All the time Forster was absolutely unconscious of having given offence, and when his attention was called to the fact that he had wounded someone by his manner, he was filled with distress. One day an eminent publicist who had cruelly misjudged and misrepresented Forster came to me in the Reform Club and asked if I had ever stayed at Wharfeside. I replied in the affirmative. "Then," said my friend, "you can perhaps tell me if what I hear is true. I am told that, rude and bearish as he is to people who meet him casually, it is nothing in comparison with his brutality in his own house, and especially to his wife." Angry as I was at this charge against my friend, I could not refrain from bursting into a roar of laughter at its absurdity. No woman that ever lived was treated with a more tender and chivalrous affection and reverence than that which Mrs.

Forster received from her husband. That she was eminently worthy of being worshipped by the man whose name she bore, all who knew her must admit.

She had inherited great intellectual qualities from her father, Dr.

Arnold, of Rugby. She shared the delicate critical spirit of her brother Matthew; and, above all, she was a delightful woman, gentle, refined, full of love for those of her own household, but full also of interest in, and sympathy with, all other men and women. Upon her Forster lavished the love of his whole heart, and to her judgment he deferred more constantly than to that of any other person. It always seemed to me that their marriage was an ideal union, both of brain and heart. When I was writing his biography, I felt it necessary to say something about the peculiarities of his manner. Mrs. Forster objected to what I said, not on the ground that it hurt her feelings to remember those peculiarities, but because, in her opinion, they had never existed. "I do not understand what you mean by the peculiarities of his manner," she said to me one day. "His manner was always delightful, especially to women." This was the one point on which she was blind with regard to her husband. She did not see how great was the tribute paid to his sterling qualities by the fact that so many men loved him and honoured him in spite of his rough exterior. Often when I was with him I thought of Browning's line, "Do roses stick like burrs?" It was his very angularities that seemed to make Forster's friends cling to him so closely.

In the years which followed his retirement from office he remained a thorough-going Liberal, but he claimed for himself the right of independent judgment as a member of his own party. The Ministry never got over the blow it received when he resigned. On the day of his resignation, when he left the Cabinet, Lord Selborne, who sympathised altogether with him, rose directly after he did, and said, "If Forster goes, I must go too." He was actually on his way to the door when someone--I believe Sir William Harcourt--following him threw his arms round him, and forcibly detained him till he was brought to a more docile state of mind.

That, however, was, as everybody knows, a Cabinet of many resignations.

It was said, when it at last came to an end, that there was no man in it who had not resigned once at least, and that one or two had resigned many times. The fact is that the disruption of the old Liberal party had already begun. The new wine provided by Chamberlain and Company fermented in the old bottles. n.o.body felt very happy in the presence of the member for Birmingham. He was the reverse of conciliatory, and seemed anxious to let everybody know that he recognised no superior. This would not have mattered so much if his conduct had been more consistent with the traditions of Cabinets. Sir William Harcourt was not unversed in intrigue, and one wonders now how a Cabinet which contained those two men held together as long as it did. It was the leakiest Cabinet, so far as its secrets were concerned, that I have known. It is amusing now to recall the fact that at that time an innocent public, which still regarded Mr. Chamberlain as a man with more self-a.s.sertion than intellect or force of character, pictured him to itself as the tool of Mr. Morley.

It was Mr. Morley, we were told, who found the policy and the brains, and Mr. Chamberlain was but the instrument of his will. This is not the only point upon which the public fell into error, but it is one that deserves to be noted.

The ugly wrench which was given to the Ministry by Forster's retirement and the Phoenix Park tragedy that immediately followed it, was aggravated by the revelations at the trial of the murderers of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke. Whilst Mr. Forster was still Chief Secretary it was vaguely known that he had been the object of murderous conspiracies.

The _Pall Mall Gazette_ had sneered at the rumours of plots against his life, and had pleasantly hinted that they were all a myth, concocted by Forster's friends in his interests. When James Carey, the infamous ringleader of the a.s.sa.s.sins, told his dreadful story in the witness-box in order to save his neck, the truth was made known, and the world learned that for months Forster, whilst meeting slander and hostile criticism in England, had been in constant danger of murder in Ireland. I have told elsewhere the story of his last week in Dublin, and of the daily attempts that were made by Carey and his confederates to compa.s.s his death. Some of my readers may remember how at the last he only escaped the knives of the a.s.sa.s.sins by something like a miracle. He was leaving Dublin for the last time, though he himself was not aware of the fact, and he had arranged to go from Westland Row Station by a certain train in order to catch the night boat for Holyhead. In the afternoon his work at the Castle was got through rather sooner than had been expected, and his private secretary, Mr. Jephson, suggested to him that instead of waiting for the train they should drive together to Kingstown, and dine at the club there. The inducement held out to Forster was that in this way he would have time for a game of whist before going on board the steamer. He fell in with Jephson's suggestion, and thus escaped from Ireland safely. That very night the whole gang of Invincibles, as the murderers had called themselves, had a.s.sembled at Westland Row for the purpose of killing him. Thrice they searched the train, vainly looking for the man whose death-sentence they had p.r.o.nounced. Mrs. Forster was in one of the carriages, but her husband was not there. "If he had been,"

said Carey, in telling the story, "he would not have been alive now."

When the truth became known, and it was seen that there was nothing of the mythical in the conspiracy against Forster's life, public indignation flamed up afresh at the treatment he had received. When he next came to Leeds, after the trial of the Invincibles, a crowd followed him through the streets from the railway station to the _Mercury_ office, cheering loudly. No wonder that a Government which had to confront the feeling caused by the treatment meted out to Forster was neither very happy nor very strong. It was soon after the exposure of the Invincibles that Forster addressed his const.i.tuents in St. George's Hall, Bradford. A number of Irishmen had got into the gallery, and persistently interrupted him, so that at last his speech was brought to a standstill. Gathering himself together, he waited for a moment's silence, and then, with outstretched arm menacing his antagonists, cried, in a voice which rang through the hall, "Since you didn't kill me in Ireland, you've got to listen to me here!" The shout that went up from the meeting as a whole acclaimed this sentiment with such emphasis that the Irishmen were reduced to silence, and there was no more trouble. Some persons were, however, very much shocked by Forster's characteristic bluntness. Among these was Mr. Gladstone, who thought that his former colleague had shown very bad taste.

Egypt and Gordon were the topics which I chiefly discussed with Forster during our years of intimacy after 1882. The fate of Gordon, in particular, excited in him a degree of emotion of which few would have thought him capable. More than once I have seen the tears in his eyes when he was speaking of Gordon, surrounded by his savage foes in his desert capital. The Ministry, as everybody knows, was floundering in those days. Even those of us who were the warm friends and admirers of Mr. Gladstone were troubled and perplexed. Some of us knew, indeed, that Mr. Gladstone was not the only, nor the chief, sinner in the matter of Gordon; but he was the scapegoat behind whom those who had a greater responsibility for the mismanagement of the Soudan business were only too glad to hide themselves. Forster was filled with indignation and contempt by the confused utterances of the Ministry, and by Mr. Gladstone's elaborate attempts to prove that though General Gordon was "hemmed in" he was not surrounded. Poor Mr. Gladstone! It was sad indeed that he should have to undertake this thankless task, and should be compelled to make out a case for a Cabinet which had practically got out of hand. It was in connection with one of his apologies for the Ministry that Mr. Forster charged him with being able to persuade most people of almost anything, and himself of everything. This chance phrase, used in the heat of debate, was treated by Lord Hartington as being a direct imputation upon Mr. Gladstone's sincerity, and Forster was lectured and denounced in terms which made the breach between himself and his old colleagues wider than ever. There was no truth in the charge made against him. He always had, and always expressed, a profound admiration for Gladstone's character, and he had never for a moment doubted his honesty. He felt the violent invective of Lord Hartington keenly. When he met the latter in the lobby on the same evening, he said to him, "You were very unfair to me to-night, and you knew it, but you had such a d----d bad case that I forgive you."

Again and again, in those days, Forster would come over to Leeds to see me, to talk about Gordon, or he would ask me to his own house in order to discuss the same topic. The fascination which it had for him was extraordinary. If Gordon had been his own brother he could not have been more deeply interested in his fate. When at last the end of the long tragedy came, and the news reached England of the failure of the expedition to Khartoum, and Gordon's death, Forster was affected by it in the keenest manner. He could hardly speak when he came to me to discuss the fatal tidings, and he was full of theories as to the possibility of Gordon having escaped, after all, from his enemies. Apparently he could not bring himself to accept the truth. It was strange to see this great, powerful man, who had pa.s.sed through so many years of fierce conflict on his own account, broken down by sorrow for one of whom he had comparatively little personal knowledge, but whose character and fate appealed to all that was best and truest in his nature. Looking back upon my years of friendship with Forster, there are no incidents that touch my sympathies more keenly than those which relate to his heartfelt grief for Gordon, the great victim of ministerial muddling and administrative incapacity.

Everybody knows that Forster was the reverse of a Little Englander. In the days when Mr. Chamberlain was still the parochial politician, and the Manchester School a power in the land, Forster never lost an opportunity of trying to inspire his fellow-countrymen with the sense of the greatness of their Imperial position, and of the duties which it imposed upon them. As founder of the Imperial Federation League, he put himself at the head of those English statesmen whose names will be identified with the union of Great Britain and her Colonies in the Empire which we know to-day. He got very little help from the leading politicians on either side. Mr. Chamberlain, who now talks as though the foundation-stone of the Empire was laid in the suburbs of Birmingham, gave him no aid at all, nor did the active spirits of the Opposition. It seemed as though most of his old colleagues and opponents regarded Forster's strenuous advocacy of Imperial Federation as an attempt on his part to keep his name before the public eye. There was one rising young politician, however, who took a different view of Forster's action, and who not only sympathised with his motives, but threw himself into the cause of which he was the leader. This was Lord Rosebery, and to him and to Forster belongs the lion's share of the credit for the creation and development of that sense of Imperial unity which is to-day so great a factor in the life of the Empire.

At that time Forster's friends had no suspicion that his public career was drawing to a close. He was many years younger than Mr. Gladstone, was full of vigour and of an enthusiasm that was almost youthful in its exuberance, and he seemed to have a long life of work before him. But a trivial incident revealed to me the fact that things were not as they seemed, and that this great st.u.r.dy Englishman was by no means in the state of health that men supposed. When walking in Switzerland, he had accidentally injured the nail of his great toe, and it was necessary to remove it. Forster regarded the operation as a slight one, and was anxious that cocaine should be used as an anaesthetic, so that he might, as he said to me, "have the fun" of witnessing the actual operation. When the time came, however, it was found to be a much more serious matter than Forster had supposed. The operation was performed under chloroform by an eminent surgeon, and this gentleman told me after the operation that he had discovered that Forster's health was in a very unsatisfactory condition. Indeed, this little accident was the beginning of the end, though few at the time suspected the fact.

Before closing this chapter, I may make some further reference to my friend Mr. Stead. The retirement of John Morley from the P_all Mall Gazette_ had led to Mr. Stead's promotion, and he had become the virtual, if not the nominal editor of the paper. He was not long in impressing the public with the fact that a new and original force had entered English public life. "I am riding on the crest of the wave," he wrote to me one day, and such was indeed the fact. The influence of the paper which he controlled became for a time almost paramount, and Mr.

Stead revelled in his power with all the zest of a schoolboy who has suddenly been called to sit on the throne of an autocrat. He calmly undertook the direction of the foreign policy of Great Britain, and ordered Ministers to do his bidding with an audacity which would have been absurd but for the fact that Ministers seemed ready to take him at his word. He it was who first advised them to the evil course of sending Gordon to Khartoum. "Sarawak the Soudan" was the cry he raised, his proposal being that Gordon should be sent to found an empire of his own on the upper Nile. Ministers yielded to his vehemence, and Gordon was sent to Khartoum, with what results everybody knows. Mr. Stead had the courage of his opinions, and he was not in the least disconcerted when he found that his advice had involved the country in the tragical and disastrous expedition for Gordon's relief. Talking to me one day at that time, he said, "John Morley told me yesterday that I ought not to be able to sleep in my bed at nights for thinking of all the men who have lost their lives over this business." If at any time in my life I had been inclined to believe in government by newspapers, I should certainly have been cured of that delusion after seeing what a mess even so brilliant a journalist as Stead made of the attempt to control the policy of a nation from an editor's desk.

CHAPTER XVI.

NOVELS AND NOVELISTS.

"The Lumley Entail"--"Gladys Fane"--My Experience in Novel Writing--About Sad Endings--Imaginary Characters and Characters Drawn from Life--Visits from William Black and Bret Harte--Black as an After-Dinner Sneaker--How Bret Harte saw Haworth Parsonage, and was Roughly Entreated by a Yorkshire Admirer--A Candid Opinion on the Bronte Monograph.

I now propose to hark back a little in order to bring together some reminiscences and experiences that lie apart from the graver political events with which I have been dealing. To begin with, I made a serious attempt at novel-writing in 1883. Perhaps my friendship with William Black and James Payn had some influence in leading me to revert to a kind of work which in my youth had attracted me greatly. I had already, as I have said, written one novel, "The Lumley Entail," published in the _St. James's Magazine_, and long since forgotten by everybody, including its author. I had begun half-a-dozen different stories at various times, but had always failed to make much progress with them. One or two short stories that had appeared in Christmas Numbers of the _Leeds Mercury_ and sundry magazines had not been wholly unsuccessful, and so, after long cogitation, in the year 1883 I wrote "Gladys Fane: A Story of Two Lives." Of its merits I cannot speak, but it gave me great pleasure to write it, and it had a friendly reception both from the critics and the public. In this country it had a very large sale, and in the United States a still larger. The strange thing is that here the book still sells, and once a year I receive from the publisher, Mr. Fisher Unwin, a modest sum in payment of the royalties due to me on the sales.

Perhaps I may say something on the strength of my limited experience on the subject of novel-writing. It may seem presumptuous to do so, seeing that everybody nowadays either writes a novel or thinks that he or she can do so. My own experience taught me that in novel-writing, as in most descriptions of work, there is a particular knack to be acquired before success can be attained. I think I must have been absolutely without this knack when I began to write "Gladys Fane." I was a good descriptive writer, and could describe either scenery or action sufficiently well, but when I tried my hand at conversation I was utterly at sea. I could not make my men and women talk as men and women do in real life. Before I had finished the story I had got the knack, and if I were ever to write another I have no doubt that I could manage the conversation fairly well.

Of course, even without the knack a writer may achieve, under certain conditions, a great success; but to do so he must _feel_ his story; that is to say, it must be as real to him as if it were something that had actually happened. Undoubtedly I had this feeling about "Gladys Fane," and this, I imagine, was the one merit which secured for the book the degree of success that it attained. I remember that when I wrote the closing chapter, in which the hero meets with a tragical death, I was under the influence of as poignant an emotion as I should have experienced if I had been standing by the deathbed of my dearest friend.

Great was my joy, after the story was published, to read a generous review of the book in the _Standard_, in which the reviewer said that he did not envy the man who could read that last chapter with a steady voice and an undimmed eye. I saw that others had been infected by the emotion which almost overwhelmed me as I penned the closing pages of the book.

The sad ending which is so hateful to the ordinary reader is regarded by some reviewers as a cheap device for enlisting popular attention, and many complaints have been made of its having been used unnecessarily.

There may be some writers who deliberately make up their minds to bring their stories to a tragical conclusion, but if such persons exist they must be very bad artists. In my own case I certainly did not contemplate a sad ending when I began to write my novel; but week by week, as I wrote, I became more and more forcibly impressed with the feeling that the doom of my hero was sealed. I tried to get away from this morbid conclusion, and to wrench the story into another channel, but I failed utterly in the attempt, so that at last I had to yield, though, as I have said, I did so with keen regret. William Black, when discussing with me one day the question of the sad ending, said, "People may say what they like, but I know, as a matter of experience, that a book which ends sorrowfully is always remembered far more vividly than one that winds up in the usual fashion with the ringing of marriage-bells." This is quite true, but the young novelist who wants his novels to sell, ought carefully to avoid the tragical _denouement_, for there are a great many readers who deliberately refuse to read any book which ends sadly.

Therefore, though art may require such an ending, from the commercial side of literature it is a huge mistake. Mr. Forster came to me at the time when "Gladys Fane" was in the flush of its first success, and told me with his usual kindly bluntness that he was not going to read it. "My wife has read it, and likes it, but I am not going to make myself miserable by reading any story that ends sadly. You must write another that I _can_ read." And it was this chance remark that led to my next essay in fiction, of which more hereafter.

I had one curious experience in writing "Gladys Fane" that may or may not be common to most novelists. Certain of the characters were founded upon real men and women. I painted no portraits, of course, but I undoubtedly took hints from people whom I knew. My heroine, for example, had a prototype in real life, who served for the first sketch, but as I wrote I made her character develop until she was a wholly different woman from her model. Black, criticising the story in a letter, remarked that the further the heroine was removed from all likeness to the original, the more natural and real she became. But still more striking was the fact that most of my critics agreed that the most real characters in the book, those that struck them as being most lifelike and individual, were purely imaginary creations of my own. "I like your villain," wrote Lord Houghton. "He is the most impressive figure in the book. Wherever did you meet him?" As a matter of fact, I had met him nowhere, and could not charge myself with having taken even a hint in drawing his portrait from anybody whom I knew or had heard of. Some of the minor characters were unhesitatingly described by critics as portraits evidently drawn from life. In no single instance had they been so drawn. I had imagined them simply. It would be interesting to know if this is the experience of other writers of romance. I am bound to speak with modesty and diffidence, because of my very limited experience in this kind of work. I have only touched upon the subject, indeed, because I think it may interest my readers to know something of the secrets of the workshop of even the humblest literary artist.

There is just one other point that I may mention in connection with "Gladys Fane." Whilst I was writing the book, I was doing my full work as editor of the _Leeds Mercury_, and was not only editing the paper, but was writing for it an average of twelve columns a week. "Gladys Fane"

is a long story, containing a hundred and sixty thousand words. I wrote it during my scanty leisure in exactly sixteen weeks, or at the rate of ten thousand words a week. This, I imagine, is a speed which only the unfaltering pen of the typical lady novelist usually attains. Before beginning any chapter which had not shaped itself clearly in my mind, I used to take a long country walk, during the course of which I found that I could beat out the whole narrative, and solve any small problem in the construction that had troubled me.

About this time I was seeing a good deal of my literary friends. Amongst others, William Black and Bret Harte visited me at Leeds, and I have amusing recollections of both visits. Black came to me, if I remember aright, on his way to Scotland. It was his first visit to Leeds, and I thought he was ent.i.tled to something more than the welcome given to a private guest. Not many writers of distinction had found their way to Leeds whilst I was living there, and it was my earnest desire that those who came should receive a greeting that would satisfy them that even business communities could value real worth in literature. Accordingly, I gave a large dinner party at the Liberal Club in Black's honour, and invited to it a number of the leading citizens. They were all anxious to come, and to share in the welcome to my distinguished guest.

Unfortunately, however, the dinner involved a speech from Black. I knew how much he hated speech-making, and did my best to steel him for the ordeal. But no efforts of mine, or of any other man, would have converted Black into an orator. His response to the toast of his health, which had been drunk with genuine enthusiasm, was as follows: "When I left London, I thought I was going to Yorkshire, but the way in which you have treated me shows that I have made a mistake and that I have really got into Scotland." And forthwith he sat down, leaving us to realise the subtle compliment conveyed in his brief speech.

And here I am reminded of another occasion on which I heard him make an attempt at after-dinner oratory. A certain Lord Mayor of London distinguished himself by giving a dinner to the representatives of literature. I had the honour of being invited to the feast, and shared Black's cab in the drive to the Mansion House. On the way thither he told me that he was one of those who had to respond for fiction: "but," he added, "I am all right, for Blackmore is to speak before me, and I shall get up when he sits down, and simply say 'I say ditto to Mr. Blackmore,'"

Comforted with this idea, he was able to enjoy the Lord Mayor's turtle.

But alas! when Blackmore rose to address the company, he confined himself to the statement that, never having made a speech before, he must leave it to a much more distinguished man, his friend Mr. William Black, to respond to the toast. It was obvious to Black that he could not say ditto to this speech, and he had, accordingly, to make a serious attempt to reply for fiction.

I confess I was very sorry for him. He started well by telling a story about an experience of his when visiting the United States. He was entertained at dinner by some New York club, not, I imagine, a literary one, and the president proposed his health in gushing terms, the peroration of the speech being, "I now ask you, gentlemen, to drink to the health of the greatest of living novelists, Mr. William Black, the author of that immortal work, 'Lorna Doone.'" Now this is an excellent story, and if Black had only been able to tell it, he would have delighted his audience, and would have secured a very genuine triumph.

But alas! the acoustic properties of the Egyptian Hall are, to say the least of it, not good, and Black was so nervous that he was almost inaudible, more especially when he reached the point of his little tale.

The result was that to the vast majority of those who heard him, his speech seemed to be a simple announcement of the fact that he had once been described at a dinner in New York as the greatest of living novelists. Happily, Black was not dependent upon his oratorical gifts for his power of influencing the public.

When Bret Harte visited me at Leeds in the early 'eighties, his arrival caused what the reporters describe as a "sensation" in the town. To begin with, Harte had not been long resident in this country, and the author of "The Heathen Chinee" was still something of a mythical personage to the average Englishman. Then he still affected the style of dress which Buffalo Bill afterwards made familiar, and with his broad sombrero hat, his flowing locks, and ample fur-lined overcoat, cut a conspicuous figure in the streets. It is no exaggeration to say that everybody turned to look at him, and that more than once he had a small mob at his heels.

Greatly interested, like most of his fellow-countrymen, in the story of the Brontes, he got me to accompany him on a pilgrimage to Haworth, to see the world-famed parsonage and church. Shortly before this time, I had been concerned in raising an agitation against the destruction of the church, and had, in consequence, incurred the hostility of the inc.u.mbent, a certain Mr. Wade, who was anxious to replace the venerable fabric in which the Brontes had worshipped for so many years by a handsome modern edifice. Mr. Shepard, the American Consul at Bradford, was the companion of Harte and myself in our visit; but somewhat to our annoyance, we were joined at a wayside station by a young man, who was known to Shepard, and who seemed very anxious to accompany a celebrity like Bret Harte. We duly reached the grey old village among the moors, and for the last time I saw the quaint interior of Haworth Church, and sat once more in Charlotte Bronte's seat in the old-fashioned pew at the foot of the clumsy three-decker pulpit.

When we had seen the church, and inspected the signature of Charlotte Bronte in the register of marriages, Harte declared that he could not leave without visiting the parsonage. I warned him that he was not likely to be admitted, as Mr. Wade was known to object to the intrusion of strangers into his house. Harte, however, maintained that as an American author, Mr. Wade would certainly not refuse him if he sought admittance, and persisted in visiting the parsonage. Remembering my controversy with Mr. Wade, I discreetly withdrew from the company, and retired to the Black Bull Inn, where I smoked a cigar in the chair in which Branwell Bronte had too often sat. After some time had elapsed, my friends--Harte, Shepard, and the young man, whom I will call M.---- returned. "Did you really get admittance?" I asked, and Harte replied in the affirmative.

"Well," I said, "you may congratulate yourself, for it was a remarkable achievement."

Harte did not seem to respond very willingly to this remark, so Shepard took up the tale, and told me what had really happened. "When we got to the door, Harte sent in his card to Mr. Wade, and enquired if he could see him. We were left standing on the doorstep until Mr. Wade made his appearance, Harte's card in his hand. The expression of his face was not encouraging. He asked what we wanted, and Harte said, 'You perhaps may know my name. I am an American author.' Mr. Wade looked at the card, and said, 'Yes, he had heard the name. What did Mr. Harte want?' Then Harte introduced me, as American Consul at Bradford, and explained that we were both most anxious to be allowed to see the interior of Charlotte Bronte's old home. Upon this Mr. Wade, in very plain language, declared that it was impossible, that he made it a rule not to admit strangers to his house, and could make no exception. Harte seemed very much annoyed, and I put in a word to explain who his visitor was, and what he had done in literature. But the old gentleman was quite obdurate, and we were about to turn away when young M. stepped forward, and said, 'Mr. Wade, my name is M. and I come from So-and-so.' 'What!' said Mr. Wade, his whole manner changing at once, 'are you related to my old friend, Mr. M., of the firm of M. & N.?' 'I am his son,' replied M. 'Come in, sir,' cried Mr. Wade, with effusion. 'I shall be delighted to see you in my house, and you may bring your friends with you.'" And this was the fashion in which Bret Harte saw Haworth Parsonage.

I had, I confess, a kindlier feeling towards our youthful companion on the return journey than that which I had entertained towards him before this incident; but ere we reached Leeds he again annoyed me. Whilst we were waiting for our train in Keighley Station, M. disappeared from our side. Presently we became aware that he was going to and fro upon the platform telling everybody who Bret Harte was; so that in a short time we found ourselves surrounded by a staring crowd. Fortunately the train came up, and we were able to escape; but a man known to M. entered the compartment, and the exuberant youth, in spite of the frowns of Shepard and myself, was unable to restrain himself. We heard him, in a stage whisper, announce that Bret Harte was there. Harte, who was boiling over with indignation, thrust his head out of the window to escape the stranger's stare. The latter e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, "Bret Harte! Where?" M. pointed to the window, and instantly the st.u.r.dy Yorkshireman sprang from his seat, and seizing Harte by the shoulders, forced him back into his seat, whilst he thrust himself half out of the window, and eagerly searched the platform for the missing celebrity. "I can't see him nowhere," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, as the train moved off, and he once more pushed Harte violently aside, as he strode back to his own seat. When at last, by expressive pantomime, M. had conveyed the truth to his friend's mind, it was difficult to decide whether Harte or the hero-worshipper betrayed the greater degree of embarra.s.sment.

It was about this time that I had an amusing experience of my own in connection with Haworth and the Brontes. I was staying with my wife and children at a country inn at Burnsall, a delightful spot on the Upper Wharfe above Bolton Abbey. The inn was a small one, and by arrangement with the landlord I had, in addition to a sitting-room, the exclusive use of the coffee-room when my family partook of meals. The truth was that the "Red Lion" had but few visitors, at any rate of the coffee-room cla.s.s. Coming down to breakfast one morning, the landlord met me with a perturbed countenance. "There's a young gentleman from London in the coffee-room, sir," he said, "and though I've told him the room is engaged, he won't go out, but insists upon having his breakfast there." I a.s.sured the landlord that I did not in the least object to his doing so, and accordingly the young man breakfasted at the same table as myself and my family. I found he was an entire stranger to the district, and he volunteered the statement that he had never been in Yorkshire before his present visit. An enthusiast upon Yorkshire scenery, I was anxious to know what he had seen of the beautiful broad shire. "I've been nowhere,"

he replied, "except to a little place called Haworth."

Now what attraction could there be in such a place as Haworth for a stranger from London unless it were the attraction of the Brontes? So I reasoned; and reasoned, as it appeared, most erroneously. "Oh, no," he said, in reply to my question, "I didn't go to Haworth because of the Brontes. In fact, I knew nothing about them when I went there, but my friends gave me a book to read about them, and I tried to read it. It was written by somebody called Wemyss Reid, but I thought it a poor book." I knew that my friend the landlord was quite certain to tell the stranger my name, and I thought it better to take the bull by the horns, and reveal the truth to him. So, as gently as I could, and with a keen appreciation of the good story with which I saw that he had furnished me, I made him understand that I was the culprit who had produced that poor book. He took the revelation so much to heart that I really regretted having made it, and it was not until after more than an hour's talk on irrelevant topics that I eased him, as I hope, of his pain and mortification, and induced him to join me in laughing at the extraordinary stroke of ill-fortune by which I was the first person to whom he innocently revealed his bad opinion of my book. Perhaps the incident taught him to be more cautious ever afterwards in the expression of his literary verdicts, at all events when in the company of a chance acquaintance. It must be confessed that in this case the doctrine of coincidences upon which I have touched in a former chapter was not so pleasant in its application as it usually is. For my part, I have always recalled that breakfast with keen delight.

CHAPTER XVII.

TO THE DEFEAT OF THE GOVERNMENT (1885).

More Antagonism towards Forster--A Household Suffrage Demonstration at Leeds--A Meeting at the Carlton Club and a Coincidence--Forster and "the most Powerful Man in Europe"--Single-Member Const.i.tuencies and the c.u.mulative Vote--Dynamite Outrages--Police Protection for Statesmen--I Receive Threatening Letters and Get a Fright--Death of Lord Houghton--Lord Derby and how he was Misunderstood--An Unconventional Dinner at Lord Houghton's--A Visit to Tangier--In Peril of the Sea--Gibraltar "a Magnificent Imposture"--Captain W. and the M.P.--To the North Cape--Cheering a Funeral Party--News of Mr. Gladstone's Overthrow--Home Again.

The extension of Household Suffrage to the counties was the chief political topic of 1884. I have told how Forster was the first to announce his resolve to support a Household Suffrage Bill for Ireland. He was always an ardent reformer, and a genuine, as opposed to a sham, Radical. In the public agitation for the Bill Forster took a leading part, though he was still regarded with suspicion by many advanced Liberals. Sometimes these gentlemen treated him with distinct unfairness, because they could not forgive him his resolute antagonism to Mr.

Chamberlain. In the autumn before the Bill pa.s.sed we held a great Yorkshire demonstration in its favour on Woodhouse Moor, Leeds. John Morley had promised to attend as the princ.i.p.al speaker, and it was understood that the whole of the Liberal members for the West Riding would also be invited. I need hardly say that by far the most eminent of these gentlemen was Mr. Forster. When the executive committee, of which I was a member, met to make arrangements for the demonstration, I found, to my intense indignation, that many members were opposed to the sending of an invitation to Mr. Forster! He was our nearest neighbour, for his house was only a few miles from Leeds; he was our most distinguished representative, and he was an ardent supporter of the Franchise Bill. Yet not even these facts could serve him in the eyes of men who regarded Mr.

Chamberlain as being, next to Mr. Gladstone, the heaven-born leader of English Liberalism. I hotly contested the proposal to exclude Forster from the gathering, and succeeded in carrying my point, though I could only do so by agreeing that instead of a special invitation, such as we sent to all other men in his position, he should receive nothing but the ordinary printed circular sent wholesale to the known Liberals of the district. Forster, who cared nothing about forms and ceremonies, wrote promptly declaring his intention to be present.

The meeting was to be addressed from three platforms, at each of which was a princ.i.p.al speaker. To John Morley, as a stranger, we a.s.signed the leading position on the middle platform. Herbert Gladstone took a similar post on one of the side platforms, and on the third Forster was to be the chief speaker. To my great amazement, a couple of days before the meeting, we received word from Mr. Morley that under the new arrangements he did not think it desirable to attend. It was the first evidence I had received of what I now know to be one of the peculiarities in the character of this eminent and gifted man. The new arrangement which led to his wishing to withdraw from the meeting seemed to be the announcement that Forster was to be one of the speakers. I saw at once that if Morley did not come it would not only lessen the effect of the meeting, but would lead to a fresh outbreak of what I may call the Forster dissensions in the party. This was a disaster at all hazards to be prevented, and accordingly I took what most of my readers, I imagine, will consider not only strong but somewhat presumptuous action. I telegraphed to Morley, warning him that if he maintained his determination to stay away, the reason for his absence would undoubtedly become public property, and his "laudable ambition" would not be aided by the revelation of the truth. A strong measure, indeed; and I am prepared for the censure of my critics; but I succeeded in my purpose. Morley promised to come, and contented himself with writing a letter to me in which he disclaimed the imputation that he carried about with him any of that "perilous explosive" called ambition. The meeting was a great success; all the chief speakers were well received, but I confess I was not altogether grieved when I saw that the greatest crowd was that which gathered round platform number three, and that the loudest cheers of the vast mult.i.tude were those given to Forster.

It will be remembered that the Tories offered a stubborn opposition to the pa.s.sing of the Household Suffrage Bill, and it was only carried in the end in a winter session, specially convened for that purpose.

According to popular rumour at the time, it was eventually pa.s.sed as the result of compromise between Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury. I do not believe that there is a word of truth in this story. Mr. Gladstone, at all events, stoutly denied that there had been any such compromise, and once wrote a long letter to me, maintaining this denial. But before the Tories could be induced to accept the Bill, a meeting of their party had to be held at the Carlton Club, and in connection with that meeting I have to tell a curious story of my own.

As most of my readers know, the Carlton Club and the Reform stand side by side in Pall Mall, only separated from each other by a narrow street which gives access to Carlton House Gardens. The windows of the smoking-room at the Reform Club face those of the large library of the Carlton, so that the members of the two clubs may, if they choose, see each other across the narrow roadway. The Conservative meeting was held in the big library of the club. Going into our own smoking-room on the afternoon of the meeting, I saw a well-known member of the club gazing intently across the way at the corresponding apartment in the Carlton.

"If you come here," he said, turning to me, "you can see all the members of the Tory party gathering for their meeting." I saw no harm in accepting X.'s invitation, and joined him at the window. We picked out the various notables of the party. By-and-by an evil inspiration seized X. "Let us go upstairs to F.'s room," he said. "We shall see much better from there." I am ashamed to say that I yielded to the temptation, and accompanied X. to the room of a friend who occupied one of the club chambers facing the Carlton.

The window happened to be open, so that we had an unimpeded view of the meeting of the Tory party. We could not, of course, hear anything that was said, nor could we see the speakers, who were evidently placed with their backs to us between two of the windows; but we saw the audience, and were amused by the varying expression upon their faces as they listened to their leaders. X.'s insatiable curiosity led him to s.n.a.t.c.h up an opera-gla.s.s that was lying on F.'s dressing-table, and, despite my remonstrance, he took a long survey of the Tory gathering through this instrument. Suddenly I saw a man in the body of the meeting rise to his feet and point straight at our window. Instantly every face in the room flashed round, and I found myself under the concentrated gaze of some hundreds of manifestly indignant men. I seized the wretched X. by the collar and dragged him back from the window. "See what you have done with that abominable opera-gla.s.s of yours!" I cried; and then, to my shame and mortification, I saw the blinds pulled down at every window of the Carlton library, and I felt that by our foolish curiosity we had caused this gathering of political opponents to hold their conference in the dark. It is quite true that neither I nor X. had any ulterior motive in our observation of the meeting at the Carlton Club, but all the same I cannot pretend that the use of the opera-gla.s.s was not indefensible.