greatly to care. But that was an episode in my career on which I do not care to dwell. I only refer to it as an illustration of the fact that a journalist should always stick to his pen, and leave business to business men. Sir Walter Scott tried to combine the two, and with what result all the world knows. In my small way I tried to do the same, and with an equally disastrous result. Happily, I returned to my more legitimate calling, which if it has not led me to fame and fortune, has, at any rate, enabled me to gain a fair share of bread and cheese, though I have always felt that another sovereign in any pocket would, like the Pickwick pen, have been a great blessing. Alas! now I begin to despair of that extra sovereign, and fall back for consolation on the beautiful truth, which I learned in my copy-book as a boy, that virtue is its own reward. When I hear people declaim on the benefits the world owes to the Press, and say it is a debt they can never repay, I always reply, “You are right, you can never repay the debt, but I should be happy to take a small sum on account.” But it is a great blessing to think and say what you like, and that is a blessing

enjoyed by the literary man alone. The parson in the pulpit has to think of the pew, and if a Dissenter, of his deacons. The medical man must not shock the prejudices of his patients if he would secure a living. The lawyer must often speak against his convictions. An M.P. dares not utter what would offend his constituents if he would secure his re-election. The pressman alone is free, and when I knew him, led a happy life, as he wrote in some old tavern, (Peele’s coffee-house in Fleet Street was a great place for him in my day), or anywhere else where a drink and a smoke and a chat were to be had, and managed to evolve his “copy” amidst laughter and cheers and the fumes of tobacco. His clothes were shabby, his hat was the worse for wear; his boots had lost somewhat of their original symmetry, his hands and linen were—but perhaps the less one says about them the better. He had often little in his pocket besides the last half-crown he had borrowed of a friend, or that had been advanced by his “uncle,” but he was happy in his work, in his companions, in his dreams, in his nightly symposium protracted into the small hours, in his contempt of worldly men and worldly ways, in his rude defiance of Mrs. Grundy. He was, in reality, a grander man than his cultured brother of to-day, who affects to be a gentleman, and is not unfrequently merely a word-grinding machine, who has been

carefully trained to write, whereas the only true writer, like the poet, is born, not made. We have now an Institute to improve what they call the social status of the pressman. We did not want it when I began my journalistic career. It was enough for me to hear the chimes at midnight, and to finish off with a good supper at some Fleet Street tavern, for as jolly old Walter Mapes sang—

Every one by nature hath a mould that he was cast in;
I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting.

Let me return to the story of my betters, with whom business relations brought me into contact. One was Dr. Charles Mackay, whose poetry at one time was far more popular than now. All the world rejoiced over his “Good time coming, boys,” for which all the world has agreed to wait, though yearly with less prospect of its realisation, “a little longer.” He was the editor of The Illustrated News till he and the proprietor differed about Louis Napoleon, whom Mackay held to be an impostor and destined to a speedy fall. With Mr. Mackay was associated dear old John Timbs, every one’s friend, the kindliest of gossips, and the most industrious of book-makers. Then there was James Grant, of The Morning Advertiser, always ready to put into print the most monstrous canard, and to fight in the ungenial columns of the licensed victualler’s organ to the

bitter end for the faith once delivered to the saints. And then there was marvellous George Cruikshank, the prince of story-tellers as well as of caricaturists to his dying day. It is curious to note how great was the popularity of men whom I knew—such as George Thompson, the M.P. for the Tower Hamlets and the founder of The Empire newspaper—and how fleeting that popularity was! Truly the earth has bubbles as the water hath! Equally unexpected has been the rise of others. Sir Edward Russell, of The Liverpool Daily Post, when I first knew him was a banker’s clerk in the City, which situation he gave up, against my advice, to become the editor of The Islington Gazette. Mr. Passmore Edwards, of The Echo, at one time M.P. for Salisbury, and one of the wisest and most beneficent of philanthropists, when I first knew him was a struggling publisher in Horse Shoe Court, Ludgate Hill; Mr. Edward Miall, M.P. for Bradford, the founder of The Nonconformist newspaper and of the Anti-State Church Association, as the Society for the Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control loved to describe itself—(good heavens, what a mouthful!)—was an Independent minister at Leicester. How many whom I knew as pressmen are gone! Of one of them I would fain recall the memory, and that is Mr. James Clarke, of The Christian World, with whom it was my privilege to be

associated many a long year. In all my experience of editors I never knew a more honourable, upright man, or one of greater clearness of head and kindliness of heart. He died prematurely, but not till he had revolutionised the whole tone of our popular theology. It was an honour to be connected with such a man. He commenced life as a reporter, and lived to be a wealthy man by the paper he conducted with such skill. And what a friend he was to the struggling literary man or reporter! I lay emphasis on this, because my reviewers sometimes tell me I am cynical. I ask, How can a man be otherwise who has been behind the scenes, as I have been, for nearly fifty years?