Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885

rnalistic Life-A Clerk'

ions-An Accepted Cont

Editor-Founding a Lite

and Archbishop Longl

-Orsini-Thackeray's L

din

iful panorama that was spread before my eyes. I was little for my age, and the gentleman who was my companion, and who was po

or, sir." My friend flung my hand from him and burst into a roar of laughter, which surprised me even more than it did the passers-by. "A newspaper editor!" he cried, still convulsed by what appeared to me a most unseemly, if not offensive, merriment. "Good heavens! And what in the world has put such a thing as that into the child's head?" My wounded dignity came to my aid. Was I not fourteen? and had I not already left school and begun to

oof against the usual temptations by which a boy, dreaming of his future path in life, is beset. Or perhaps it was because printer's ink is in the blood of the family. Whatever may have been the cause, journalism was my first pre

fice of one of the great merchants by whose hands the prosperous trade of the Tyne was carried on. Here their lives were full from morning to night with the business which in such a hive of industry seemed to know no slackening. No doubt, a position in a shipping or colliery office at Newcastle in those days was one to which many advantages were attached. Not a few schoolfellows of my own, starting with no greater advantages than I possessed, have become men of

lead procurable. This lead was obtained from the great mines in Weardale and Allandale, then and for many generations owned by the Beaumont family. Mr. Wentworth Blackett Beaumont was at that time the head of the family. There was no eager bustle, due to the keenness of business competition, in the quiet rooms of the W.B. Lead Office in Northumberland Street, when I entere

time there) was devoted to reading aloud to him. He had only a clerk's income, small enough in all conscience, but he never wanted money to spend on a book or a magazine. I remember his delight when the first number of the Saturday Review, to which he had subscribed on its appearance, was placed in his hands. From that time forward my daily readings of the leaders in the Times were varied by weekly readings of the brilliant sarcasm and invective which then distinguished the new review that had entered the field of journalism with so bold a mien, and was holding its own so fearlessly against all comers. With such a friend, always ready to give me of his best-alas, at the time, in my youthful ignorance of men, I failed altogether to appreciate my good fortune in meeting a companion like this-my mind rapidly expanded,

ay. Happy, foolish dreams, from cherishing which no man has ever been the worse! A hundred times I essayed to produce something worthy of being printed. But the stories, the essays, and-save the mark!-the poems I attempted had a knack of remaining unfinished, or, when finished, were so obviously bad, even to my untrained judgment, that they were promptly destroyed. When at last I did taste the fearful joys of a first appearance in print, it was on a very humble stage. A great controversy was raging in Newcastle in 1857 over the appointment of the then vicar to another living in

in the world. My weekly pocket-money was sixpence, and it generally went at one of the old bookstalls in the market before the week was far advanced. But I could not face the day before me with the dreadful uncertainty weighing upon my soul as to whether another person might not have adopted the same signature as myself, and whether, consequently, I might not be labouring under a fond delusion. I turned and fled home (fortunately I

moment my ambitious designs were laid on one side. I no longer dreamed of an Epic that should rival "Paradise Lost" or a novel that might outshine "Vanity Fair"; but I prepared to discuss the local questions of the hour, the site of a post office, the opening of a hospital, the grievance of some small public official, with the zest which I had only felt hitherto when dealing with the great literary and social problems, to the discussion of which my untrained intelligence could contribute nothing of value. What I wrote on such topics as those I have named I cannot pretend to remember; but there must have been some little promise in my contributions to the Express, for one memorable

journalism hereafter. Not that he or my mother desired to see me become a journalist. The Press-at all events in provincial towns-in those days was the reverse of respectable in the eyes of the world; and truly there was some reason for the low esteem in which it was held. The ordinary reporter on a country paper was generally illiterate, was too often intemperate, and was invariably

to be called Thomas!), "I knew a laddie called Forster. His father was a most respectable, decent man, that kept a butcher's shop at the top o' the Side-a first-rate business; and this laddie-his name was John-got just such notions into his head as ye have; he was always reading and writing, and nothin

Members'? He's one of our great writers now, and if I could only reach a position like his-" But this prospect was so dazzling that it fairly took my breath awa

t large. If our table was of the plainest, there were always books and newspapers in the house, and they were not there for show. My mother had a genuine taste for literature, and a judgment which, if not infallible, was at least sound. Many a time would we discuss together the books we were reading. They were not, as a rule, hot from the Press; but why should they have been, in the case of a boy with all the literary treasures of the world still untasted? My father leaned, as was natural, to the more serious side of literatur

Express office that I first became acquainted with actual newspaper work. A very curious place was that office when I first knew it. It consisted simply of two rooms and two cellars in a house in West Clayton Street. One of the rooms was devoted to the compositors who set the little sheet; the other was by day the counting-house and the place where the papers were sold and advertisements received, whilst at night it became the editorial office-the editor, sub-editor, and reporters all working togethe

us, but, unfortunately, not without the defects of his qualities. In my young eyes he was a marvel, and almost an idol. To sit beside him, as I sometimes did, whilst he forged the thunderbolts which produced so great an effect upon the opinion of the town, was to me a joy almost too great for words. I would sit and watch the untiring hand moving across the slips of blue paper with a mind filled with the awe and reverence with which a pupil of Michael Angelo might have watc

My teacher was Mr. Lowes, an admirable shorthand writer, who wrote a system of his own. To Mr. Lowes, phonography appeared to be the chief evil afflicting mankind. What little things divide the world! In my teacher's opinion it was divided into phonographers

s Journal, the Leisure Hour, and one or two minor religious magazines, gave me as the years passed an opportunity of addressing a wider audience than the readers of the Express

ner in which I pestered distinguished authors for presentation copies of their books, in order to furnish the shelves of the library, I am driven to the painful conclusion that I must have been a terrible person in the days of my youth, and something of a prig to boot. Apropos of the begging for books as free gifts from authors, I had one or two amusing experiences. Among those whom I importuned in this impertinent way were Charles Kingsley, and the then Archbishop of Canterbur

every other department of literature. However, people came to my reading-room, and I was fortunately able to provide them with other entertainment besides the reading of old sermons. I started a course of lectures and readings. I blush to say that I distinguished myself one evening by reading the play of Macbeth to an unhappy audience of bored victims. Heaven forgive me! I carried on my West End Institute for some years, started a

was not his eloquence but his advanced opinions about which his fellow-townsmen thought most. He openly professed to be a Republican, in theory at all events, and all his sympathies were engaged on the side of the oppressed nationalities of Europe. A man of culture, of commanding abilities, and of considerable wealth, he lived by choice in the plainest fashion, delighting to be known as one of the people. He dressed at all times

. His first notable speech in that assembly was on the Royal Titles Bill of Mr. Disraeli. It was a very brilliant performance, greatly admired by those who were able to appreciate it. But, unfortunately, it was not understood by everybody. The day after it was delivered, Mr. Disraeli was questioned at a dinner-party by a lady, who asked him what he thought of the new orator whose presence had

gees from the countries I have named and from Italy found a welcome shelter, and in one room in that house was a small printing press on which thousands of revolutionary proclamations in all the languages of Europe had been printed. Mazzini, Garibaldi, Kossuth, Felice Orsini, and scores of other notable revolutionaries whose names I forget, were his friends and guests, and through his influence a large party of us in Newcastle were led to take almost as warm an interest in political affairs on the Continent as in the movements of parties at home. Again and again in those days, when France was crushed under the hee

nd Lombardy from the yoke of the tyrant, died under the guillotine in Paris, and by his death secured for Italy her long-sought freedom. Orsini came to Newcastle shortly after his escape from an Austrian dungeon at Mantua, and addressed a great meeting in the Lecture Room. He spoke English fairly well; but it was the appearance of the man, and the knowledge of all that he had suffered in the struggle for Italian freedom, that appealed to one more eloquently than his words. Never had I seen any man whose appearance equalled that of this Italian martyr who died as an assassin. His features were almost faultless, whilst his jet-black hair set off the lustrous pallor of his complexion with extraordinary effectiveness. Attired in fashionable evening dress, his hands encased in white kid gloves, and a smile, gentle rather than pa

promise, Louis Napoleon was delivered from the fear of violent death at the hands of the Carbonari, whilst his fulfilment of it in the war of 1859 gave Italy her first great step towards unity and freedom. Even the romantic page of history has never recorded a more notable transaction than th

part from it as they may imagine. It was my association as a boy with Mr. Cowen's enthusiastic assertion of the rights of oppressed nationalities, and the st

red a man who would pay his own expenses (in those days a very serious item), and the chance of success was by no means brilliant. At last, however, they secured a rich retired Bombay merchant, and he came down to Newcastle forthwith to address his first meeting. The Lecture Room was crowded with enthusiastic Nonconformists, and these were the words with which the unhappy candidate began his

ical and clear, his pronunciation singularly distinct and accurate, and the little touches of sarcasm and humour which he conveyed to his audience by a tone or an inflection, quite inimitable. I heard, as I sat listening to his lecture on George the Third-by far the best of the series-someone near me yawn, and my soul was filled with horror at what I thought nothing less than an act of sacrilege. I never saw the great novelist except on the occasion of his visit to Newcastle, but to the end of my days it will be a delight thus to have beheld him in the flesh. Dickens I heard read several times, though never in the Lecture Room; yet I cannot say that any of his readings made upon me the impression produced by Thacker