Part 5 (2/2)

The trial at the Old Bailey resulted in the acquittal of all the prisoners except one, a man named Barrett He was convicted, and sentenced to death Great interest in his case was felt in Glasgow, and I was asked by one of the Glasgospapers to telegraph to it a full account of the execution It was in one respect to be a remarkable occasion, for an Act had just received the assent of Parlia an end to public executions, and Barrett's was to be the last event of the kind I and an old newspaper friend named Donald, as also coht in order that weat the Old Bailey We were on duty in the Reporters' Gallery up to a late hour of the night, and I reway, made an appeal to the Home Secretary to spare the condemned man's life It was very unusual for such an appeal to be made in that fashi+on, and it was still more unusual to make it within a few hours of the time fixed for the execution The Hoht's prayer, but this scene in the House of Commons was undoubtedly a soleedy to which it was the prelude Donald and I, when the House at last rose, sauntered slowly through the streets, taking note of that night side of London, which was novel to both of us In the early hours of thewe found ourselves at Covent Garden, where atched the unloading of the vegetable carts and the unpacking of the great ha flowers Before six o'clock we had reached the Old Bailey, where already a large croas gathering

Rumours of an attempted rescue, even on the scaffold, had been freely circulated Calcraft, the executioner, had received a nureatly The police, knohat the Fenians had already atte their friends, were very much on the alert, and more than a hundred officers, in private clothes and arst the crowd At six o'clock the great gates leading to the yard of the Old Bailey courthouse were thrown open, and with a heavy, ruured in so many scenes of horror was for the last ti-place and wheeled to its position in front of the small, iron-barred door, which, as late as 1900, was still seen in the ate Prison The noise of the workmen's hammers as they made the scaffold fast was al crowd All the scoundreldom of London seemed to have assembled for the occasion It was the last Old Bailey execution crowd The s of the public-house opposite the scaffold had been thrown open, and at everyriht, this execution crowd

There was one strange incident connected with it that has never been put on record Shortly after the scaffold had been placed in position I saw fourto force their way through the crowd, and I was greatly startled when I recognised them as the four men who had been tried at the same time as Barrett, but who had been acquitted by the jury Not knohat sinister purpose they ht have in view, I felt it my duty at once to warn the chief inspector of police of their presence He was greatly disturbed, and quickly pushed his way through the croards the place I had indicated to him I followed close at his heels until we reached the front of the scaffold

As we did so he quickly put his hand upon my shoulder to stop e sight thatin the middle of that obscene and blasphemous mob The four men, who had so narrowly escaped the fate of Barrett, were kneeling, bare-headed, on the stones of the Old Bailey in front of the scaffold on which their friend was about to die, praying silently but earnestly For several minutes they continued to kneel and pray, and then, suddenly rising, they hurriedly left the crowd and disappeared ”Did you ever see anything like that?” said the inspector to me; and I do not knohich of us was the e incident

Of the execution itself I have only one thing to say: that is, that Barrett died in a very different fashi+on froed He faced death, in fact, like a hero, with undaunted mien, and a smile upon his pallid lips I observed that his trousers were all frayed and worn at the knees, and re beside , ever since he was sentenced” I caht that I should never again be called upon to witness that abo a public execution

It was in 1868 that I gained my first experience of London club-life

This hen I became a member of the Arundel Club The club is still, I believe, in existence, and has a home somewhere in the Adelphi In 1868 it occupied a house at the botto from the Strand to the river, which ept ahen the Hotel Cecil was built This house had once been the residence of John Black, the well-known editor of the _Morning Chronicle_, a journalist who used to boast that his readers would follow him wherever he liked to lead them The members of the club were, for the ht to arded istful eyes froot a foothold, however humble, in the literary life of London The man who introduced me to the club was my old friend James Macdonell We had beco the _Northern Daily Express_ His brilliant writing had attracted the attention of the proprietors of the _Daily Telegraph_, and they had brought him to London to act as assistant editor of that paper

Macdonell was a typical journalist, of very fine character He was an enthusiast, more than commonly perfervid, even for a Scot Whatever he believed, he believed with all his heart and soul He was always in earnest, and always striving to give effect to his opinions His leaders were really polished essays, of remarkable point and brilliancy His conversation was as striking and epigraenerous iues on the _Telegraph_ declared that Macdonell evidently believed that his chief business in life was to fraood deal of the temperament of the French man of letters, and to the enthusiasm of the Gaul he added a fine taste for style In those early days in London he was full of the possibilities that lay before the penny Press, and predicted that the day was not far distant when the _Daily Telegraph_ would supersede the _Tireatly admired the shrewdness of the proprietors of the paper, who, having no knowledge of literary quality theood in journalishted in one story which I have heard hi Alexander Russel, of the _Scotsman_, of the shrewd raph_, had been criticising an article of which he did not quite approve The writer had pleaded that the reasoning of the article was perfectly sound ”We don't want sound reason; ant sound writing,”

was Mr Levy's response When Macdonell repeated this to Russel, the great Edinburgh editor slapped his thigh, and cried, with an oath, ”The Lord knehat He was about when He chose that people for His own!”

It was not to be Macdonell's fate to convert the _Telegraph_ into a second _Times_ On the contrary, after a few years in Fleet Street, he hi House Square, where he beca days of Delane's editorshi+p of the _Tireat ood deal further in the direction of advanced Liberalis hater of Mr

Disraeli's I journal lent no countenance to that line of action But the curb was put upon the enthusiastic leader writer, with his strong humanitarian views, and he had to see the paper hich he was identified taking a course of which he could not approve To acould bethan this Poor Macdonell fairly wore himself out with his ceaseless expenditure of nervous and intellectual force, and he died suddenly and prereatest blow to English journalism that it has received in my time In 1868, however, Macdonell was still in the heyday of his physical and mental powers We used to meet at the Arundel Club in the society that I have described Sala, Tom Robertson, Swinburne, and others hardly less eminent, formed the company; and to these Macdonell, when he was rahted I can recall some of them that were very brilliant, but they are too personal to be repeated here

Another friend of those days never attained to anything like fa journalist, and he is now remembered only by a handful of personal friends Yet even now, more than twenty years after his death, I feel that Robert Donald was in ifted h to fill a place in the Reporters' Gallery, and he added to his work as reporter that of London correspondent of the _Glasgow Herald_ With the rest of his intiifts, and an unqualified belief in his future We knew from constant and inti that he possessed, and ere convinced that when he revealed these riches to the world he would impress others as ed for years in writing a novel--a novel that, ere convinced, would be a notable addition to the great treasury of English literature He was very reticent on the subject of this _num opus_, but at last he consented to submit the manuscript to me and to another friend hom he was equally intimate, Mr Charles Russell I can recall the thrill of expectancy and delight hich I first turned to the volues of Donald's book I can re in the freshness and vigour of the style, in the brilliancy of the dialogue which abounded throughout the story, and in the insight into character and the grasp of human motives that were everywhere revealed After I had read a hundred pages I was convinced that all our anticipations as to Donald's future fell short of the mark But I read on and on, and slowly, yet certainly, a deadly sense of disappointment crept into -off in the quality of the work Every page was as fresh and as strong as those which preceded it But when I had read a thousand pages--large pages, closely written--and had come to the end of that part of the work that he had finished, Idiscovery that the story he had to tell had not advanced a single step beyond the point he had reached in the first chapter Apparently it would require thousands of pagesas ”Middle adreatest of his contemporaries; but he lacked the chief essential of a novelist, the power ofhis story march Russell, when he read the manuscript, compared it to an immense torso, heroic in its proportions, splendid in its workment after all ”And yet what a quarry it is!” he said toit ”If only so into it, and transfer its gold and es!” My poor friend's personal story was a real tragedy He accepted the advice we gave hian to write what hechapters to the editor of the _Glasgow Weekly Herald_ That gentlehted with it, and at once accepted the novel for publication in his journal The first feeekly instalments were read with the keenest pleasure by everybody, and the hope ran high that we had found a neriter as destined to take his place in the first rank of English authorshi+p But by-and-by the readers of the _Herald_ made the discovery that had been made by myself when I read Donald's unfinished manuscript Each chapter of the tale was brilliant in itself, but no single chapter advanced the movement of the story by a hair's breadth

For weeks and months the novel ran its course, until the murmurs of discontent on the part of the readers swelled into a positive roar Mr

Stoddart, the editor, as a warain iain and again he undertook to do so But it was beyond his power to fulfil his pro happened I was lunching with Donald in a club in St James's Street, one of the proprietors of the _Herald_ (now dead) being also his guest This gentle not with intentional brutality, but siood-fellowshi+p, asked hi to stop?” adding that it ot out of the way in a week or two, as they wanted to begin the publication of another I sa my poor friend turned pale at the cruel thrust He faltered out a promise that he would finish the tale at once, but I felt that his heart was broken He went home and bravely did his best to keep his promise, but he only found once th; and the unfortunate editor was reluctantly compelled to call in an outsider to put an end in a summary fashi+on to a story which had escaped corasp of its author Donald never recovered from the blow His own ambition was crushed and mortified, and the ardent hopes of his friends were all destroyed He did not long survive this tragical experience And yet what a man he was! And what capacities he possessed, capacities which would have enabled hiht the world, if only he had not lacked the poor faculty of the storyteller!

These were two ofmy first residence in London, and they were friends of whoht have been proud Others I held scarcely less dear, but they are still, happily, living, and Isettled in London before I found work of different kinds accu on my hands I wrote London letters every week for the _Madras Times_, under the editorshi+p of an old friend, James Sutherland, and I contributed to various provincial papers But that which chiefly attracted azines, and it was in connection with this work that I first became acquainted with one of the dearest and most honoured of the friends of my life, James Payn I had been for some years an occasional contributor to _Cha note written in a hand that it was difficult to decipher, and sined, ”Editor, _CJ_” At last it occurred toto the places and scenes hich I had becoht be accepted by the editor With much trepidation--for I was still a neophyte in London literary life--I addressed a personal note to Mr

Payn, asking for an interview I got a cordial reply, inviting me to call upon hih I entered his presence with fear and tre freely to the kindest and enerous man that ever wielded the editorial pen Neither of us then kne dear ere to become to each other, and how close and affectionate was to be our intercourse during more than twenty years

To Payn I was, of course, merely a very humble contributor to the journal he edited; but I was received in a most friendly and cordial fashi+on, and found, ht and not a little to my astonisher to recognise the bond which a coe in his treatment of my modest proposals He did what he could to make me feel that we stood on an equality This was Payn all over Throughout his life he was one of thoseinto the boon co they have adopted by treating all the otherwith an unaffected respect and cordiality Such enerosity to young and unknoriters has been attested by ave the first helping hand in their long struggle against fate When, in later days, I read these tributes to the splendid and unselfish service which Payn had rendered to English literature, I always recalled hiy office in Paternoster Row on that day in 1868, when he first gave ht hand of fellowshi+p I shall have much to say of him hereafter At this point I need only record the fact that I beca for it a series of articles, descriptive of the work of the journalist, that were afterwards republished in a volume called ”Briefs and Papers” In this little book I collaborated with my old friend and schoolfellow, Mr W H

Cooke, as the author of the chapters describing the experiences of a young barrister

By-and-by, as I extended ht into contact with Mrs Riddell, the gifted writer of that ade Geith,” and of other stories of equal merit Mrs Riddell was the editor and proprietor of the _St Jaes Here I was brought into intis rather to the past than to the present Mrs Riddell had achieved sudden fame by her brilliant stories In these days such fanised position in society But forty years ago fame as a writer was not necessarily rewarded in this way My first intervieith Mrs Riddell, as a lady of delightfulappearance, took place literally in a cellar beneath a shop in Cheapside The shop was her husband's, and here certain patent stoves, of which he was the inventor and reatly surprised when Mrs Riddell, wishi+ng to speak to azine_, had asked me to call, not at the office in Essex Street, but at this shop in Cheapside I was still ifted wohtout invoices in the cellar beneath the shop

I am afraid that, in spite of her husband's occupation, I cannot give Mrs Riddell a testihtful as a writer, and char as a woazine_ did not suggest that she had the aptitude necessary to success in business She was very kind toon any subject, and at ales she controlled More than once I have had three long articles in one nuazine; but I was always harassed by the fact that the azine was never ”out” on the proper day, and that the editor was always in a hurry for the copy I had to supply My chief contributions to the _St James's_ were a series of sketches of statesmen, subsequently republished in a volume, entitled ”Cabinet Portraits,”

another series of sketches of London preachers, and a novel called ”The Lumley Entail”

This novel was my first venture in fiction, and one curious incident, at least, was connected with it I had sub more than the first two or three chapters, and a synopsis of the plot, when I offered it to her With a courage that was undoubtedly rash, she accepted the story forthwith, and decided to begin its publication at once I was very busy with my newspaper work at the time, and in consequence could only write my monthly instal nuazine One awful day, when the _St James's_ for the current rafor it in order to go to press I rushed to the office in a state of consternation, and explained to the man that I had duly sent in my manuscript more than a week before ”I know that,” he said quite coolly; ”I got it ave it to Mrs

Riddell; but unfortunately she has lost it, so you will have to write it over again” Here was a pretty dile novelist! I did not take ”The Lumley Entail” so seriously as I should have done, and I had a very vague recollection of the contents of the lost instalment; but there was no help for it I had to sit down there and then in the office in Essex Street, and write another instalether different from that which it was ed s who figured incontributor in the hands of an unbusinesslike editor

But, as I have said, Mrs Riddell, apart frohtful wo old house in the Green Lanes, Tottenham Here she entertained many of the notable men of letters of her ti the acquaintance of not a few of them The establishment was a somewhat primitive one The workshop in which Mr

Riddell carried on the manufacture of his patent stoves was at the back of the house, and a rather large central hall, dividing the dining-roo-room, was used as a kind of show-room in which choice specimens of Mr Riddell's wares were displayed The special feature of these patent stoves was that they were orna but what they were One stove appeared in the guise of a table, richly ornamented in cast-iron; another was a vase; a third a structure like an altar, and so forth But whatever their appearance ht, when there was an inch of snow on the ground, I went out to the Green Lanes to attend one of Mrs Riddell's literary parties It was bitterly cold, and one of the stoves in the hall had been lighted for the co, if I reustus Sala, and so Mrs Riddell asked a well-known barrister, who at that time dabbled a little in literature, and who has since risen to fa He was an innocent young man in those days, and tried to excuse himself ”Now, Mr C----,” said Mrs

Riddell, ”I know you have brought soet it and do as I wish” The young ly retired to the hall in quest of it Suddenly, those of us ere standing near the door heard a groan of anguish, and, looking out,Mr C---- holding in one hand the charred remains of a roll of music, and in the other the remnants of what had once been an excellent overcoat He had laid his coat, when he arrived, on as apparently a hall table Unluckily for hihted that evening to cheer and warm us e escaped from the stors