Forming Good Resolutions—Provincial Journalism in the 'Seventies—
Recollections of the Franco-German War—The Loss of the Captain
and its Consequences to me—Settling Down at Leeds—Acquaintance with
Monckton Milnes—Visits to Fryston—Lord Houghton's Chivalry—His
Talk—His Skill in Judging Men—Stories about George Venables—Lord
Houghton's Regard for Religious Observances.
In April, 1870, there came to me most unexpectedly the offer of the editorship of the Leeds Mercury. It came, as readers of the preceding pages know, at a time when my whole life was unsettled by the bereavement which had made me a lonely, restless man. It was, I need hardly say, an offer of a very tempting character. After little more than two years of the life of a journalist in London, the prospect was held out to me of a recognised position on the Press as chief of one of the principal provincial dailies. The position meant increased remuneration, freedom from the anxieties of miscellaneous work, and the possession of influence of no ordinary kind. All my friends and relatives urged upon me the madness of refusing such an offer, especially since it had come to me unsought and at an unusually early age. Yet for a time I was more inclined to refuse than to accept the proposal. I loved London, and the freedom of its literary life, and I knew by experience how sharp was the contrast between the social life of the capital and that of a provincial town like Leeds. Besides, London drew my sympathies more strongly than ever as the scene of those short years of married happiness which had now come to an end. So, for a time, I wavered as to the acceptance of the new position offered to me, and it was only under the sharp pressure of friends and relatives that I at last wrote to my old friend, Mr. Frederick Baines, and accepted the editorship of the Mercury.
No one not a member of the Baines family had edited the journal since it became the property of the first Edward Baines, so that it was a new departure in more respects than one that the proprietors were making in placing the editorship in my hands. The cause of the vacancy which I undertook to fill was a rather curious one. Mr. Tom Baines, who had been editor since his father, Edward Baines, entered Parliament, had become an adherent of the religious body known as Plymouth Brethren. A man of culture, of fine ability, and of high character, he had deliberately associated himself with a sect which regarded the affairs of the world as being outside the scope of a Christian's duties. He found it impossible to combine attention to the many questions of politics and public business that must engage the thoughts of a newspaper editor, with the Bible readings and sermons upon spiritual truth to which he specially desired to devote himself. It was a sore trouble to his excellent father when Mr. Tom Baines decided that the life of a journalist and that of a Plymouth Brother were not consistent; but, with that noble respect for all conscientious convictions which distinguished Edward Baines both in public and in private, he bowed to his son's decision, and regretfully acquiesced in his retirement from a post that he had filled with eminent distinction.
So it came about that on May 15th, 1870, I found myself in the train on my road to Leeds to take charge of the duties of the important post to which I had been called. I do not think that I had any conception at that time of the real importance of that post, or of the heavy responsibilities attaching to it. I was barely eight-and-twenty, and hitherto the bent of my inclination had been towards literature rather than political journalism. The ideal life, I thought, was that of a successful writer of fiction. Though a sincere and convinced Liberal, I had always possessed an unfortunate capacity for seeing the defects and blunders of my own party, and I had a strong distaste for the doctrine which finds expression in the phrase, "My party, right or wrong." Besides, I was then, as I still am, strongly attracted towards different personalities. There were men on the Conservative side of the House of Commons whom I regarded with deep respect and esteem. There were others, sitting on the Liberal benches, whom I held in something like contempt. Upon the whole, therefore, I did not feel so much attracted by the responsible editorship of a great political journal as might have been expected, and it was with considerable trepidation, and many doubts as to my own capacity, that I made that fateful journey to Leeds. I remember distinctly the current of my thoughts as the train flew northwards. The death of my wife had sobered me, and all youthful levity seemed to have been buried in her grave. I spent the four hours of the railway journey in making good resolutions as to my conduct in my new position.
The resolution which impressed itself most forcibly upon my mind was a determination not to make any enemies. I could honestly say that I had made none so far in the course of my life. If my circle of acquaintances was but a narrow one, it consisted wholly of persons who were truly my friends. In my innocence I believed that in the public position I was about to take this pleasant condition of things might be continued. I would be fair, just, and courteous to everybody, I resolved; and thus I should pass through life as one of those fortunate men who enjoy everyone's goodwill. I can smile now as I recall the speedy shattering of that illusion which awaited me at Leeds; but I well remember the almost tragical sense of surprise and disappointment which I felt when I first found that in honestly doing what I conceived to be my duty, in a public matter with which I had to deal, I had most unexpectedly made a personal enemy. Speaking now with long years of experience behind me, I may be allowed to bear my testimony to the fact that it is impossible for a public man in this country to deal honestly with the many controversial questions that politicians have to handle without finding that, in the course of his life, he must of necessity make some enemies. Human nature being what it is, it seems impossible for a man to take a clear and independent line on great questions without at times giving offence to others, who may be just as honest and conscientious as himself. It would, of course, be ridiculous to say that the test of a man's worth as a politician, whether in Parliament or the editorial chair, is the number of his enemies; but I am convinced that a public man who has absolutely no enemies must be a person who has deliberately shirked his duties and stifled his conscience.
My first step on entering on my duties as editor of the Mercury was to make a complete change in the editor's hours. My predecessor had been in the habit of writing his leader in the middle of the day, and it was very seldom that he was to be seen in the office after four o'clock in the afternoon. In common with all, or nearly all, the editors of the provincial dailies of his time, he never attempted to write upon late news. It was the fashion then for the provincial editor to wait until he had ascertained the opinions of the London daily papers upon current questions before he ventured to express his own. It was a delightful system so far as the ease and comfort of the provincial editor were concerned. To be able to finish the labours of the day in the early hours of the afternoon was an ideal state of things from the personal point of view. Fortunately I did not yield to the temptation to continue the old, easygoing régime. My experience in London had made me acquainted with the interiors of the offices of more than one of the daily newspapers, and I was no longer oppressed with a provincial reverence for London editors as beings who dwelt apart. I saw no reason why I should not express my own views upon the questions with which I had to deal, instead of waiting to pen a mere reflection of the views of other persons. So, almost from the first day of my editorship, I went to the office late, and wrote upon some subject that was absolutely fresh. Barely three weeks had passed before I was able to make a distinct impression upon the readers of the Mercury as a result of this changed system.
It was on the night of June 9th, 1870. I had finished my leader for the next morning's paper, and was just preparing to leave the office, when a telegram was brought to me with the sad announcement of the death of Charles Dickens. My old leader was instantly thrown aside, and, sitting down, I wrote out of a full heart of the irreparable loss which English literature and the Englishmen of that generation had suffered. No matter what the faults of the article might be, it made a great impression upon the readers of the Mercury next morning, for the death of Dickens was one of those events that touch the heart of the nation, and everybody was anxious to read any comments upon it. The impression made by my article was deepened by the fact that no other provincial paper had commented upon the absorbing topic. From that moment I seemed to have gained the ear of my readers, and Leeds, which, not unnaturally, had taken coldly to me in the first instance, began to open its heart and extend its sympathies to the new and unknown editor. All this sounds like sheer egotism; but as to the fact that, with my editorship of the Mercury, the practice of writing upon the latest topics in the provincial daily press first became general, there can be no dispute, and as it is a fact of interest in the history of the Press, I have dwelt upon it at this length.
Very soon the attention of newspaper readers all over the world was absorbed by one engrossing topic—the great war between France and Germany. The experiences of an editor during those exciting days were not uninteresting. There have been no such days since in my recollection. In the first instance, when the clouds were gathering with startling suddenness, few persons in this country believed that war was possible. It was incredible, they held, that two civilised nations should fight over such a question as the candidature for the Spanish throne. All the orthodox authorities were furiously angry with those journals that pointed out the real dangers of the situation, and the difficulty of arresting two great nations like France and Prussia when they had once begun to approach each other with the language of menace. One day Mr. Frederick Baines brought into my room one of the most influential citizens of Leeds. His purpose in calling was to protest against the alarmist tone of the articles in the Mercury, and nothing could have been better than the imposing air of authority with which he informed me that he knew for a fact that neither the members of the English Government nor any other well-informed persons looked upon a war as being even remotely possible. I felt very uncomfortable, and somewhat overweighted by the air of my visitor. I could see, too, that Mr. Frederick Baines, though thoroughly loyal to me, was also impressed by his friend's statement. But in spite of the high authority on which this gentleman spoke, just three days later war was declared.
Never in my time has the world looked on at a drama at once so stupendous and so enthralling in its excitement as that of the Franco-German War. We have had wars since then which have affected this country more nearly, and have, of course, stirred deeper emotions in our breasts, than this war between France and Germany; but as a dramatic spectacle on which, thank God, we Englishmen could look as spectators merely, this great struggle was unsurpassed and unapproached. The march of events was so swift, the surprises were so great and numerous, the field of operations was so near and so familiar, and the political upheaval so terrible and so complete, that we onlookers were kept in a state of perpetual, almost breathless, suspense whilst the struggle lasted.
Of course, the newspapers were full of the war from the moment of its breaking out. The arrangements for special correspondents and news from the front were more complete than they had ever been before, and as the astounding drama swiftly advanced from the trivial overture at Saarbruck to the overwhelming catastrophe at Sedan, the civilised world had eyes and ears for nothing else. Barely seven weeks elapsed between the declaration of war and the surrender of the Emperor and the fall of his empire. During those seven weeks, public opinion in this country seemed to be equally divided between the two belligerents; but after the collapse of the Imperial army and the fall of the empire, the balance swung round in favour of France. That wholesome human sentiment which leads most men to take sides with the weak against the strong acted upon us, and drew our sympathies to unhappy France. The French have never given us credit for this fact, but have continually reproached us for not having espoused their side in a quarrel with which we had absolutely no concern. On the other hand, the Germans have never openly resented our sympathy with France in her day of immeasurable misfortune. I do not think, however, that they have forgotten it.