and told me his trouble. He had an advance copy of “Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Letters,” and through illness there was no one in the office free to review it. Two columns about were wanted before going to press. “I wish, Parry,” he said, with half a sigh, “that you were available.”
Of course I was available. The book, with its two volumes of over eight hundred pages, came down to the Court. I started it in the luncheon hour. I got at it again after the Court rose at about 4 o’clock, and before 11 at night I entered the office and was received with enthusiasm by a grateful sub-editor thirsting for copy. I compared my work the next day with that of some of the London champions, the plus 4 men at the game. I had scooped out nearly all the tit-bits, and I had done more. I had discovered that Mrs. Browning’s baby was a good half-column, and the other fellows had missed that delightful child altogether. Moreover, I had not only written my review, but I had copied out all my extracts, for I never could bear the thought of mutilating a book, and so the volumes remain with me as a pleasant memory of a happy day’s overtime. For when I had had some supper I had missed the last tram, and dreaming that I was still in the days of my youth and could not afford a hansom, I had a joyful walk home in the moonlight.
And long before that, whilst I was at the Bar, Hulton, the elder, came into my chambers and asked me to write some articles for the Sunday Chronicle. For some reason or other a new hand was suddenly
wanted. The articles had to be a column and a turn-over. Any subject might be written upon as long as the writing was tense, vivid and entertaining and the matter was of popular interest. The manuscript had to be ready by Friday. I doubted my capacity for the task, but Hulton told me that he had been assured by that kind-hearted doyen of the craft, Spencer of the Guardian, that I was all right. I bowed to his verdict, for to me Spencer’s was the last word about journalistic matters.
I shall never forget that week. Nothing happened. Day succeeded day in stagnant succession, no one of importance said or did anything. There was not a crime or a law-suit, or even a political speech in which one could pretend an interest. On the Thursday morning I rose early and rushed at the newspapers. The same dismal outlook of barren nothingness. I passed the canal and looked at its waters lovingly. Was I to disgrace myself by going back on the verdict of Spencer? It seemed impossible that I could do that and live.
About midday, whilst sitting in chambers with a blank sheet of paper before me, symbolic of the mind within, my clerk brought in some papers, and in a diffident off-hand manner said casually, “I suppose you’ve heard the news!”
“News,” I cried testily, “there is none.”
He turned on his heel.
“What is it, then?” I called after him.
“Only Mr. Parnell’s dead!”