younger men.” And, strange to say, though this has always seemed to me the great want of the age, the work has been left undone, and all the nation suffers in consequence. As an illustration of Mr. Cobden’s persuasiveness let me give the following. Once upon a time he came to Norwich to address an audience of farmers there—in St. Andrew’s Hall, I think. On my asking an old Norfolk farmer what he thought of Mr. Cobden as a speaker, his reply was, “Why he got such a hold of us that if he had held up a sheet of white paper on the platform and said it was black, there was not a farmer in the hall but would have said the same.” Cobden never irritated his opponents. He had a marvellous power of talking them round. In this respect he was a wonderful contrast to his friend and colleague, John Bright.
A leading teetotaler with whom I had much to do was the late Mr. Smithies, founder of The British Workman and publications of a similar class. At an enormous expense he commenced his illustrated paper, full of the choicest engravings, and published at a price so as to secure them a place in the humblest home. For a long while it was published at a loss. But Mr. Smithies bravely held on, as his aim, I honestly believe, was to do good rather than make money. He was a Christian social reformer, a Wesleyan, indifferent to politics, as Wesleyans more or less were at one time.
Square-built, of rather less than medium height, with a ruddy face, and a voice that could be heard all over Exeter Hall—he looked the picture of health and happiness. I never saw him frown but when I approached him with a cigar in my mouth. Mr. Smithies was one of the earliest to rally round the Temperance banner. His whole life was devoted to doing good in his own way. He never married, and lived with his mother, a fine old lady, who contrived to give her dutiful and affectionate son somewhat of an antiquated cast of thought, and never was he happier than when in the company of Lady Burdett Coutts or great Earl Shaftesbury.
I had also a good deal to do with Mr. W. H. Collingridge, who founded that successful paper, The City Press, which his genial son, Mr. G. Collingridge, still carries on. By means of my connection with The City Press I came into contact with many City leaders and Lord Mayors, and saw a good deal of City life at the Mansion House and at grand halls of the City Companies. I think the tendency in these days is much to run down the City Corporation. People forget that the splendid hospitality of the Mansion House helps to exalt the fame and power of England all the world over. Once upon a time I attended a Liberal public meeting at which two M.P.’s had spoken. One of the committee said to me, “Now you must
make a speech.” My reply was that there was no need to do so, as the M.P.’s had said all that was required. “Oh, no,” said my friend, “not a word has been said about the Corporation of London. Pitch into them!” “No, no,” I replied. “I have drunk too much of their punch and swallowed too much of their turtle-soup.” I will never run down the City Fathers, many of whom I knew and respected, and at whose banquets men gathered—not merely City people, but the leading men of all the world. The glory of the Mansion House is the glory of the land.
I could go on for a long while. Have I not been to soirées at great men’s houses and met all sorts and conditions of people? Only two men have I given myself the trouble to be introduced to—one was Barnum, because he frankly admitted he was a humbug, though he seemed a decent fellow enough in private life. Another was Cetewayo, the jolliest-looking Kaffir I ever saw, and I went to see him because our treatment of him was a shame and a national disgrace. Once on a time as we were waiting for Royalty on a distant platform, one of the committee offered to introduce me to H.R.H. I declined, on the plea that I must draw the line somewhere, and that I drew it at princes, but oh! the vanity of wasting one’s time in society. Of the gay world, perhaps the wittiest and pleasantest, as far as my personal experience
is concerned, was the late Charles Mathews. I had seen him on the stage and met him in his brougham and talked with him, and once I was invited to a grand party he gave to his friends and admirers. As I went into the reception-room I wondered where the jaunty and juvenile actor could be. All at once I saw a venerable, bald-headed old man coming down on me. Oh! I said to myself, this must be the butler coming to account for his master’s absence. Lo, and behold! it was Charley Mathews himself!
CHAPTER XIV.
How I Put up for M.P.
By this time people have got sick of electioneering. It is a great privilege to be an English elector—to feel that the eyes of the world are on you, and that, at any rate, your country expects you to do your duty. But to the candidate an election contest is, at any rate, fraught with instruction. Human nature is undoubtedly a curious combination, and a man who goes in for an election undoubtedly sees a good deal of human nature. I was put up for a Parliamentary borough—I who shudder at the sound of my own voice, and who have come to regard speechmakers with as much aversion as I should the gentleman in black. A borough was for the first time to send a member to Parliament. It had been hawked all over London in vain, and as a dernier ressort the Liberal Association of the borough—a self-elected clique of well-meaning nobodies—had determined to run a highly respectable and well-connected gentleman whose name and merits were alike unknown. Under such circumstances I consented to fight the battle for freedom and independence, as I hold that our
best men should be sent to Parliament irrespective of property—that candidates should not be forced on electors, and that unless our Liberal Associations are really representative they may be worked in a way injurious to the country and destructive of its freedom. At my first meeting, like another Cæsar, I came, I saw, I conquered. The chiefs of the Liberal Association had assembled to put me down. I was not put down, and, amidst resounding cheers, I was declared the adopted candidate. The room was crowded with friends. I never shook so many dirty hands in my life. A second meeting, equally successful, confirmed the first, and I at once plunged into the strife. I am not here to write the history of an election, but to tell of my personal experiences, which were certainly amusing. The first result of my candidature led to a visit from an impecunious Scot at my suburban residence, who had read my programme with infinite delight. He came to assure me of his best wishes for my success. He was, unfortunately, not an elector, but he was a Scotchman, as he was sure I was, and sadly in want of a loan, which he was certain, from my Liberal sentiments, I would be the last to refuse to a brother Scot. I had hardly got rid of him before I was called upon by an agent of one of our great Radical societies—a society with which I had something to do in its younger days before it