Part 11 (2/2)

The Chairman, having briefly addressed the meeting in dumb show, called upon one eminent Liberal after another to move the preliminary resolutions. Not a word that any one of these gentlemen said could be heard a yard beyond the limits of the platform. It seemed that nothing could be done to reduce the vast audience to silence, and we were in despair at the thought that Mr. Gladstone would have to face so severe an ordeal. When at last his turn came, and he stepped to the front of the platform, thirty thousand throats sent up such a shout that it seemed to shake the building. Again and again for a s.p.a.ce of some minutes it was renewed, whilst the orator stood, pale and motionless. What could one voice have done against thirty thousand? Then, just as the cheering seemed to be subsiding, someone started ”For he's a jolly good fellow,”

and the whole thirty thousand joined in the song. After that it took some minutes for them all to settle down again, and still there went on that undercurrent of murmuring talk which seemed to make the attempt of anyone to address the gigantic meeting hopeless. But suddenly Mr. Gladstone raised his hand, and it was almost as if a miracle had happened. In an instant there was a deathlike silence in the hall, and every man in it seemed to be holding his breath. The speaker's voice rang out, clear and musical as of old, and it reached to the furthest corners of the mighty apartment. But he had not got further than the conventional opening words when his audience seemed to go mad with delight. A frenzied burst of cheering, far exceeding that which had welcomed him on his first appearance, proclaimed the joy with which they had heard the voice of the man they adored.

Again it was some minutes before Mr. Gladstone was allowed to proceed, but once more his uplifted hand ensured silence, and from that moment until he had reached the end of an hour's speech, every syllable that he uttered was heard distinctly by his thirty thousand listeners. It was, I think, the pa.s.sionate eagerness of the audience to hear his voice, and their outburst of delight when its notes first fell upon their ears, that formed the most striking feature of that great meeting. Perhaps there was something almost idolatrous in the reception given to the statesman. It would have turned the heads of most men. The wonder is that it affected Mr. Gladstone so slightly. Yet I must say again that one must have been present at scenes like this in order to appreciate the real position of this remarkable man at this the very zenith of his political career. I remember that this speech, which was received with so intense an enthusiasm by all who heard it, contained the speaker's defence of what is known as the Majuba Hill policy. To those of us who were under the wand of the magician it seemed that no other defence was needed.

I had an opportunity, when the meeting was over, of seeing what effect the physical effort of making an hour's speech to an audience of thirty thousand had upon Mr. Gladstone. When I went into the committee room he was half reclining in an armchair, wrapped in a large cloak. His eyes were closed, his face was deathly pale, his whole aspect that of a man who was absolutely exhausted. Mrs. Gladstone brought him a cup of tea, but even as he drank his eyes were shut. To me, who had never seen him in this state before, it was alarming to observe him in a condition of positive collapse. Yet a few hours later he was the life and soul of a large dinner party. That dinner is memorable to me, because it was the first occasion on which I met Mr. Gladstone in private. I had a good opportunity of seeing that charming personal courtesy which distinguished him in all his social relations.h.i.+ps. I was introduced to him by our host across the dinner-table, and he immediately plunged into a discussion about newspapers and distinguished journalists who were known to me personally. I remember he paid a great compliment to the _Standard_, saying that it was a newspaper he always liked to read because he always found it to be fair and honest. ”When I read a bad leader in the _Standard_,” he said, ”I say to myself, Mr. Mudford must be taking a holiday.” I duly reported this saying to Mudford afterwards, and I know that this praise from one whom he had often criticised so severely afforded that distinguished editor intense pleasure.

When Mr. Gladstone left Leeds after his stay of little more than forty-eight hours, he might safely have used the words of Julius Caesar.

He had conquered everybody. Even his political opponents were for the moment subdued by the magic of his eloquence; whilst those who, like myself, had for the first time enjoyed direct personal intercourse with him were completely subjugated by the fascination of his manner, and those remarkable social and intellectual gifts which made him so long the foremost figure in English society. Of course, to one who had been a Gladstonian ever since those early days in the 'sixties at Newcastle of which I have spoken in a previous chapter, the joy of knowing the great man in the flesh was very great. Yet not even the strength of my admiration for one so supremely gifted, so ardent in his faith, and so strenuous in his actions made of me a blind follower of his leaders.h.i.+p.

Not many months after that meeting with him at Leeds I found myself sharply separated from him in a political controversy of which I shall soon have to speak.

I found refreshment after the fatigues connected with the Leeds gatherings in an excursion to Tunis. In 1881 the French, upon a distinctly fraudulent pretext, had invaded the territories of the Bey of Tunis. Their professed purpose was to punish a certain tribe of ”Kroumirs,” who, it was alleged, had committed outrages in Algeria. The Kroumirs, as it turned out, were a product of the imagination of M.

Roustan, the diplomatic agent of France in Tunis. No such tribe was known to the Tunisians, but the pretext served, and Tunis was invaded. The truth, as the world now knows, was that France was resolved to have some compensation for our ill-starred acquisition of Cyprus. She dared not move in the direction of Morocco, because of the jealousy of the other Powers of Europe; but she had obtained the tacit consent of Prince Bismarck to the Tunisian expedition. Of the pledges she gave as to the objects and the limitations of that expedition I need not speak. Yet one is ent.i.tled to remember that if the force of circ.u.mstances has compelled our neighbours to break their word with regard to Tunis, we are equally justified in alleging the same reason for the breach of our own promises concerning Egypt.

My friend Mudford gave me a commission to act as special correspondent of the _Standard_ in Tunis, and I went there accordingly to spend a few interesting weeks in studying on the spot one of the burning questions of the day. I shall not inflict upon my reader the story of my trip. I feel the less inclined to do so because I was ill-advised enough after my return to publish that story in a volume called ”The Land of the Bey.”

The most interesting fact connected with that volume is one that happened in quite recent years. A gentleman from the Inland Revenue Office called upon me, and in a most courteous manner drew my attention to the fact that I had not, in my income-tax returns, included the profit I had received from this book. It had taken the department just nineteen years to discover the existence of this precious volume. The discovery, though belated, did great credit to the zeal and industry of somebody connected with the Inland Revenue, for I am convinced that he is the only person, myself excepted, who knew that the book had been written. I had clean forgotten its existence myself when it was recalled to my memory in this amusing fas.h.i.+on. My visitor from the Inland Revenue Office smiled sweetly when I explained to him why no profits from this publication had ever swelled my meagre income-tax returns. It was a case of the Spanish Fleet over again. I had never seen those literary profits even to the amount of sixpence, and I could not therefore be expected to cause the collectors of her Majesty's Revenue to succeed where I had failed.

My stay in Tunis was not only interesting but somewhat adventurous. There was only one Englishman besides myself resident in the city of Tunis while I was there. This was Mr. A. M. Broadley, who was at that time acting as the correspondent of the _Times_, and whose ability had enabled him to create a diplomatic question, which he called the Enfida Case, out of a trumpery lawsuit in which he acted for a rich Arab, called, if I remember aright, General Benayid. Mr. Broadley subsequently became known to fame for the active part he took in defending Arabi Pasha at Cairo. I only mention him now because of the remarkable forecast which he made on the first evening on which I met him in his house in Tunis.

Producing a map of the Eastern Hemisphere he pointed out to me what he called the zone of disturbance, and a.s.sured me that within the next ten years the eyes of the world would be riveted upon that zone. Roughly speaking, the zone was the belt of the Mahommedan races, extending from Morocco in the west to India in the east. The disturbances which he predicted would come he traced in the first instance from our annexation of Cyprus, and the consequent invasion of Tunis by France. He foretold with great precision the rise of the Mahdi, and the growth of religious fanaticism in the Soudan; and he indicated that through Asia Minor, Persia, and Afghanistan a wave of unrest was running which must have serious consequences for the Christian Powers in the near future. Many times in later days I had occasion to remember the wonderfully clear and precise predictions of Mr. Broadley, as he delivered them to me in his old Arab house in Tunis.

One charming friend I made during my visit. This was the English Consul-General, Mr. Reade, who entertained me in his beautiful house at the Marsa, close to the site of Carthage. A pleasant, rather grave, and thoughtful man, Mr. Reade was a mine of information regarding earlier days in Tunis, when the Bey was a real ruler and the slave-market in the old Bazaar was still the scene of a merchandise in flesh and blood. His father had been Consul-General in Tunis when the influence of Great Britain was supreme, and he had inherited his father's popularity and personal prestige. Too clearly he foresaw that the result of the French foray upon the unoffending princ.i.p.ality must be its absorption into French territory, and the consequent loss of England's position and influence in that part of the Mediterranean. All his fears have been more than realised. In 1881 it was the English Consul-General who was the most important person in Tunis--more important in many respects than the Bey himself. In the Bazaars every shop was filled with English goods, whilst many wealthy Tunisians had found protection by securing their recognition as English subjects. In the old Consulate at the gates of the city an English, or at least a Maltese, judge administered justice under the red ensign daily. The travelling Englishman hardly seemed to have left the shelter of his own flag when he found himself in the land of the Bey. All this is changed now. France has elbowed England out of Tunis. Our Consul--he is no longer Consul-General--is a subordinate official.

English commerce has dwindled away to comparative insignificance. French shops supply the residents with all they require, and Great Britain has become of no account. This is the direct result of Lord Beaconsfield's action in taking possession of Cyprus in 1878. Would to Heaven that this were the whole of the price we have had to pay for that fatal piece of folly!

Whilst I was in Tunis I went to the little English graveyard, which lies enclosed by houses in the heart of the old city. Here are the graves of some Englishmen who were the captives of Tunisian pirates in the old days when Barbary rovers were still the curse of the Mediterranean. I found there also, in that lonely and neglected spot, the grave of Howard Payne, the author of ”Home, Sweet Home.” It seemed cruel that he, who had touched so deep and true a chord in the hearts of millions, should himself be fated to rest so far from home. I wrote to the newspapers to draw attention to this fact. Whether my letters had in themselves any effect I do not pretend to say, but I am glad to know that since then Payne's body has been removed to America and buried in his native place.

In returning from Tunis I came by way of Malta and Naples, where I got an Orient steamer which brought me to Plymouth. It was in sailing through the Straits of Messina on my way to Naples that I met with one of those strange--but by no means rare--coincidences that prove the smallness of the world, or, at least, of that part of it with which any one man is acquainted. I was sitting on the upper deck of the steamer, gazing at Etna, as its snow-shrouded peak was revealed in the brilliant moonlight, when a chance fellow-traveller began to talk about the coincidences so common in foreign travel. I told him that one of my strangest experiences of the kind was the following. In the previous September I was staying at the Hotel Belle Vue at The Hague, and after dinner one evening went into the reading room to get a peep at the _Times_. A pleasant-looking elderly gentleman was reading it when I entered. Perhaps he saw the look of disappointment on my face when I found that the coveted journal was engaged. At any rate, he very courteously offered it to me, and by way of opening a conversation drew my attention to an article it contained about the Liverpool docks. When I had glanced through the paper he resumed the conversation about Liverpool, and asked if I knew many persons in that city. I was compelled to admit that I knew only one, a Liverpool clergyman named Postance, my acquaintance with him being of the slightest. ”Ah,” said my friend, ”if you know the Reverend Henry Postance, you have possibly heard him speak of his son Alfred?” I replied that I knew Alfred Postance better than I knew his father, and that I had, as a matter of fact, travelled to Malta with him shortly before his death, which took place in that island. ”Then,” pursued my interlocutor, ”since you knew Alfred Postance, you might like to read a little sketch of his life that has been written by a friend. I think I could procure the loan of a copy for you.” I thanked the gentleman for his offer, but explained that it was not necessary that I should avail myself of it, as Mr. Postance senior had already sent me a copy of the work in question.

The old gentleman's eyes glistened when I said this, and with an air of some pride he said: ”Since you have read that little book, you will, I am sure, be interested to know that it was I who published it.” ”Well, I am rather interested,” I replied, ”because it was I who wrote it.”

This was the story which I chanced to tell on the deck of the steamboat to my unknown fellow-traveller. I had no sooner finished it than he said, ”Then you are Mr. Wemyss Reid. Your account of Alfred Postance was the last thing I read before leaving my home in Malta.” The double coincidence was certainly rather startling, and it was increased when I found that I and this second stranger had on the same day visited the grave of Alfred Postance at Valetta for the same purpose--to pluck a spray of flowers to send to his father in Liverpool. Yes, the world _is_ small!

CHAPTER XIV.

CONCERNING W. E. FORSTER AND OTHERS.

The Beginning of Mr. Stead's Journalistic Career--His Methods--Birth of the New Journalism--Madame Novikoff and Mr. Stead--Mr. Stead's Attacks upon Joseph Cowen--How he dealt with a Remonstrance--W. E. Forster--Mr.

Chamberlain's Antagonism--The _Leeds Mercury's_ Defence of Forster--How he was Jockeyed out of the Cabinet--Forster's Resignation--News of the Phoenix Park Murders--Forster's Reflections--Mr.

Gladstone's Pity for Social Outcasts--Mr. Chamberlain's Brothers Blackballed at the Reform--Failure of an Attempt to Crush the _Leeds Mercury_--Forster's Grat.i.tude.

I now approach an episode in my life which not only had a strong and permanent influence on my own career, but is of interest in its bearing on the politics of my time. I refer to my intimate friends.h.i.+p with William Edward Forster, and to my close a.s.sociation with him in the stormy episodes which attended the close of his career as a Minister of the Crown. But before I enter into the story of my relations with this truly great and n.o.ble-minded man, I may say something about another distinguished person who shared my regard for Mr. Forster, though we had, perhaps, few other tastes in common. One day in 1871 or 1872--that is to say, soon after I became editor of the _Leeds Mercury_--I was told on returning home that a gentleman was waiting to see me who had brought a letter of introduction, which my servant placed in my hands. The letter was from my father, and its object was to introduce to me the son of his old friend, the Rev. William Stead, of Howden, near Newcastle. I need not say that an introduction from my father would in itself have sufficed to ensure for the bearer a warm reception; but in any case the story which young Mr. Stead had to tell me at once enlisted my interest and sympathy.

Like myself, he was the son of a Nonconformist minister, and on leaving school he had entered upon a business career as a clerk on the quayside at Newcastle. But he had been irresistibly drawn towards journalism, just as I myself had been a dozen years earlier, and after contributing articles to various newspapers, he had received the offer of the editors.h.i.+p of the _Northern Echo_, a halfpenny newspaper which had been recently established at Darlington.

Strange to say, when this post was offered to and accepted by him, he was not only absolutely without editorial experience, but, as he himself told me, had never seen the inside of a newspaper office in his life. With that remarkable prompt.i.tude and directness of action which, as I afterwards discovered, was one of his great characteristics, he had no sooner accepted the editors.h.i.+p than he sought to qualify himself for it by making the acquaintance and obtaining the advice of someone who had actual experience in editorial work. It happened that I was the only editor to whom he could get a personal introduction, and so he came to me at Leeds to get what guidance and help I could afford him at the outset of his journalistic career. Remembering to what a height of fame he has since risen as a journalist, I confess that I look back upon the days when he thus approached me as a neophyte with some amus.e.m.e.nt. No doubt I was already, in his eyes, one of the old fogeys of the Press, and it must be admitted that there was something of the ugly duckling about his first appearance in my comparatively tame editorial establishment.

Stead interested me immensely during this first visit that he paid me. He was pleasingly distinguished by an entire lack of diffidence, and from the first made no concealment of his own views upon any of the subjects we discussed together. It is true that when I took him down to the _Mercury_ office that evening, and wrote my leader whilst he sat at my desk beside me, he regarded me with the admiring eyes of the novice; but he had, even then, his own ideas as to how leaders ought to be written and newspapers edited, and he did not affect to conceal them.

There was something that was irresistible in his candour, his enthusiasm, and his self-confidence. The Press was the greatest agency for influencing public opinion in the world. It was the true and only lever by which Thrones and Governments could be shaken and the ma.s.ses of the people raised. In all this I was in strong sympathy with his opinions.

But I was staggered by the audacity of the schemes for revolutionising English journalism which he poured into my ears on this the first evening on which he had ever entered a newspaper office. For hour after hour he talked with an ardour and a freshness which delighted me. If he had come to me in the guise of a pupil, he very quickly reversed our positions, and lectured me for my own good on questions of journalistic usage which I thought I had settled for myself a dozen years before I had met him.

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