Two weekly organs of gossip, criticism, and politics which depended for acceptance chiefly on their cartoons were the Tomahawk and Will O’ the Wisp. The former introduced to the public the bold and effective artistic work of Matt Morgan; the latter was the first to discover the abundant merits of the art of my friend John Proctor. In the literary department both papers occasionally condescended to scandal and scurrility. Morgan’s cartoon entitled “A Brown Study” was resented by all decent-minded men, and both papers failed because they entirely misunderstood the tastes of those who at that time purchased weekly journals. The cartoons in both cases were of sufficient merit to keep any properly edited paper alive. But when the cartoonists themselves were inspired by the conductors the worst happened. Both papers died the death unregretted.
How the St. Stephen’s Review managed to struggle through its recurring financial viscissitudes is one of the unsolved mysteries of the publishing world. It was a strong Tory weekly, price sixpence, with a coloured cartoon by Tom Merry, and the one outstanding fact to its credit is that Mr. William Alison, the editor, gave Phil May his first chance. Alison has since those days discovered his journalistic métier in a field far removed from the arid area of politics, and in his new line he has achieved a large and financial success. I wrote a lot of copy for the St. Stephen’s Review. But I turned it up after a while, and I have no doubt someone better qualified took my place.
A curious incident happened to me in connection with this paper. The Hon. Mrs. Whyte-Melville, widow of the novelist, had engaged as her private chaplain a wild Irish divine known as the Rev. Peter Higginson. Peter had been chaplain to Bishop Colenso, and his native impetuosity had been increased on the African veldt. Now, a paragraph had appeared in Alison’s paper in which it was stated, as a matter of gossip, that Whyte-Melville’s favourite cob, which had been provided an old age of ease by the deceased gentleman’s will, was being daily galloped about the Thames Valley by a mad clergyman with a big red beard. A day or two after the appearance of the paragraph a gentleman answering the description of the person mentioned in connection with Whyte-Melville’s cob, entered my room unannounced. He threw a copy of the paper containing the note on the table at which I was sitting.
“That manes me, an’ you wrote it!” he said.
I asked him to be so good as to remove his hat and take a seat. He complied growling, and blushing, I thought, on his cheek-bones.
“Now, perhaps,” I suggested suavely, “you will tell me who you are and how you got in here.”
“I’m the Rivirind Pether Higginson,” he answered, in a more chastened spirit, “an’ I gev your boy five shilluns to let me in.”
I rang the bell. My unfortunate clerk entered.
“You’ve got five shillings belonging to this gentleman. Give them back to him.” Greatly resenting the order, the boy complied. “Now show the gentleman out!” I continued.
A letter from Peter received a month after assured me that he had discovered the writer of the offensive note, that he greatly regretted his intrusion, and that he would esteem it as a great favour if I would lunch with him on the following day at Simpson’s in the Strand. I went, and had a most amusing time listening to his gasconading. He married the widow for the repose of whose husband’s soul he had been engaged to pray, and I became an occasional visitor at their house at St. Margaret’s-on-Thames. Peter’s solicitude for my welfare was quaintly evinced on the first occasion of my dining with the newly-married couple. Just before going into the dining-room he whispered solemnly in my ear: