No account of Newcastle at this period (1850-60) would be complete without some reference to one of its most notable inhabitants, Mr. Joseph Cowen, commonly known at that time to his fellow-townsmen as "Joe." Mr. Cowen's subsequent career in Parliament, brief though it was, gained for him a reputation for eloquence hardly inferior to that enjoyed by the most illustrious of his contemporaries. But in those early days of my youth it was not his eloquence but his advanced opinions about which his fellow-townsmen thought most. He openly professed to be a Republican, in theory at all events, and all his sympathies were engaged on the side of the oppressed nationalities of Europe. A man of culture, of commanding abilities, and of considerable wealth, he lived by choice in the plainest fashion, delighting to be known as one of the people. He dressed at all times in the kind of suit which a Northumbrian pitman wears when not actually at work. Years afterwards, when he had just thrilled all England by a great speech in the House of Commons on the subject of Russian oppression, I chanced to meet him one day in Pall Mall, and, stopping to talk to him, was amused to see the glances of curiosity which were cast at the strangely attired man who had found his way to that fashionable thoroughfare.
Nor was it only in his dress that he affected a likeness to the working-men of Tyneside. In his speech he exaggerated the burr of the Newcastle tongue. Most of us were anxious to get rid of that undesirable distinction. Mr. Cowen clung to it as one of the most precious of his possessions. He had to pay for this piece of affectation in later life, when he became a figure in the House of Commons. His first notable speech in that assembly was on the Royal Titles Bill of Mr. Disraeli. It was a very brilliant performance, greatly admired by those who were able to appreciate it. But, unfortunately, it was not understood by everybody. The day after it was delivered, Mr. Disraeli was questioned at a dinner-party by a lady, who asked him what he thought of the new orator whose presence had been revealed to the House. "I'm sorry I can't answer your question," said the Prime Minister. "It is true that a gentleman, whom I had never seen before, got up on the Opposition side and made a speech which seemed to excite great enthusiasm in a certain part of the House; but, unfortunately, he spoke in a language I had never heard, and I haven't the slightest idea in the world what he said."
But in the days of which I am now writing Mr. Cowen was still a long way from the House of Commons. His fame, however, was even then of no common kind. He was known throughout Europe as a man willing to befriend, not merely with speech and pen, but with purse, every victim of political oppression. By the despotic Governments of the Continent he was held in feverish hatred, and at one time his modest house at Blaydon Burn was regularly watched by French, Russian, and Austrian spies; nor was it without good reason that the tyrants of Europe saw in him their natural enemy. Under his roof many of the most eminent refugees from the countries I have named and from Italy found a welcome shelter, and in one room in that house was a small printing press on which thousands of revolutionary proclamations in all the languages of Europe had been printed. Mazzini, Garibaldi, Kossuth, Felice Orsini, and scores of other notable revolutionaries whose names I forget, were his friends and guests, and through his influence a large party of us in Newcastle were led to take almost as warm an interest in political affairs on the Continent as in the movements of parties at home. Again and again in those days, when France was crushed under the heel of the Second Empire, when Poland was vainly writhing in her cruel bonds, when Hungary was filled with the spirit of rebellion, and when the people of Italy were taking their first steps by the intricate paths of conspiracy and insurrection towards unity and freedom, Joe Cowen would find some excuse for summoning a public meeting in the old Lecture Room, Nelson Street, in order that we might listen to some patriot exile as he told the story of his country's wrongs, or give expression to our own detestation of the despotism which at that time weighed upon Europe, from the banks of the Seine to those of the Volga.
No impressionable youth could fail to be affected by such an influence as this, and if in those days I shrank from Mr. Cowen's views on home politics as being too advanced, I was one of the most enthusiastic of his adherents in his self-appointed mission against the tyrannies of the Continent. How well do I remember some of the faces and figures of Mr. Cowen's friends and guests! I can still see Kossuth with his grey hair and wrinkled brow, and Mazzini with his melancholy eyes and handsome face; I can still hear the tones of Louis Blanc as he stands on the platform of the lecture room and talks to us in excellent English of the epoch of the Great Revolution. But the one man whose face and figure dwell most vividly in my recollection is Orsini, the great Italian who, after a lifetime spent in the attempt to deliver Tuscany and Lombardy from the yoke of the tyrant, died under the guillotine in Paris, and by his death secured for Italy her long-sought freedom. Orsini came to Newcastle shortly after his escape from an Austrian dungeon at Mantua, and addressed a great meeting in the Lecture Room. He spoke English fairly well; but it was the appearance of the man, and the knowledge of all that he had suffered in the struggle for Italian freedom, that appealed to one more eloquently than his words. Never had I seen any man whose appearance equalled that of this Italian martyr who died as an assassin. His features were almost faultless, whilst his jet-black hair set off the lustrous pallor of his complexion with extraordinary effectiveness. Attired in fashionable evening dress, his hands encased in white kid gloves, and a smile, gentle rather than pathetic, lighting up his beautiful face, he looked the last man in the world whom one would naturally associate with desperate deeds. Yet, not many weeks after I had grasped his hand, he had brought about the terrible attempt upon the life of the Emperor Napoleon, when the latter was driving through the Rue Lepelletier, Paris, by which many innocent persons perished, and was himself lying in prison under sentence of death. Mr. Cowen once told me that it was he who provided the funds for carrying out Orsini's plot against Louis Napoleon's life, but he did so in absolute ignorance of the fact that this was the purpose to which the money was to be appropriated. He understood that it was wanted for the equipment of another insurrectionary expedition against the Austrians in Italy, and he willingly subscribed the amount asked for.
As for Orsini, he met his death like a hero; but it is well known that before dying he succeeded, as a leading member of the Carbonari, in extracting from the French Emperor, who had himself belonged to that society, a promise that he would free Italy from Austrian oppression. By giving that promise, Louis Napoleon was delivered from the fear of violent death at the hands of the Carbonari, whilst his fulfilment of it in the war of 1859 gave Italy her first great step towards unity and freedom. Even the romantic page of history has never recorded a more notable transaction than that which thus took place in a condemned cell between an assassin lying under sentence of death and a reigning Emperor; nor would it be possible to denounce regicide so absolutely as most of us do if there were many instances in which it had proved so successful as it did in the case of Orsini.
I have dwelt at undue length on an episode which my readers probably think altogether outside the scope of this narrative, but it does not lie quite so far apart from it as they may imagine. It was my association as a boy with Mr. Cowen's enthusiastic assertion of the rights of oppressed nationalities, and the stirring of my spirit which necessarily resulted from contact, however slight, with men like Kossuth and Orsini, that first made me a real Liberal in politics.
As I have mentioned the Lecture Room—a dismal, stuffy, ill-lighted little theatre—I may refer to two meetings unconnected with foreign politics which I remember in it. One was in 1857, when the Dissenters of Newcastle had revolted against the domination of the Whig clique, and at the general election had set up a candidate of their own. They had great difficulty in finding one, for they required a man who would pay his own expenses (in those days a very serious item), and the chance of success was by no means brilliant. At last, however, they secured a rich retired Bombay merchant, and he came down to Newcastle forthwith to address his first meeting. The Lecture Room was crowded with enthusiastic Nonconformists, and these were the words with which the unhappy candidate began his speech: "Gentlemen, four-and-twenty hours ago, if anybody had asked me where Newcastle-on-Tyne was, I could not have told them." This, to an audience full of the local pride which possessed the soul of every genuine Newcastle man! I need hardly say that, having ascertained where Newcastle was, Mr. C. speedily departed from it, amid a storm of indignation, never again to be seen in its streets.
More vivid still is my recollection of the Lecture Room on the occasion when Thackeray delivered his lectures on the Four Georges to an audience more select than numerous. I was at the age when, as the author of "Vanity Fair" himself has said, "to behold Brown, the author of the last romance, in the flesh, is a joy and a delight." Anybody who had written a book seemed to me to be a hero; what was it then to see and to hear the literary idol of my youth? Thackeray, with his tall figure, his silvery hair, his upturned face, expressive and striking, though by no means beautiful, seemed to me as I sat on my bench and listened to him to be nothing less than one of the gods. He was an admirable lecturer; his voice was musical and clear, his pronunciation singularly distinct and accurate, and the little touches of sarcasm and humour which he conveyed to his audience by a tone or an inflection, quite inimitable. I heard, as I sat listening to his lecture on George the Third—by far the best of the series—someone near me yawn, and my soul was filled with horror at what I thought nothing less than an act of sacrilege. I never saw the great novelist except on the occasion of his visit to Newcastle, but to the end of my days it will be a delight thus to have beheld him in the flesh. Dickens I heard read several times, though never in the Lecture Room; yet I cannot say that any of his readings made upon me the impression produced by Thackeray's lectures. The actor and the arts of the popular entertainer were too plainly visible in all that he did, and I received something like a shock when, having written an enthusiastic but juvenile panegyric upon him on the occasion of one of his visits to Newcastle, I learned that he had sent his secretary to buy a dozen copies of the paper to send to his friends. That so great a man should have thought a mere newspaper effusion worth noticing seemed to me altogether incredible. The reader may smile at the confession, but I own I never thought quite so much of Dickens, as a man, after this incident. This only shows how high was the pedestal upon which I had placed him, and how slight was my knowledge of human nature.