Even in 1878 I was not unversed in London clubs. I had been a member of the Arundel, where the dramatists and journalists of the last generation were wont to assemble; of the Thatched House, which in those days had an admirable chef; of the Savile, the home of cultured authorship; and of the Devonshire, founded after the Liberal defeat in 1874 as a kind of Junior Reform Club. I had, in addition, belonged to several more or less Bohemian clubs, of which the Century, in Pall Mall Place, is perhaps the only one that demands notice. The Century was founded on the model of the Cosmopolitan. The members met twice a week—on Wednesday and Sunday evenings. Tobacco, spirits, and aerated waters were provided out of the club funds. The members sat in a semicircle round the fireplace, and were expected to talk together without waiting for the formality of an introduction. The rules, in short, were the same as at the familiar "Cos.," and for a time the club was very successful. But it seems almost inevitable that clubs of this description should drift, sooner or later, into the hands of a clique. The same men went every night, and you had to listen to the same platitudes, or the same cheap cynicism. Once or twice the dulness of the evening at the Century was enlivened by something like a scene. One night, for example, Henry Fawcett, the blind politician and statesman, came into the club room after an absence of some months. He was warmly welcomed, and at the same time reproached for his prolonged absence. He explained himself. "I like to come here," he said, "but I can't stand Tom Potter. He talks too much." The identical Tom Potter, the well-known honorary secretary of the Cobden Club, was sitting in his favourite corner at the moment, and it need not be said that after Fawcett's remark the conversation of the little party was somewhat constrained.
But Tom Potter did not suffer so much as I did in that little room in Pall Mall Place. One night in 1877 or 1878 I got there late, after dining with Sir George Grove at his house at Sydenham. I was hot and thirsty, and William Black, whom I found there, immediately suggested to me the propriety of a whisky and soda. I accepted the suggestion. As the foaming glass was handed to me, it occurred to me that the Century Club must have been recently painted; but I was too thirsty to stop to make any remark on the subject, and hastily drank off the cool beverage with which I had been supplied. Directly I had done so, I knew that I had been poisoned. Whatever I had swallowed, it certainly was not whisky. I suppose I turned ghastly pale, for I felt a terrible nausea suddenly overcoming me. Black and my other friends in a state of consternation examined the bottle from which I had been served, and discovered that although it bore the label of a well-known brand of whisky, it contained turpentine. I confess I was relieved when I heard this, as I feared it might have been oxalic acid. But turpentine is bad enough as a beverage, and I do not think I ever spent a more uncomfortable four-and-twenty hours than that which followed this misadventure. There was no doctor present, but Black undertook to supply his place. "There is only one thing for you to do, my dear Reid. You must get drunk directly." I declared, with reason, that I had drunk too much already, and crept away to my bed, which happily was close at hand. For at least two days after that incident I smelt like a newly-painted lamp-post, but I have always felt grateful to the careless dog of a servant for not having served me up oxalic acid or vitriol in place of the turpentine. After that affair I do not think I ever went back to the Century Club. It was bad enough to be bored by the irrepressible Club Jorkinses, but to be poisoned also was more than flesh and blood could stand.
The Reform, as I soon discovered, differed in many respects from any of the clubs to which I had previously belonged. In those days, it was really the headquarters of a great political party, and amongst its members were to be counted many of the leading statesmen of the day. It contained, too, not a few men of letters, and many prominent men of affairs. A new member coming into the club saw these distinguished persons at lunch, or dinner, or taking their ease in smoking or reading rooms; but he had little chance of becoming acquainted with them unless he had some friend by whom he could be introduced. Fortunately for me, I already knew many of the politicians in the Reform, whilst Black was eager to introduce me to his own friends in the club. On the very first day on which I dined there as a member I was formally admitted to the little coterie the members of which lunched at the same hour every day at a particular table in the large coffee room. They were known as the "press-gang," and were the objects, I have always imagined, of the mingled hatred and envy of their fellow-members. They were hated because of their exclusiveness, and envied owing to the fact that there was more laughter at that one table than at all the others put together.
It was James Payn who was the chief cause of the laughter. He had himself the loudest laugh of any man I ever met, and he laughed incessantly. Again and again, when his ringing peal sounded through the room and we saw the scandalised faces of our fellow-members, some one amongst us would remind him of the line touching "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind," but he only laughed the more loudly, and compelled us also to join in his infectious merriment. Looking back upon the years which I was destined to spend in constant association with that most delightful and lovable of men, I sadly realise the fact that since his death I have never laughed as I did in those happy days. The other members of the luncheon-table party at that time were William Black, George Augustus Sala, Sir John Robinson of the Daily News, E. D. J. Wilson of the Times, and J. C. Parkinson. There were others who came and went, but those I have named were the regular frequenters of the table. The real bond of union between us was Payn; but, as was only natural, the ties of friendship which united all became very close. To-day (1904) Parkinson and myself alone remain of the merry party of twenty years ago. Payn, Black, Robinson, and Sala are dead, and Wilson has sought the more august society of the Athenaeum. The luncheon table is still maintained, and we have found one or two recruits to fill the empty chairs; but I think it is with pity, rather than with envy, that we survivors of the original party are now regarded by our fellow-members.
However this may be, I shall always regard it as one of the great privileges of my life that for more than twenty years I was a member of this little society of friends, most of whom had kindred tastes, and who, though they might differ widely in ability, were at least alike in the keenness of their enjoyment of the humorous side of life. Many a time since Payn's death I have been asked to repeat some of his "good things," in order that others might understand the fascination that he had for his friends. I might as well be asked to repeat the song of the skylark. It was not in the mere form of words he used that Payn's power of touching and delighting his companions was to be found. He hated puns and verbal trickery of every kind, but he saw more quickly than any other man I have ever known the humorous side of any question or any incident, and he had a knack of making that humorous side perceptible to others which to my mind was absolutely unique. Day after day through the long years I have sat with him at that noonday meal, breathing an atmosphere of wit that was almost intoxicating. It was a wit that was never cruel, never coarse, never anything but kindly and humane. Even his cynicism was genial and good-natured, like that of Lord Houghton himself.
I have spoken already of William Black. He and I had become bound to each other by ties of warm affection. I had the greatest admiration for his genius, and a profound love for his pure and chivalrous character; but, like myself, he was a listener at the table at which Payn sat. He could say good things occasionally, but, as a rule, his conversation did not approach the excellence of his writing. Payn, on the other hand, was infinitely better in talk than in writing. He has written some essays which will hold their own side by side with some of Elia's, but no essay that he ever wrote had the delightful fascination that, to the very last, attached to his conversation. Sala talked almost as much as Payn, but in a very different fashion. He was an encyclopaedia of out-of-the-way knowledge, and had a story or an illustration for every topic that cropped up at the luncheon table. Sometimes his omniscience was almost overpowering; but I have heard innumerable good stories admirably told by him. Of Parkinson I must not speak, for he is happily still left to the luncheon table and to me. Robinson, from experiences which were as varied as they were abundant, was able to contribute much to our enjoyment at those bright gatherings of old, whilst he shared to the full in the affectionate admiration with which we all regarded Payn.
The summer of 1878 witnessed the meeting of the Congress at Berlin which followed the Russo-Turkish War. Despite all the scares through which we had passed during the winter and spring, we had escaped the war between ourselves and Russia with which we had been so often threatened, and the purpose of the Congress was to render such a war impossible in the immediate future. It was this summer of 1878 that also witnessed Disraeli's complete triumph over his enemies and his rivals.
He had secured his own way in the Cabinet, though in doing so he had to lose the services of Lord Derby and Lord Carnarvon, and to convert Lord Salisbury to views which, up to that time, he had professed to abhor. He had brought the Indian troops to Malta, and had thereby given a significant hint to Europe as to the extent of our resources. He had got a vote of five millions from the House of Commons, and had spent a great part of it in the purchase of ships of war, some of which turned out to be wholly unfitted for the requirements of the English Naval Service. His picturesque and audacious policy had won the favour of the multitude, and, despite the criticisms of Mr. Gladstone, the Prime Minister was the undisputed master of the nation.
Looking back, I do not think I am unfair when I say that Disraeli's triumph seemed to be largely due to his power of playing to the gallery. He gave the crowd in the streets the scenic effects which they loved. He flattered their vanity, and he played upon their weaknesses, and thus he was able in a great measure to realise the florid dreams of his youth, and to strengthen English influence in that Eastern world which had always exercised so great a fascination over him. When he went to Berlin with Lord Salisbury as his companion, there was a great crowd at Charing Cross Station to see him depart. I was one of the spectators, and was struck by the deference which was paid to him by the many distinguished persons who had come to speed him on his journey. Lord Salisbury passed unnoticed by his side. At Berlin the same thing happened. In the great Congress in which all the European Powers were represented, Disraeli's figure outshone all others. Even Bismarck seemed to take a secondary place to that of the Jew adventurer, who had made so splendid a fight for his own hand, and had achieved so magnificent a success. The story of his life, the romance of his career, and his personal peculiarities seemed to have produced a deep impression upon people of all classes and of all nationalities, and it is no exaggeration to say that during his residence in Berlin the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon him.
When Disraeli came back from Berlin, having by an astute and not very creditable transaction secured the Island of Cyprus for the British Crown, besides compelling Russia to forego some of the fruits of her victory over Turkey, he met with a reception of extraordinary enthusiasm. A conqueror returning from the wars could hardly, indeed, have been acclaimed more loudly than was Lord Beaconsfield as he drove from Charing Cross Railway Station to Downing Street. If he had seen fit to dissolve Parliament then he would have swept the country, and would have been confirmed in the possession of power. But he had his own standard of honour, and it did not permit him to attempt to snatch a victory of this kind. His political opponents are bound to acknowledge their indebtedness to him in this matter.