Christopher Crayon's Recollections. The Life and Times of the late James Ewing Ritchie as told by himself

CHAPTER XIII.
Men I Have Known

It is the penalty of old age to lose all our friends and acquaintances, but fortunately our hold on earth weakens as the end of life draws near. In an active life, we see much of the world and the men who help to make it better. Many ministers and missionaries came to my father’s house with wonderful accounts of the spread of the Gospel in foreign parts. At a later time I saw a knot of popular lecturers and agitators – such as George Thompson, the great anti-slavery lecturer, who, born in humble life, managed to get into Parliament, where he collapsed altogether. As an outdoor orator he was unsurpassed, and carried all before him. After a speech of his I heard Lord Brougham declare it was one of the most eloquent he had ever heard. He started a newspaper, which, however, did not make much way. Then there was Henry Vincent, another natural orator, whom the common people heard gladly, and who at one time was very near getting into Parliament as M.P. for Ipswich, then, as now, a go-ahead town, full of Dissenters and Radicals. He began life as a Chartist and printer, and, I believe, was concerned in the outbreak near Newport. Of the same class was a man of real genius and immense learning, considering the disadvantages of his lowly birth, Thomas Cooper, the Chartist, and author of that magnificent poem, “The Purgatory of Suicides,” written when he was in gaol for being connected with a Chartist outbreak. He had been a Methodist, he became a Freethinker, and, when I knew him, was under the influence of Strauss’s Life of Jesus, a book which George Eliot had translated, and which made a great sensation at the time of its appearance, though it is utterly forgotten now. Cooper and I were members of an obscure club, in one of the Fleet Street courts, where he used to declaim with great eloquence on the evil doings of the Tories and the wrongs of the poor, while at the same time he had a true appreciation of the utter worthlessness of some of the Chartist leaders. As he advanced in years he gave up his infidel opinions and became an earnest advocate of the faith he once laboured to destroy. The last time I saw him was at his house in Lincoln shortly before he died. He seemed sound in body, considering his years, but his mind was gone and he remembered no one. At the same time I saw a good deal of Richard Lovett – a noble character – who worked all his life for the mental and moral improvement of the working man, of whom he was such an illustrious example. Cooper and Vincent and Lovett did much between them to make the working man respected as he had never been before.

One of the grandest old men I ever knew was George Cruikshank, the artist, in his later years an ardent advocate of Temperance, but a real Bohemian nevertheless, enjoying life and all its blessings to the last. At a dinner-party or at a social gathering of any kind he was at his best, full of anecdote, overflowing with wit and mimicry; as an orator also he had great power, and generally managed to keep his audience in a roar of laughter. While perfectly sober himself, he was very happy in taking off the drunkard’s eccentricities, and would sing “We are not fou,” or “Willie brewed a peck o’ malt,” as if he deemed a toper the prince of good fellows. In his old age he had persuaded himself that to him Dickens owed many of his happiest inspirations, a remark which the author of “The Pickwick Papers” strongly resented. At his home I met on one occasion Mrs. Dickens, a very pleasant, motherly lady, with whom one would have thought any husband could have happily lived, although the great novelist himself seemed to be of another way of thinking. Cruikshank’s wife seems to have been devoted to him. She was proud of him, as well she might be. He had a good head of hair, and to the last cherished a tremendous lock which adorned his forehead. He was rather square-built, with an eye that at one time must have rivalled that of the far-famed hawk. He lived comfortably in a good house just outside Mornington Crescent, in the Hampstead Road; but he was never a wealthy man, and was always publishing little pamphlets, which, whatever the fame they brought him, certainly yielded little cash. He had seen a good deal of life, or what a Cockney takes to be such, and when he was buried in Kensal Green, the attendance at the funeral showed how large was the circle of his friends and admirers. To the last he was proud of his whiskers.

Another friend of mine buried in the same place was Dr. Charles Mackay, the original editor of The Illustrated London News, and who differed so much with the proprietor, Mr. Ingram, M.P., on the character of the late French Emperor, for whom Dr. Mackay had a profound contempt, that he had to resign, and commenced The London Review, which did not last long. At one time his songs, “There’s a good time coming, boys,” and “Cheer boys, cheer,” were played on every barrel-organ, and were to be heard in every street. Another of the workers on The Illustrated News was John Timbs, the unwearying publisher of popular books of anecdotes, by which, I fear, he did not make much money, as he had to end his days in the Charter House. His department was to look after the engravings, a duty which compelled him to sit up all night on Thursdays. Before he had joined Mr. Ingram’s staff, he had edited a small periodical called The Mirror, devoted to useful and amusing literature. I fancy his happiest hours were passed chatting with the literary men who were always hovering round the office of the paper – like Mr. Micawber, in the hope of something turning up. You could not be long there without seeing Mark Lemon – a mountain of a man connected with Punch, who could act Falstaff without stuffing – who was Mr. Ingram’s private secretary. A wonderful contrast to Mark Lemon was Douglas Jerrold, a little grey-haired, keen-eyed man, who seemed to me to walk the streets hurriedly, as if he expected a bailiff to touch him on the back. Later, I knew his son, Mr. Blanchard Jerrold, very well, and always found him a very courteous and pleasant gentleman. With Hain Friswell, with the ever-sparkling, black-eyed George Augustus Sala, with that life-long agitator Jesse Jacob Holyoake, for whom I had a warm esteem, I was also on very friendly terms. Once, and once only, I had an interview with Mr. Charles Bradlaugh who, when he recognised me as “Christopher Crayon” of The Christian World, gave me a hearty shake of the hands. Had he lived, I believe he would have become a Christian. At any rate, of later years, his hostility to Christianity seemed to have considerably toned down. Be that as it may, I always held him to be one of the most honest of our public men. I had also the pleasure once of sitting next Mr. Labouchere at a dinner at a friend’s. He talked much, smoked more, and was as witty as Waller, and like him on cold water. Another teetotaler with whom I came much into contact was the late Sir Benjamin Ward Richardson, a shortish, stout man to look at, a good public speaker, and warmly devoted alike to literature and science. Another distinguished man whom I knew well was Mr. James Hinton, the celebrated aurist and a writer on religious matters which at one time had great effect. He was the son of the celebrated Baptist preacher, the Rev. John Howard Hinton, and I was grieved to learn that he had given up his practice as an aurist in Saville Row, and had bought an orange estate far away in the Azores, where he went to die of typhoid fever.

On the whole I am inclined to think I never had a pleasanter man to do with than Mr. Cobden. “Why don’t you commence a movement in favour of Free Trade in land?” I one day said to him. “Ah,” was his reply, “I am too old for that. I have done my share of work. I must leave that to be taken up by younger men.” And, strange to say, though this has always seemed to me the great want of the age, the work has been left undone, and all the nation suffers in consequence. As an illustration of Mr. Cobden’s persuasiveness let me give the following. Once upon a time he came to Norwich to address an audience of farmers there – in St. Andrew’s Hall, I think. On my asking an old Norfolk farmer what he thought of Mr. Cobden as a speaker, his reply was, “Why he got such a hold of us that if he had held up a sheet of white paper on the platform and said it was black, there was not a farmer in the hall but would have said the same.” Cobden never irritated his opponents. He had a marvellous power of talking them round. In this respect he was a wonderful contrast to his friend and colleague, John Bright.

A leading teetotaler with whom I had much to do was the late Mr. Smithies, founder of The British Workman and publications of a similar class. At an enormous expense he commenced his illustrated paper, full of the choicest engravings, and published at a price so as to secure them a place in the humblest home. For a long while it was published at a loss. But Mr. Smithies bravely held on, as his aim, I honestly believe, was to do good rather than make money. He was a Christian social reformer, a Wesleyan, indifferent to politics, as Wesleyans more or less were at one time. Square-built, of rather less than medium height, with a ruddy face, and a voice that could be heard all over Exeter Hall – he looked the picture of health and happiness. I never saw him frown but when I approached him with a cigar in my mouth. Mr. Smithies was one of the earliest to rally round the Temperance banner. His whole life was devoted to doing good in his own way. He never married, and lived with his mother, a fine old lady, who contrived to give her dutiful and affectionate son somewhat of an antiquated cast of thought, and never was he happier than when in the company of Lady Burdett Coutts or great Earl Shaftesbury.

I had also a good deal to do with Mr. W. H. Collingridge, who founded that successful paper, The City Press, which his genial son, Mr. G. Collingridge, still carries on. By means of my connection with The City Press I came into contact with many City leaders and Lord Mayors, and saw a good deal of City life at the Mansion House and at grand halls of the City Companies. I think the tendency in these days is much to run down the City Corporation. People forget that the splendid hospitality of the Mansion House helps to exalt the fame and power of England all the world over. Once upon a time I attended a Liberal public meeting at which two M.P.’s had spoken. One of the committee said to me, “Now you must make a speech.” My reply was that there was no need to do so, as the M.P.’s had said all that was required. “Oh, no,” said my friend, “not a word has been said about the Corporation of London. Pitch into them!” “No, no,” I replied. “I have drunk too much of their punch and swallowed too much of their turtle-soup.” I will never run down the City Fathers, many of whom I knew and respected, and at whose banquets men gathered – not merely City people, but the leading men of all the world. The glory of the Mansion House is the glory of the land.

I could go on for a long while. Have I not been to soirées at great men’s houses and met all sorts and conditions of people? Only two men have I given myself the trouble to be introduced to – one was Barnum, because he frankly admitted he was a humbug, though he seemed a decent fellow enough in private life. Another was Cetewayo, the jolliest-looking Kaffir I ever saw, and I went to see him because our treatment of him was a shame and a national disgrace. Once on a time as we were waiting for Royalty on a distant platform, one of the committee offered to introduce me to H.R.H. I declined, on the plea that I must draw the line somewhere, and that I drew it at princes, but oh! the vanity of wasting one’s time in society. Of the gay world, perhaps the wittiest and pleasantest, as far as my personal experience is concerned, was the late Charles Mathews. I had seen him on the stage and met him in his brougham and talked with him, and once I was invited to a grand party he gave to his friends and admirers. As I went into the reception-room I wondered where the jaunty and juvenile actor could be. All at once I saw a venerable, bald-headed old man coming down on me. Oh! I said to myself, this must be the butler coming to account for his master’s absence. Lo, and behold! it was Charley Mathews himself!

CHAPTER XIV.
How I Put up for M.P

By this time people have got sick of electioneering. It is a great privilege to be an English elector – to feel that the eyes of the world are on you, and that, at any rate, your country expects you to do your duty. But to the candidate an election contest is, at any rate, fraught with instruction. Human nature is undoubtedly a curious combination, and a man who goes in for an election undoubtedly sees a good deal of human nature. I was put up for a Parliamentary borough – I who shudder at the sound of my own voice, and who have come to regard speechmakers with as much aversion as I should the gentleman in black. A borough was for the first time to send a member to Parliament. It had been hawked all over London in vain, and as a dernier ressort the Liberal Association of the borough – a self-elected clique of well-meaning nobodies – had determined to run a highly respectable and well-connected gentleman whose name and merits were alike unknown. Under such circumstances I consented to fight the battle for freedom and independence, as I hold that our best men should be sent to Parliament irrespective of property – that candidates should not be forced on electors, and that unless our Liberal Associations are really representative they may be worked in a way injurious to the country and destructive of its freedom. At my first meeting, like another Cæsar, I came, I saw, I conquered. The chiefs of the Liberal Association had assembled to put me down. I was not put down, and, amidst resounding cheers, I was declared the adopted candidate. The room was crowded with friends. I never shook so many dirty hands in my life. A second meeting, equally successful, confirmed the first, and I at once plunged into the strife. I am not here to write the history of an election, but to tell of my personal experiences, which were certainly amusing. The first result of my candidature led to a visit from an impecunious Scot at my suburban residence, who had read my programme with infinite delight. He came to assure me of his best wishes for my success. He was, unfortunately, not an elector, but he was a Scotchman, as he was sure I was, and sadly in want of a loan, which he was certain, from my Liberal sentiments, I would be the last to refuse to a brother Scot. I had hardly got rid of him before I was called upon by an agent of one of our great Radical societies – a society with which I had something to do in its younger days before it had become great and powerful, but which, like most people when they got up in the world, forgot its humble friends. Ah, thought I, the society is going to give me a little aid to show its appreciation of my ancient service, and I felt pleased accordingly. Not a bit of it. Mr. P. was the collector of the society, and he came to see what he could get out of me, assuring me that almost all the Liberal candidates had responded to his appeal. “Do you think I am going to buy the sanction of your society by a paltry fiver?” was my reply; and the agent went away faster than he came. My next visitor was a pleasant, plausible representative of some workmen’s league, to assure me of his support, and then, with abundance of promise, he went his way, leaving me to look for a performance of which I saw no sign. Then came the ladies. Would I give them an interview? Some of them wanted to set me right on Temperance questions; others on topics on which no right-minded woman should care to speak, and on which few would speak were it not for the morbid, sensational, hysterical feeling which often overcomes women who have no families of their own to look after, no household duties to discharge, no home to adorn and purify. As I had no town house, and did not care to invite the ladies to the smoking-room of my club, I in every such case felt bound to deny myself the pleasure of an interview. But my correspondents came from every quarter of the land. Some offered me their services; others favoured me with their views on things in general. It was seldom I took the trouble to reply to them. One gentleman, I fear, will never forgive me. He was an orator; he sent me testimonials on the subject from such leading organs of public opinion as The Eatanswill Gazette or The Little Pedlington Observer, of the most wonderful character. Evidently as an orator he was above all Greek, above all Roman fame, and he was quite willing to come and speak at my meetings, which was very kind, as he assured me that no candidate for whom he had spoken was ever defeated at the poll. I ought to have retained his services, I ought to have sent him a cheque, or my thanks. Doubtless he would have esteemed them, especially the latter. Alas! I did nothing of the kind.

But oh! the wearisome canvassing, which seems to be the only way to success. Meetings are of little avail, organisation is equally futile, paid agency simply leads the candidate into a Serbonian bog, where

Whole armies oft have perished.

It is house-to-house visitation that is the true secret now. As far as I carried it out I was successful, though I did not invariably embrace the wife of the voter or kiss the babies. The worst of it is, it takes so much time. Now and then your friend is supernaturally wise. You must stop and hear all he has to say, or you make him an enemy. Some people – and I think they were right – seemed to think a candidate has no business to canvass electors at all. One highly respectable voter seemed really angry as he told me, with a severity worthy of a judge about to sentence a poor wretch to hanging, it was quite needless for me to call, that he was not going to disgrace his Baptist principles. Passing a corner public one Saturday I was met with a friendly recognition. “We’re all going to oblige you, Sir,” said the spokesman of the party, in a tone indicating that either he had not taken the Temperance pledge, or that he was somewhat lax in his observance of it, “and now you must oblige us will you?” Him I left a sadder and a wiser man, as I had to explain that the trifling little favour he sought at my hands might invalidate my election. One female in a Peabody Building was hurt because I had in my haste given a postman’s rap at the door, instead of one more in use in genteel society. In many a model lodging-house I found a jolly widow, who, in answer to my appeal if there were any gentlemen, seemed to intimate that the male sex were held in no particular favour. The Conservative female was, as a rule, rather hard and sarcastic, and I was glad to beat a retreat, as she gave me to understand that she was not to be deceived by anything I might say, and that she should take care how her husband voted. Now and then I was favoured with a dissertation on the evil of party, but I could always cut that short by the remark, “Oh, I see you are going to vote for the Conservative candidate!” – a remark which led to a confession that in reality such was the case. The newly enfranchised seemed proud of their privilege. It was not from them I got the reply which I often heard where I should have least expected it, “Oh, I never interfere in politics.” People who had fads were a great bore. One man would not vote for me because I was not sound on the Sunday question; others who were of the same political opinions as myself would not support me because I laughed at their pet theories. But the great drawback was that I had come forward without leave from the party chiefs, and hence their toadies, lay or clerical, sternly held aloof. Barely was I treated uncourteously, except when my declaration that I was a Radical led to an intimation on the part of the voter that the sooner I cleared out the better.

I would suggest that all canvassing be prohibited – you want to get at the public opinion of the borough, and that you do not obtain when you extort a promise from a voter who has no definite opinion himself. Public meetings and an advertisement or circular should be sufficient; but there are many voters who will not take the trouble to attend, and a public meeting, even if enthusiastic, is no criterion of what the vote will be. It is easy to get up a public meeting if a candidate will go to the necessary expense; and it is easier still to spoil one if the opposition committee can secure the services of a few roughs or an Irishman or two. Democratic Socialists I also found very efficient in that way, unable as they would have been to carry a candidate, or to hold a public meeting themselves. One of the funniest performances was, after you had had your say, to reply to the questions. As a rule, the questioner thinks chiefly of himself. He likes the sound of his voice, and he sits down with a self-satisfied smile – if he be an old hand – as if he had made it self-evident that he knew a thing or two, and that he was not the sort of man you could make a fool of. But heckling, as it is called, is a science little understood. It is one of the fine arts. A candidate, for instance, likes to make a statement when he replies to a question. The questioner, if he is up to the mark, will gain a cheer, as he denounces all attempts at evasion, and demands a straightforward, Yes or No. A man asks you, for instance, Have you left off beating your wife yet? How are you to answer Yes or No in such a case? As a rule, the questioners are poor performers, and ask you what no one need ask who hears a candidate’s speech, or reads his programme. One thing came out very clearly – that is, the terror platform orators, lay or clerical, have of any body calling itself a Liberal Association, whether it is really that or not. You can get any number of orators, on the condition that you have an association at your back. But they dare not otherwise lend you a helping hand. Liberalism is to have the stamp of Walbrook on it. It must be such as the wirepullers approve. I said to a Radical M.P.: “I am fighting a sham caucus.” “Ain’t they all shams?” was his reply. There is a danger in this; even though there are still men left in this age of mechanical organism who value the triumph of principles more even than that of party.

My experience is anybody can get into Parliament if he will keep pegging away and has plenty of money. Let him keep himself before the public – by writing letters to the newspapers, and by putting in an appearance at all public meetings, and by promising wholesale as to what he will do. If he can bray like a bull, and has a face of brass, and has money or friends who have it, he may be sure of success. As a rule, the best way is to get yourself known to the public in connection with some new development of philanthropic life. But a little money is a great help. Gold touches hearts as nothing else can. The biggest Radical of two candidates naturally prefers the richer. Men who can crowd into all meetings, and shout “Buggins for ever,” are useful allies, and men of that stamp have little sympathy with the poor candidates. Once in Parliament you are useless, at the beck and call of the whipper-in, a slave to party; but you are an M.P. nevertheless, and may not call your soul your own.