Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885

by T. Wemyss Reid

There is just one other point that I may mention in connection with "Gladys Fane." Whilst I was writing the book, I was doing my full work as editor of the Leeds Mercury, and was not only editing the paper, but was writing for it an average of twelve columns a week. "Gladys Fane" is a long story, containing a hundred and sixty thousand words. I wrote it during my scanty leisure in exactly sixteen weeks, or at the rate of ten thousand words a week. This, I imagine, is a speed which only the unfaltering pen of the typical lady novelist usually attains. Before beginning any chapter which had not shaped itself clearly in my mind, I used to take a long country walk, during the course of which I found that I could beat out the whole narrative, and solve any small problem in the construction that had troubled me.

About this time I was seeing a good deal of my literary friends. Amongst others, William Black and Bret Harte visited me at Leeds, and I have amusing recollections of both visits. Black came to me, if I remember aright, on his way to Scotland. It was his first visit to Leeds, and I thought he was entitled to something more than the welcome given to a private guest. Not many writers of distinction had found their way to Leeds whilst I was living there, and it was my earnest desire that those who came should receive a greeting that would satisfy them that even business communities could value real worth in literature. Accordingly, I gave a large dinner party at the Liberal Club in Black's honour, and invited to it a number of the leading citizens. They were all anxious to come, and to share in the welcome to my distinguished guest. Unfortunately, however, the dinner involved a speech from Black. I knew how much he hated speech-making, and did my best to steel him for the ordeal. But no efforts of mine, or of any other man, would have converted Black into an orator. His response to the toast of his health, which had been drunk with genuine enthusiasm, was as follows: "When I left London, I thought I was going to Yorkshire, but the way in which you have treated me shows that I have made a mistake and that I have really got into Scotland." And forthwith he sat down, leaving us to realise the subtle compliment conveyed in his brief speech.

And here I am reminded of another occasion on which I heard him make an attempt at after-dinner oratory. A certain Lord Mayor of London distinguished himself by giving a dinner to the representatives of literature. I had the honour of being invited to the feast, and shared Black's cab in the drive to the Mansion House. On the way thither he told me that he was one of those who had to respond for fiction: "but," he added, "I am all right, for Blackmore is to speak before me, and I shall get up when he sits down, and simply say 'I say ditto to Mr. Blackmore,'" Comforted with this idea, he was able to enjoy the Lord Mayor's turtle. But alas! when Blackmore rose to address the company, he confined himself to the statement that, never having made a speech before, he must leave it to a much more distinguished man, his friend Mr. William Black, to respond to the toast. It was obvious to Black that he could not say ditto to this speech, and he had, accordingly, to make a serious attempt to reply for fiction.

I confess I was very sorry for him. He started well by telling a story about an experience of his when visiting the United States. He was entertained at dinner by some New York club, not, I imagine, a literary one, and the president proposed his health in gushing terms, the peroration of the speech being, "I now ask you, gentlemen, to drink to the health of the greatest of living novelists, Mr. William Black, the author of that immortal work, 'Lorna Doone.'" Now this is an excellent story, and if Black had only been able to tell it, he would have delighted his audience, and would have secured a very genuine triumph. But alas! the acoustic properties of the Egyptian Hall are, to say the least of it, not good, and Black was so nervous that he was almost inaudible, more especially when he reached the point of his little tale. The result was that to the vast majority of those who heard him, his speech seemed to be a simple announcement of the fact that he had once been described at a dinner in New York as the greatest of living novelists. Happily, Black was not dependent upon his oratorical gifts for his power of influencing the public.

When Bret Harte visited me at Leeds in the early 'eighties, his arrival caused what the reporters describe as a "sensation" in the town. To begin with, Harte had not been long resident in this country, and the author of "The Heathen Chinee" was still something of a mythical personage to the average Englishman. Then he still affected the style of dress which Buffalo Bill afterwards made familiar, and with his broad sombrero hat, his flowing locks, and ample fur-lined overcoat, cut a conspicuous figure in the streets. It is no exaggeration to say that everybody turned to look at him, and that more than once he had a small mob at his heels. Greatly interested, like most of his fellow-countrymen, in the story of the Brontës, he got me to accompany him on a pilgrimage to Haworth, to see the world-famed parsonage and church. Shortly before this time, I had been concerned in raising an agitation against the destruction of the church, and had, in consequence, incurred the hostility of the incumbent, a certain Mr. Wade, who was anxious to replace the venerable fabric in which the Brontës had worshipped for so many years by a handsome modern edifice. Mr. Shepard, the American Consul at Bradford, was the companion of Harte and myself in our visit; but somewhat to our annoyance, we were joined at a wayside station by a young man, who was known to Shepard, and who seemed very anxious to accompany a celebrity like Bret Harte. We duly reached the grey old village among the moors, and for the last time I saw the quaint interior of Haworth Church, and sat once more in Charlotte Brontë's seat in the old-fashioned pew at the foot of the clumsy three-decker pulpit.

When we had seen the church, and inspected the signature of Charlotte Brontë in the register of marriages, Harte declared that he could not leave without visiting the parsonage. I warned him that he was not likely to be admitted, as Mr. Wade was known to object to the intrusion of strangers into his house. Harte, however, maintained that as an American author, Mr. Wade would certainly not refuse him if he sought admittance, and persisted in visiting the parsonage. Remembering my controversy with Mr. Wade, I discreetly withdrew from the company, and retired to the Black Bull Inn, where I smoked a cigar in the chair in which Branwell Brontë had too often sat. After some time had elapsed, my friends—Harte, Shepard, and the young man, whom I will call M.—— returned. "Did you really get admittance?" I asked, and Harte replied in the affirmative. "Well," I said, "you may congratulate yourself, for it was a remarkable achievement."

Harte did not seem to respond very willingly to this remark, so Shepard took up the tale, and told me what had really happened. "When we got to the door, Harte sent in his card to Mr. Wade, and enquired if he could see him. We were left standing on the doorstep until Mr. Wade made his appearance, Harte's card in his hand. The expression of his face was not encouraging. He asked what we wanted, and Harte said, 'You perhaps may know my name. I am an American author.' Mr. Wade looked at the card, and said, 'Yes, he had heard the name. What did Mr. Harte want?' Then Harte introduced me, as American Consul at Bradford, and explained that we were both most anxious to be allowed to see the interior of Charlotte Brontë's old home. Upon this Mr. Wade, in very plain language, declared that it was impossible, that he made it a rule not to admit strangers to his house, and could make no exception. Harte seemed very much annoyed, and I put in a word to explain who his visitor was, and what he had done in literature. But the old gentleman was quite obdurate, and we were about to turn away when young M. stepped forward, and said, 'Mr. Wade, my name is M. and I come from So-and-so.' 'What!' said Mr. Wade, his whole manner changing at once, 'are you related to my old friend, Mr. M., of the firm of M. & N.?' 'I am his son,' replied M. 'Come in, sir,' cried Mr. Wade, with effusion. 'I shall be delighted to see you in my house, and you may bring your friends with you.'" And this was the fashion in which Bret Harte saw Haworth Parsonage.

I had, I confess, a kindlier feeling towards our youthful companion on the return journey than that which I had entertained towards him before this incident; but ere we reached Leeds he again annoyed me. Whilst we were waiting for our train in Keighley Station, M. disappeared from our side. Presently we became aware that he was going to and fro upon the platform telling everybody who Bret Harte was; so that in a short time we found ourselves surrounded by a staring crowd. Fortunately the train came up, and we were able to escape; but a man known to M. entered the compartment, and the exuberant youth, in spite of the frowns of Shepard and myself, was unable to restrain himself. We heard him, in a stage whisper, announce that Bret Harte was there. Harte, who was boiling over with indignation, thrust his head out of the window to escape the stranger's stare. The latter ejaculated, "Bret Harte! Where?" M. pointed to the window, and instantly the sturdy Yorkshireman sprang from his seat, and seizing Harte by the shoulders, forced him back into his seat, whilst he thrust himself half out of the window, and eagerly searched the platform for the missing celebrity. "I can't see him nowhere," he ejaculated, as the train moved off, and he once more pushed Harte violently aside, as he strode back to his own seat. When at last, by expressive pantomime, M. had conveyed the truth to his friend's mind, it was difficult to decide whether Harte or the hero-worshipper betrayed the greater degree of embarrassment.

It was about this time that I had an amusing experience of my own in connection with Haworth and the Brontës. I was staying with my wife and children at a country inn at Burnsall, a delightful spot on the Upper Wharfe above Bolton Abbey. The inn was a small one, and by arrangement with the landlord I had, in addition to a sitting-room, the exclusive use of the coffee-room when my family partook of meals. The truth was that the "Red Lion" had but few visitors, at any rate of the coffee-room class. Coming down to breakfast one morning, the landlord met me with a perturbed countenance. "There's a young gentleman from London in the coffee-room, sir," he said, "and though I've told him the room is engaged, he won't go out, but insists upon having his breakfast there." I assured the landlord that I did not in the least object to his doing so, and accordingly the young man breakfasted at the same table as myself and my family. I found he was an entire stranger to the district, and he volunteered the statement that he had never been in Yorkshire before his present visit. An enthusiast upon Yorkshire scenery, I was anxious to know what he had seen of the beautiful broad shire. "I've been nowhere," he replied, "except to a little place called Haworth."

Now what attraction could there be in such a place as Haworth for a stranger from London unless it were the attraction of the Brontës? So I reasoned; and reasoned, as it appeared, most erroneously. "Oh, no," he said, in reply to my question, "I didn't go to Haworth because of the Brontës. In fact, I knew nothing about them when I went there, but my friends gave me a book to read about them, and I tried to read it. It was written by somebody called Wemyss Reid, but I thought it a poor book." I knew that my friend the landlord was quite certain to tell the stranger my name, and I thought it better to take the bull by the horns, and reveal the truth to him. So, as gently as I could, and with a keen appreciation of the good story with which I saw that he had furnished me, I made him understand that I was the culprit who had produced that poor book. He took the revelation so much to heart that I really regretted having made it, and it was not until after more than an hour's talk on irrelevant topics that I eased him, as I hope, of his pain and mortification, and induced him to join me in laughing at the extraordinary stroke of ill-fortune by which I was the first person to whom he innocently revealed his bad opinion of my book. Perhaps the incident taught him to be more cautious ever afterwards in the expression of his literary verdicts, at all events when in the company of a chance acquaintance. It must be confessed that in this case the doctrine of coincidences upon which I have touched in a former chapter was not so pleasant in its application as it usually is. For my part, I have always recalled that breakfast with keen delight.