I drifted into literature when I was a boy. I always felt that I would like to be an author, and, arrived at man’s estate, it seemed to me easier to reach the public mind by the press than by the pulpit. I could not exactly come down to the level of the pulpit probationer. I found no sympathetic deacons, and I heard church members talk a good deal of nonsense for which I had no hearty respect. Perhaps what is called the root of the matter was in me conspicuous by its absence. I preached, but I got no call, nor did I care for one, as I felt increasingly the difference between the pulpit and the pew. Now I might use language in one sense, which would be—and I found really was—understood in quite an opposite sense in the pew. My revered parent had set his heart on seeing me a faithful minister of Jesus Christ; and none can tell what, under such circumstances, was the hardness of my lot, but gradually the struggle ceased, and I became a literary man—when literary men abode chieflyin Bohemia, and grew to fancy themselves men of genius in the low companionship of the barroom. Fielding got to a phase of life when he found he had either to write or get a living by driving a hackney coach. A somewhat similar experience was mine.
It is now about sixty years since I took to writing. I began with no thought of money or fame—it is quite as well that I did not, I am inclined to think—but a new era was opening on the world, a new divine breath was ruffling the stagnant surface of society, and I thought I had something to say in the war—the eternal war of right with wrong, of light with darkness, of God and the devil. I started a periodical. In the prospectus I stated that I had started it with a view to wage war with State Church pretensions and class legislation. I sent some copies of it to Thomas Carlyle—then rising into prominence as the great teacher of his age. He sent me a short note back to the effect that he had received and read what I had written, and that he saw much to give his cordial consent to, and ended by bidding me go on and prosper. Then I sent Douglas Jerrold a paper for hisShilling Magazine, which he accepted, but never published it, as I wanted it for a magazine which came out under my own editorship. One of my earliest patrons was Dr. Thomas Price, the editor of theEclectic, who had formerly been a Baptist minister, but who became secretaryof an insurance society, and one of a founders of the Anti-State Church Association, a society with which I was in full accord, and which, as I heard Edward Miall himself declare, owed not a little to my literary zeal. We had a fine time of it when that society was started. We were at Leicester, where I stayed with a dear old college friend, the Rev. Joseph Smedmore, and fast and furious was the fun as we met at the Rev. James Mursell’s, the popular pastor of the Baptist Chapel, and father of a still more popular son. Good company, good tobacco, good wine, aided in the good work. Amongst the company would be Stovel, an honoured Baptist minister Whitechapel way, at one time a fighter, and a hard hitter to the end of his lengthy life; John Burnett of Camberwell, always dry in the pulpit, but all-victorious on the public platform, by reason of his Scotch humour and enormous common-sense; Mursell in the Midlands was a host in himself; and Edward Miall, whose earnestness in the cause led him to give up the Leicester pulpit to found the LondonNonconformist. John Childs, the well-known Bungay printer, assisted, an able speaker himself, in spite of the dogmatism of his face and manner. When the society became rich and respectable, and changed its name, I left it. I have little faith in societies when they become respectable. When on one occasion Iput up for an M.P., I was amused by the emissary of the society sending to me for a subscription on the plea that all the Liberal candidates had given donations! “Do you think,†said I, “that I am going to bid for your support by a paltry £5 note? Not, I, indeed! It is a pity M.P.’s are not made of sterner staff.â€Â One of my intimate friends at one time was the late Peter Taylor, M.P. for Leicester. He was as liberal as he was wealthy, yet he never spent a farthing in demoralising his Leicester constituents by charity, or, in other words, bribery and corruption. The dirty work a rich man has to do to get into Parliament—especially if he would represent an intelligent and high-toned democracy—is beyond belief.
The ups and downs of a literary career are many. Without writing a good hand it is now impossible to succeed. It was not so when I first took to literature; but nowadays, when the market is overstocked with starving genius in the shape of heaven-born writers, I find that editors, compositors, readers, and all connected with printing, set their faces rigidly against defective penmanship. I look upon it that now the real literary gent, asThe Saturday Reviewloved to call him, has ceased to exist altogether; there is no chance for him. Our editors have to look out for articles written by lords and ladies, and men and women who have achievedsome passing notoriety. They often write awful stuff, but then the public buys. A man who masters shorthand may get a living in connection with the Press, and he may rise to be editor and leader-writer; but the pure literary gent, the speculative contributor to periodical literature, is out of the running. If he is an honourable, if he is a lord or M.P., or an adventurer, creditable or the reverse, he has a chance, but not otherwise. A special correspondent may enjoy a happy career, and as most of my work has been done in that way, I may speak with authority. As to getting a living as a London correspondent that is quite out of the question. I knew many men who did fairly well as London correspondents; nowadays the great Press agencies keep a staff to manufacture London letters on the cheap, and the really able original has gone clean out of existence. Two or three Press agencies manage almost all the London correspondence of the Press. It is an enormous power; whether they use it aright, who can say?
I had, after I left college, written reviews and articles. But in 1850 Mr. John Cassell engaged me as sub-editor of theStandard of Freedom, established to promote the sale of his coffees, or rather, in consequence of the sale of them—to advocate Free Trade and the voluntary principle, and temperance in particular, and philanthropy in general. In time I becamechief editor, but somehow or other the paper was not a success, though amongst the leader writers were William Howitt and Robertson, who had been a writer on theWestminster Review. It was there also I saw a good deal of Richard Cobden, a man as genial as he was unrivalled as a persuasive orator, who had a wonderful facility of disarming prejudice, and turning opponents into friends. I fancy he had a great deal of sympathy with Mr. John Cassell, who was really a very remarkable man. John Cassell may be described as having sprung from the dregs of the people. He had but twopence-halfpenny in his pocket when he came to town; he had been a carpenter’s lad; education he had none. He was tall and ungainly in appearance, with a big head, covered with short black hair, very small dark eyes, and sallow face, and full of ideas—to which he was generally quite unable to give utterance. I was always amused when he called me into his sanctum. “Mr. Ritchie,†he would say, “I want you to write a good article on so-and-so. You must say,†and here he would wave his big hand, “and here you must,†and then another wave of his hand, and thus he would go on waving his hand, moving his lips, which uttered no audible sound, and thus the interview would terminate, I having gained no idea from my proprietor, except that he wanted a certain subject discussed. At timeshe had a terrible temper, a temper which made all his friends thankful that he was a strict teetotaler. But his main idea was a grand one—to elevate morally and socially and intellectually the people of whose cause he was ever an ardent champion and true friend. He died, alas too soon, but not till he saw the firm of Cassell, Petter, and Galpin one of the leading publishing firms of the day.The Standard of Freedomwas incorporated withThe Weekly News and Chronicle, of which the working editor was Mr. John Robinson—now Sir John Robinson, ofThe Daily News—who was at the same time working editor ofThe Inquirer. I wrote forThe Weekly News—Parliamentary Sketches—and for that purpose had a ticket for the gallery of the House of Commons, where, however, I much preferred to listen to the brilliant talk of Angus Reach and Shirley Brooks, as they sat waiting on the back bench to take their turns, to the oratory of the M.P.’s below. Let me not, however, forget my obligations to Sir John Robinson. It was to him that I owed an introduction toThe Daily News, and to his kindness and liberality, of which many a literary man in London can testify, I owe much. Let me also mention that again I became connected with Mr. John Cassell when—in connection with Petter and Galpin—the firm had moved to Playhouse Yard, next door toThe Timesprinting office, and thence to the presentmagnificent premises on Ludgate Hill. At that time it became the fashion—a fashion which has been developed greatly of late years—to print for country papers a sheet of news, or more if they required it, which then was filled with local intelligence, and became a local paper. It was my duty to attend to the London paper, of which we printed fresh editions every day. In that position I remained till I was rash enough to become a newspaper proprietor myself. Mr. John Tallis, who had made a handsome fortune by publishing part numbers of standard works, was anxious to become proprietor ofThe Illustrated London News. For this purpose he desired to make an agreement with Mr. Ingram, M.P., the proprietor of the paper in question, but it came to nothing, and Mr. Tallis commencedThe Illustrated News of the World. When he had lost all his money, and was compelled to give it up, in an evil hour I was tempted to carry it on. It came to an end after a hard struggle of a couple of years, leaving me a sadder and a wiser and a poorer man. Once, and once only, I had a bright gleam of sunshine, and that was when Prince Albert died, of whom and of the Queen I published fine full-length portraits. The circulation of the paper went up by leaps and bounds; it was impossible to print off the steel plates fast enough to keep pace with the public demand, but that was soon over, and the paper sankaccordingly. Next in popularity to the portraits of Royalty I found were the portraits of John Bright, Cobden, Spurgeon, and Newman Hall. For generals, and actors and actresses, even for such men as Gladstone, or Disraeli, or Charles Kingsley, the public at the time did not seem greatly to care. But that was an episode in my career on which I do not care to dwell. I only refer to it as an illustration of the fact that a journalist should always stick to his pen, and leave business to business men. Sir Walter Scott tried to combine the two, and with what result all the world knows. In my small way I tried to do the same, and with an equally disastrous result. Happily, I returned to my more legitimate calling, which if it has not led me to fame and fortune, has, at any rate, enabled me to gain a fair share of bread and cheese, though I have always felt that another sovereign in any pocket would, like the Pickwick pen, have been a great blessing. Alas! now I begin to despair of that extra sovereign, and fall back for consolation on the beautiful truth, which I learned in my copy-book as a boy, that virtue is its own reward. When I hear people declaim on the benefits the world owes to the Press, and say it is a debt they can never repay, I always reply, “You are right, you can never repay the debt, but I should be happy to take a small sum on account.â€Â But it is a great blessing to think and say what you like, and that is a blessingenjoyed by the literary man alone. The parson in the pulpit has to think of the pew, and if a Dissenter, of his deacons. The medical man must not shock the prejudices of his patients if he would secure a living. The lawyer must often speak against his convictions. An M.P. dares not utter what would offend his constituents if he would secure his re-election. The pressman alone is free, and when I knew him, led a happy life, as he wrote in some old tavern, (Peele’s coffee-house in Fleet Street was a great place for him in my day), or anywhere else where a drink and a smoke and a chat were to be had, and managed to evolve his “copy†amidst laughter and cheers and the fumes of tobacco. His clothes were shabby, his hat was the worse for wear; his boots had lost somewhat of their original symmetry, his hands and linen were—but perhaps the less one says about them the better. He had often little in his pocket besides the last half-crown he had borrowed of a friend, or that had been advanced by his “uncle,†but he was happy in his work, in his companions, in his dreams, in his nightly symposium protracted into the small hours, in his contempt of worldly men and worldly ways, in his rude defiance of Mrs. Grundy. He was, in reality, a grander man than his cultured brother of to-day, who affects to be a gentleman, and is not unfrequently merely a word-grinding machine, who has beencarefully trained to write, whereas the only true writer, like the poet, is born, not made. We have now an Institute to improve what they call the social status of the pressman. We did not want it when I began my journalistic career. It was enough for me to hear the chimes at midnight, and to finish off with a good supper at some Fleet Street tavern, for as jolly old Walter Mapes sang—
Every one by nature hath a mould that he was cast in;I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting.
Every one by nature hath a mould that he was cast in;I happen to be one of those who never could write fasting.
Let me return to the story of my betters, with whom business relations brought me into contact. One was Dr. Charles Mackay, whose poetry at one time was far more popular than now. All the world rejoiced over his “Good time coming, boys,†for which all the world has agreed to wait, though yearly with less prospect of its realisation, “a little longer.â€Â He was the editor ofThe Illustrated Newstill he and the proprietor differed about Louis Napoleon, whom Mackay held to be an impostor and destined to a speedy fall. With Mr. Mackay was associated dear old John Timbs, every one’s friend, the kindliest of gossips, and the most industrious of book-makers. Then there was James Grant, ofThe Morning Advertiser, always ready to put into print the most monstrouscanard, and to fight in the ungenial columns of the licensed victualler’s organ to thebitter end for the faith once delivered to the saints. And then there was marvellous George Cruikshank, the prince of story-tellers as well as of caricaturists to his dying day. It is curious to note how great was the popularity of men whom I knew—such as George Thompson, the M.P. for the Tower Hamlets and the founder ofThe Empirenewspaper—and how fleeting that popularity was! Truly the earth has bubbles as the water hath! Equally unexpected has been the rise of others. Sir Edward Russell, ofThe Liverpool Daily Post, when I first knew him was a banker’s clerk in the City, which situation he gave up, against my advice, to become the editor ofThe Islington Gazette. Mr. Passmore Edwards, ofThe Echo, at one time M.P. for Salisbury, and one of the wisest and most beneficent of philanthropists, when I first knew him was a struggling publisher in Horse Shoe Court, Ludgate Hill; Mr. Edward Miall, M.P. for Bradford, the founder ofThe Nonconformistnewspaper and of the Anti-State Church Association, as the Society for the Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control loved to describe itself—(good heavens, what a mouthful!)—was an Independent minister at Leicester. How many whom I knew as pressmen are gone! Of one of them I would fain recall the memory, and that is Mr. James Clarke, ofThe Christian World, with whom it was my privilege to beassociated many a long year. In all my experience of editors I never knew a more honourable, upright man, or one of greater clearness of head and kindliness of heart. He died prematurely, but not till he had revolutionised the whole tone of our popular theology. It was an honour to be connected with such a man. He commenced life as a reporter, and lived to be a wealthy man by the paper he conducted with such skill. And what a friend he was to the struggling literary man or reporter! I lay emphasis on this, because my reviewers sometimes tell me I am cynical. I ask, How can a man be otherwise who has been behind the scenes, as I have been, for nearly fifty years?
One meets with curious characters among the gentlemen of the Press. I recall the memory of one who was often to be seen in Fleet Street at the time I was in Mr. Cassell’s employ. He was fair-haired, short and stout in figure, very good-natured, with an amount of cheek only equalled by his ignorance. Originally, I think he had been a printer, till his ambition soon led him to fly at higher game, and under a militarynom-de-plumehe compiled several handbooks of popular games—games of which, by the bye, he knew as little as a Hottentot—and, I believe, came to be the sporting correspondent of a London paper—a position he held at the time of his death. For statements that were ratherunreliable he had a capacity which almost bordered on the sublime. On one occasion he walked up Ludgate Hill with an acquaintance of my own, and nodded familiarly to certain individuals. That was Dickens, he said to my friend, after one of these friendly encounters. Of another he explained, that was Thackeray, and so on. Unfortunately, however, my friend knew that the individual thus pointed was engaged as a bookseller’s assistant in the Row. Once when I happened to meet him he was rather seedy, which he accounted for to me by the remark that he had been dining with a lord—a statement about as true as the generality of his remarks. He was very good-natured—it was impossible to offend him—and wrote touching poems in cheap journals about this “fog-dotted earth,†which never did anybody any harm so far as I was aware of. He was one of the numerous tribe who impose on publishers by their swagger till they are found out. Another of the same class was a gentleman of a higher station and with scholarly pretensions. On one occasion he served me rather a scurvy trick. I had published a volume of sketches of British statesmen. One of the characters, a very distinguished politician, died soon after. My gentleman at that time was engaged to write biographical sketches of such exalted personages when they died, and accordingly he wrote an article which appeared the next dayin one of the morning papers. On reading it, I found it was almost word for word the sketch which I had written in my own book, without the slightest acknowledgment. On my remonstrating, he complained that the absence of acknowledgment was quite accidental. Owing to the hurry in which he wrote, he had quite forgotten to mention my name, and if I would say nothing about it, he would do me a good service at the first opportunity. My friend failed to do so. Indeed, I may say that as a literary man his career was somewhat of a failure, though he managed for a time to secure appointments on good newspapers, and became connected with more than one or two distinguished firms of publishers. He was known to many, yet I never heard any one say a good word on his behalf.
I always avoided literary society. Perhaps in that respect I did wrong as regards my own interest, for I find the pressmen who belong to clubs are always ready to give each other a helping hand in the way of good-natured reference, and hence so much of that mutual admiration which forms so marked a feature in the literary gossip of our day, and which is of such little interest to the general reader. When I read such stuff I am reminded of the chambermaid who said to a lady acquaintance, “I hear it is all over London already that I am going to leave my lady,†and of the footman who, beingnewly married, desired his comrade to tell him freely what the town thought of it. It is seldom that literary men shine in conversation, and that was one reason I cared little to belong to any of the literary clubs which existed, and I dare say exist now. Dean Swift seems to have been of a similar opinion. He tells us the worst conversation he ever remembered to have heard in his life was that at Wells’ Coffee House, where the wits, as they were termed, used formerly to assemble. They talked of their plays or prologues or Miscellanies, he tells us, as if they had been the noblest effort of human nature, and, as if the fate of kingdoms depended on them. When Greek meets Greek there comes, we are told, the tug of war. When literary men meet, as a rule, the very reverse is the case. I belonged to the Whittington Club—now, alas! extinct—for it was the best institution of the kind ever started in London, of which Douglas Jerrold was president, and where young men found a home with better society than they could get elsewhere, and where we had debates, in which many, who have since risen to fame and fortune, learned how to speak—perhaps a questionable benefit in those days of perpetual talk. One of our prominent members was Sir J. W. Russell, who still, I am happy to say, flourishes as the popular editor ofThe Liverpool Daily Post.
As a writer, unpleasant experiences have beenfew. I have had letters from angry correspondents, but not more than two or three of them. One of the most amusing was from a clergyman now deceased—a very great man in his own opinion—a controversialist whom none could withstand. Once upon a time he had a controversy with the late Mr. Charles Bradlaugh, a man of whom I knew a little, and for whose honesty I had a high regard. I was present at the discussion, and in my account of it intimated that, in my humble opinion, the clergyman was hardly the man to grapple with Mr. Bradlaugh. I had a letter from the clergyman thanking me in the name of all the devils in hell—of whom he informed me I should shortly be one—for the article I had written. On another occasion a distinguished Congregational minister attacked me bitterly in a journal that soon came to grief, which was intended to supersede the newspaper with which it is my pride to have been connected more than thirty-five years. I commenced an action against him for libel; the reverend divine paid damages into court, and I dropped the action. I had no wish to harm the worthy divine, for such undoubtedly he was, by getting him branded as a convicted libeller. I only wanted to teach him that while in the pulpit a man was free to say what he liked, it was quite a different thing to rush hastily and angrily into print. One letter amusedme rather. My usual signature was “Christopher Crayon.â€Â Once, as I had a paper under that signature, I had written another with a different signature, which appeared in the same issue, and immediately a correspondent wrote to complain that the latter article was but a poor imitation of “Christopher Crayon.â€Â Once a reviewer on a leading London morning newspaper referred to me as a young lady. I refer to that soft impeachment simply as an illustration of the carelessness with which London reviewers often write. I can quite understand such blunders. A reviewer has so many books to look at, and such little time allowed him for the right discharge of his duty, that it is no wonder he often errs.
I have written several books. Perhaps here I ought to refer to Mr. Burton, of Ipswich, who was the first to anticipate the growing demand for good and cheap literature by the publication of the “Run and Read Library,†which deserved a better sale than it really secured. He published my first book—a reprint of sketches of leading ministers of all denominations, which had appeared in a London weekly paper, and paid me for it in the most liberal manner. I fear Mr. Burton was a little in advance of his age. At any rate, he soon disappeared from Ipswich and the publishing trade. Surely such a spirited town as Ipswich might have better supported such a thoroughlydeserving man. Possibly my experiences may be useful. One thing is clear, that a review may one day praise you highly, and another day as strongly condemn. How is this?—a matter of personal prejudice say the public. I don’t believe it. Personal prejudice is not so common in reviews as the ignorant public thinks. Accident has a great deal to do with it. A newspaper proprietor once told me he had two reviewers, one of whom always cut up all the books sent for review, while the other praised them, and it depended upon the chance into whose hands your book might fall, whether you were praised or censured. Again, it is much easier to find fault than to praise. A youthful reviewer is specially gratified when he can “slate†an author, and besides how it flatters his own self-esteem! It is true the reviewer in doing so often blunders, but no one finds it out. For instance, many years ago no man was better known in certain circles than Mr. John Morley, the brother, the philanthropic brother of that great philanthropist, Mr. Samuel Morley. I had written in a book on City life that a certain portion of the Gospels had been given away by Mr. John Morley on a certain occasion. Our great Mr. John Morley was then only known to a select few. The general public would perfectly understand who was the Mr. John Morley to whom I referred. The reviewer who deprecatedmy book, briefly, as somewhat gloomy—it had not become the fashion then to expose the sores of City life—sneeringly observed that it would be interesting if I would state what were the portions of the Gospels given away by Mr. John Morley, evidently ignorant that there could be any John Morley besides the one he knew. I do not for a moment suppose that the reviewer had any personal pique towards myself. His blunder was simply one of ignorance. In another case it seemed to me that the reviewer of a critical journal which had no circulation had simply made his review a ground of attack against a weekly paper of far greater circulation and authority than his own. I had published a little sketch of travel in Canada. The review of it was long and wearisome. I could not understand it till I read in the closing sentence that there was no reason why the book should have been reprinted from the obscure journal in which it originally appeared—that obscure journal at the time being, as it is to this day, one of the most successful of all our weeklies. In his case themotifof the ill-natured criticism was very obvious.
In some cases one can only impute a review of an unfavourable character to what the Americans call “pure cussedness.â€Â For instance, I had written a book called “British Senators,†of whichThe Pall Mall Gazettehad spoken in the highest terms. It fell into the hands of theSaturdayreviewer whenThe Saturday Reviewwas in its palmy days, always piquant and never dull. It was a fine opportunity for the reviewer, and he wielded his tomahawk with all the vigour of the Red Indian. I was an unknown man with no friends. It was a grand opportunity, though he was kind enough to admit that I was a literary gent of the Sala and Edmund Yates type (it was the time when George Augustus Sala was at the bottom—theSaturdaytook to praising him when he had won his position), a favourable specimen if I remember aright. So far so good, but the aim of the superfine reviewer was of course to make “the literary gent†look like a fool. As an illustration of the way in which we all contract our ideas from living in a little world of our own, I said that I had heard the late Mr. Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, say at a peace meeting at Edinburgh that there were more tears shed on the occasion of the death of Mr. Bradshaw of the Railway Guide than when the Duke of Wellington died. TheSaturdayreviewer exultingly wrote “Here is a blunder of Ritchie’s; what Mr. Sturge said, and what Ritchie should have said, was that there were more tears shed when Mr. Braidwood of the Fire Brigade died, than when the Duke of Wellington died.â€Â No doubt many a reader of theSaturdaychuckled over the blunder of “the literary gent†thus held up to derision. But unfortunately fortheSaturdayreviewer, Mr. Sturge died before Mr. Braidwood, and thus it was impossible that he could have referred to the tears shed on the occasion of the death of the latter. The laugh really ought to have been the other way. But the mischief was done, “the literary gent†snubbed, and that was all theSaturdaysuperfine reviewer cared about.
In 1849 I lived at Cardiff. I had come there to editThe Principality, a paper started, I believe, by Mr. David Evans, a good sort of man, who had made a little money, which, I fear, he lost in his paper speculation. His aim was to make the paper the mouthpiece for Welsh Nonconformity. I must own, as I saw how Cardiff was growing to be a big place, my aim was to make the paper a good local organ. But the Cardiff of that time was too Conservative and Churchified for such a paper to pay, and as Mr. John Cassell offered me a berth on his paper,The Standard of Freedom, my connection with Cardiff came to an end. I confess I left it with regret, as I had some warm friends in the town, and there was a charming little blue-eyed maid—I wonder if she is alive now—the daughter of an alderman and ex-mayor, with whom I had fallen desperately in love for a time.
At that time Cardiff had a population of some 14,000. Lord Bute had built his docks, not by any means as extensive as they are now, and it was beginning to do an extensive trade in coalbrought down by the Taff Vale Railway. There was no rail to Cardiff then. To get to it from London I had to take the rail to Bristol, spend the night there, and go to Cardiff by the steamer which plied daily, according to the state of the tide, between that port and Bristol, at that time the commercial capital of the South Wales district. The mails from London came by a four-horse coach, which plied between Gloucester and Cardiff. I felt rather miserable when I landed at the docks and looked at the sad expanse of ground behind me and the Bristol Channel. A long street led up to the town, with shabby houses on one side and a large expanse of marshy land on the other. I had heard so much of the romance of Wales that when I realised where I really was my heart quite sank within me. At the end of St. Mary Street was a very primitive old town hall, where I gave a lecture on “The Progress of the Nation,†the only time I ever gave a lecture in my life. The chairman was Mr. Vachell, father of the late Dr. Vachell, an old resident in Cardiff, a man of considerable eminence in the town—as he was supposed to be very wealthy—and in the Cardiff of that day wealth was regarded as the only claim to respect; he, at the end of my lecture, expressed an opinion favourable to my talents, but at the same time intimating that he had no sympathy with much I had uttered. Especially hediffered from me in the estimate I had given of the “Rights of Man,†by Tom Paine. Once more I had an opportunity of lifting up my voice in the Old Town Hall. It was on the subject of Teetotalism. My opponent was a worthy, sturdy teetotaler known as Mr. Cory, whose sons still flourish as the great coal merchants of our day. Cardiff was a town of publicans and sinners, and I am sorry to say I secured an easy triumph; and Mr. Cory created great laughter as he said, in the course of his oration, that if he were shut up in a cask he would cry out through the bunghole, “Teetotalism for ever!â€Â He kept a place at the lower end of the town to supply ships’ stores, and was in every way, as I afterwards found by the friendship that existed between us, a sterling character.
Just opposite the Town Hall, on the other side of the way, was the Castle, then in a very neglected condition, with a large enclosure which was open to the public as a promenade. The street between them contained the best shops in the town. It extended a little way to Crockherbtown on one side and to the Cardiff Arms Hotel on the other, and then you were in the country. Beyond the Cardiff Arms was a pleasant walk leading to Llandaff Cathedral, then almost in a state of decay; and to Penarth a charming hill, overlooking the Bristol Channel, on the other, with a little old-fashionedhotel; much frequented in the summer. There was only one good house, that built by Mr. Parry, of the firm of Parry and Brown, ship brokers, where Mrs. Parry, a fine, handsome lady, dispensed graceful hospitality. Her brother, Mr. David Brown, afterwards removed to London to a fine office in Leadenhall Street, and lived and died at a charming retreat he built for himself in Harrow. There I one day met Lord Shaftesbury, who came to a drawing-room meeting held in connection with the London City Mission, and where we were all handsomely regaled.
Perhaps at that time the most active man in Cardiff was Mr. John Batchelor—whose statue, erected by his admirers, still adorns the place—a sad thorn in the side of the old-fashioned people who then ruled the town, especially the Marquis of Bute’s trustees or the men who represented them in Cardiff. Mr. John Batchelor was a keen critic, a good speaker, a sturdy Nonconformist, and a man of high character and great influence. His death was a great loss to the town. Just outside the town lived Mr. Booker, the proprietor of tin-works at Velindra, a fine well-made man, and a good speaker, who got into Parliament to maintain Protection, in which attempt he failed. His admirers had a full portrait of him painted by Mr. John Deffet Francis, who afterwards lived in Swansea. Mr. Francis was a very versatile genius, and got upan amateur performance in which he acted the part of a vagabond to perfection, somewhat to the confusion of some of the ladies, who had never witnessed such a realistic performance before. In connection with myself quite a storm in a teacup took place. In St. Mary Street there was an Athenæum, as the local reading-room was called. It was thought by some of my friends that I ought to be on the committee, but as I was not qualified a motion was made to set the standing rules on one side in order that I might be elected. The little town was quite excited on the occasion, and the great Mr. Booker was appealed to to use his influence against me, which he did, but I was elected nevertheless. In my capacity of committee-man I did something to get up some lectures, which were a great success. One of the lecturers was Mr. George Dawson, with whom I spent a pleasant day. Another was my old and comic friend, Mr. George Grossmith, the celebrated father of a yet more celebrated son. Another was Mrs. Balfour, the mother of the Balfour who, in later times, was to do a lot of misdeeds and to attain a very disagreeable notoriety in consequence. On another occasion I was also enabled to do the town some service by getting Mr. James Taylor, of Birmingham, to come and explain his scheme for the formation of Freehold Land Societies, an idea then in its infancy, but which has been for the social andmoral elevation of the working classes, who used to spend in drink what they now devote to a better purpose. There was a great deal of drinking in Cardiff. Indeed, it was the chief amusement of the place. The sailors, at that time consisting of representatives of almost every nation under heaven, were much given to drinking, and some of the boarding-houses were by no means of a respectable character. There was no other form of social enjoyment unless you belonged to the strict religious bodies who, as Congregationalists, or Baptists, or Calvinistic Methodists, had many chapels, which were well filled. It was in one of these chapels Harry Vincent came to lecture when I was at Cardiff, and electrified the town.
The Member of Parliament for the town lived a very quiet life, and seemed to take but little interest in political affairs. One of the most accomplished and certainly best-educated men in the place was Mr. Chas. Bernard, architect and surveyor; without him life would have been very dull to me at Cardiff. I imagine that his chief reason for pitching his tent in what must have been to him a very ungenial clime was that his sister was married to the late Mr. Reece, local Coroner. It grieves me to state that he has long since joined the majority. Another great friend of mine was Mr. Peter Price—now, alas! no more, who was destined, however, to do much good before he passed away. ThePublic Library, which he did much to establish, still retains his portrait. Another of the excellent of the earth was Mr. W. P. James, the brother-in-law of Mr. Peter Price, who came to Cardiff to build the new Town Hall. They were all gentlemen who had come from a distance to settle in Cardiff, the character of which they did much to improve and elevate. We all did something to get up an Eisteddfod, which, if it did nothing else, had this advantage, that it did something to develop the powers of a Cardiff artist—Mr. D. Marks—who, when I saw him last, had a studio in Fitzroy Square, London, and was engaged to paint several portraits of distinguished personages, one of these being a fine portrait of the great and good Earl of Shaftesbury. It was presented to his lordship at a great meeting held in the Guildhall, presided over by the Lord Mayor, Sir William Macarthur, in April, in 1881. The committee of the Ragged School Union took the initiative to do honour to their president.
As a newspaper man in Cardiff and a comparative stranger to the town I had a somewhat unscrupulous opponent, the editor of the local organ,The Cardiff and Merthyr Guardian. He was a very unscrupulous man, apparently all smiles and friendship, but I never could trust him. Nor was I surprised to learn that when he became secretary of the Cardiff Savings Bank there was a very serious defalcation in thefunds. The man always seemed to me utterly untrustworthy, but his civil manners apparently won him many friends. As editor of a Liberal newspaper I had to fight the battle under very great disadvantages. It was no easy thing to run a newspaper then. The taxes on knowledge were a great impediment. On every paper a penny stamp had to be paid, and the advertisement duty was eighteenpence on every advertisement. The repeal of these taxes was a great boon for the local papers; and then there was a tax on paper, which was an additional obstacle. As to telegraphs, they were unheard of; and it was to the London dailies that we had to trust for foreign news. One of the most important events when I was at Cardiff was the opening of the South Wales Railway as far as Swansea. The first train was driven by Mr. Brunel, the eminent engineer, accompanied by a distinguished party of directors and local magnates. I joined the train at Cardiff. At Swansea the event was celebrated in grand style. All the population seemed to me to have turned out to witness the arrival of the train. There were flags and decorations everywhere, and later on a grand banquet, at which I was privileged to assist so far as eating and drinking and cheering the speakers went. And thus my reminiscences close. I cannot look back on my career at Cardiff with unmixed satisfaction. I was by no means the steady old party I havesince become. It is not always easy to put an old head upon young shoulders, but at any rate in my small way I did something for the advent of that brighter and better day which has dawned not only upon Cardiff but on all the land.
In this connection I may naturally add a few particulars of worthy Welshmen I have known. The Scotchman who prayed that the Lord would give them a good conceit of themselves, had he lived among the Welsh, would have found that portion of his prayer superfluous. It is to the credit of the Welsh that they always have a good conceit of themselves. As a rule, the world takes people at their own valuation, and the man who assumes a superiority over his fellows—at any rate, till he is found out—has his claim allowed. A Welshman has a profound faith in his country and himself, especially as regards oratory. There are no such preachers as those of Wales, and I was quite amused when I first lived in Cardiff with the way in which a Welshman, who lodged in the house where I had taken up my abode, descanted on the gifts of Welshmen in London of whom I had never heard, and I felt quite ashamed of my ignorance as he rolled forth one Welsh name after another, and had to admit my ignorance of the eminent men whose names he had at his fingers’ ends. Why, there were no such clever men anywhere, according to hisaccount, and yet I knew not the name of any of them! At the same time I had come into contact with some Welshmen who had made their mark in London. First on my list is that of Caleb Morris, who preached in Fetter Lane Chapel, now in a declining state, but at times filled with a large and very respectable congregation. He was much given to discuss the objective and subjective, a novelty to me at that time in pulpit discourse. The state of his health latterly interfered with his pulpit success; and before he died he had taken to preaching in a room in Mecklenburg Square, where a large number of his admirers flocked to hear him. He was an amiable and thoughtful man, universally esteemed. Another Welshman of whom I used to know more was the Rev. Henry Richard, who was then a young man, preaching with a great deal of fire, in the Congregational Chapel in the Marlborough Road, on the other side of the water. He lived to become the popular M.P. for Merthyr, and to be known all the world over as the advocate of Peace. He was the secretary for many years of the Peace Society. He became a successful platform speaker, and his speeches were full of a humour which always told at public meetings. Short and sturdy in build, he was always fit for work, and had a long and laborious public life. He was a Welshman to the core—always ready with his pen or tongue to do battle for hisnative land when aspersed by ignorant or partisan writers, and he did much to help on the Liberation Society, being after all a much more popular speaker—especially in the House of Commons—than his fellow-worker Edward Miall, and his loss to the Nonconformists all over the land was very great.
But, after all, the Welshman with whom I was most intimate, and whom I most admired, was Joseph Edwards, the sculptor. He came from the neighbourhood of Merthyr, where he had many relatives, whom he never forgot, and whose poverty he was always ready to relieve. He had a studio in Robert Street, Hampstead Road, and lived in the house close by. He had an uphill work to fight, and to lead a life of labour and self-denial, relieved by a few intervals of sunshine, as when at a dinner party he had the privilege of meeting Mr. Gladstone—or as when staying at the Duke of Beaufort’s, from whom he had a commission, he had the honour of escorting the Duchess into the drawing-room—an honour on which I never forgot to chaff him as I used to sit in his studio watching him at work. He must have had to work hard to make both ends meet; and when I went to see him on his death-bed, as it proved to be, I was shocked with grief to see a man of such rare and lofty genius have to sleep in a little room at the very top of the house. But commissions were rare, and the material onwhich he had to work (marble) was very costly, and the sculptor works at a great disadvantage compared with the popular portrait painter. I believe he derived a great part of his income by going to the studio of a more successful artist, and giving finishing touches to what work might be on hand, much to the astonishment of the assistants, who, when they returned in the morning, were astonished to find what progress had been made in the night, which they attributed to the visitation of a ghost. Edwards was an enthusiastic poet, and many of his works in plaster—waiting, alas! for the commission to transfer to the marble which never came—were exquisitely beautiful, and were often engraved inThe Art Journal. Both Mr. Hall, the editor, and his wife, the clever authoress, were great admirers of Mr. Edwards’ lofty and poetical idealisms, which sometimes soared a little above my poor prosaic qualities. As I listened to his rapt and ardent speech, I felt impelled somewhat to make a few remarks to bring him down from his starry heights, and the result ended in a hearty peal of laughter, for no man better loved a joke. I have a medallion of myself which he gave me after it had been exhibited at the Royal Academy, which I cherish as the most beautiful work of art in my possession; but he was too modest and retiring, and never gained the public esteem to which he had an undoubted claim. Iwas present at the unveiling of his fine marble bust of Edith Wynne, then radiant in her glory as the Welsh Nightingale, of whom I saw enough to learn that she was as charming in private as in public life. The place was Hanover Square Rooms. My friend Edwards received quite an ovation, the Sir Watkin Wynne of that day presiding; but on the whole I fear that Edwards by his genius did more for Wales than ever Wales did for him. His life ought to have been written. Young men, I am sure, would have learned many a useful lesson. He was a true genius, with, as far as I could see, none of the failings which by some are supposed to be associated with genius. It was my painful privilege to be one of the mourners at his funeral in Highgate Cemetery. His works he left to the Cymmrodorion Society, where I hope that they are guarded with tender care. South Wales has reason to rejoice in having had born to her such a son. Let me mention another Merthyr man whom I knew, who, if not such a genius as Joseph Edwards, had at any rate as great an enthusiasm for the literature and language of Wales. He was a chemist and druggist, named Stephens, and found time to write a work on Wales, which was deemed worthy of the prize offered on the subject by some Welshman of wealth and position, whose name has, alas, escaped my treacherousmemory. At that time Wales had failed to attract much attention on the part of England. It was far away and difficult to get at. Now and then an adventurous Englishman made his way thither, and wrote a book to show how grand was the scenery and hospitable the people, and how cheap it was as a place of residence. But as a rule the average Englishman knew as little of it as he did of Timbuctoo. Since then Wales has learnt the art of advertising and is better known, and that is an advantage not to be overlooked, for it is now all the richer. Then few English resided there, and those chiefly from motives of economy.
Another Welshman whom I had the honour to reckon as a friend was Sir Hugh Owen, an earnest worker in the Temperance cause, and for the social elevation of the people and righteousness. In his case his high position on the Poor-Law Board was won by merit, and by merit alone, as he entered the Department in a subordinate capacity, and gradually worked his way up to the top of the tree, not having the advantage of aristocratic birth and breeding. I first met him in Claremont Chapel—a Congregational place of worship in Pentonville—at one time one of the most flourishing churches of that body, though I fear it has somewhat declined of late. He was a man of kindly speech and presence, always ready to help whateverwas worthy of help, and lived in the Holloway Road, where I once spent with him a pleasant Sunday, and was much charmed with one of his married daughters, who happened to be there at the time. No Temperance gathering in general, and no Welsh gathering in particular, was complete without Mr. Hugh Owen, as he then was called. In all London there was no more genial representative of gallant little Wales. He lived to a good old age, beloved and respected. The last time I met him was in the Farringdon Road, when he complained that he felt a little queer in his head. My reply was that he had no need to trouble himself on that account, as I knew many people who were in the same condition who seemed to get on very well nevertheless.
Another Welshman who yet lives—in a far-off land—was Dr. Llewellen Bevan, the popular Congregational minister in the beautiful city of Melbourne, where he is, as he justly deserves to be, a great power. He commenced his labours in London as co-pastor with Mr. Thomas Binney. Thence he moved to Tottenham Court Chapel, which became very prosperous under his popular ministry. From there he went to America, where he did not remain long. He now lives in a beautiful bungalow a few miles out of Melbourne, where I once spent with him a very pleasant night, chatting of England and old times. A curious memory occurs to mein connection with my visit to the reverend and popular divine at Melbourne. On one occasion I heard him at a public meeting in Tottenham Court Road Chapel declare, amidst the cheers of the great audience, that he had given up smoking because one of his people complained to him that her son had come home the worse for liquor, which he had taken while smoking, and he thought there could be no harm in smoking, because he had seen Mr. Bevan smoking. “From that hour,†said Mr. Bevan, amidst prolonged applause, “I resolved to give up smoking,†and the deacons looked at me to see if I was not ashamed of my indulgence in a habit which in the case alluded to had produced such disastrous results. I must own that the reason adduced by the reverend gentleman was not to me convincing, for as far as my experience goes the smoker infinitely prefers a cup of coffee with his cigar or pipe to any amount of alcoholic liquor. Judge, then, of my surprise when at Melbourne, after our evening meal, Mr. Bevan proposed to me that we should adjourn to his study and have a smoke—an invitation with which I gladly complied. After my recollection of the scene in the London chapel I was glad to find the Doctor, as regards tobacco, sober and in his right mind. Long may he be spared after the labours of his busy life to soothe his wearied mind with the solace of the weed! The Doctor has a noblepresence, and seemed to me when I saw him last to be getting in face more and more like England’s greatest orator—as regards latter days—Mr. John Bright. In his far-away home he seemed to me to retain his love for Wales and the sense of the superiority of the Welshman to any one on the face of the earth. The Doctor is an ardent Gladstonite—and people of that way of thinking are not quite as numerous in the Colonies as they are at home.
Another Welshman who made his mark in London was the Rev. Dr. Thomas, a Congregational minister at Stockwell, a fine-looking young man when I first knew him as a minister at Chesham. He developed the faculty of his countrymen for lofty ideas and aims to an extent that ended in disastrous failure. It was he who originated the idea ofThe Dial—which was to be a daily to advocate righteousness, and to beat down and to supplantThe Times. The motto was to be “Righteousness exalteth a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people.â€Â He got a great many people to take shares, and commenced the publication ofThe Dialin the first place as a weekly. But the paper was a failure from the first. Another idea of his was to raise a million to build workmen’s institutes and recreation halls all over the kingdom, but as the late Earl of Derby, when appealed to on the subject, replied, it carried its own condemnation in the face of it. A society,however, was started, but it never came to much. The real fact is that institutions established for working men, not by them, are rarely a success. Dr. Thomas also claimed to have started the idea of the University for Wales, and was very angry with me when I, after some inquiry, failed to support his claim. His great success was the publication of a magazine for preachers, under the title ofThe Homilist. The writer was a great man, not so much so, perhaps, as he thought, and had his full share of Welsh enthusiasm and fire. But he made a terrible blunder over hisDialscheme. He had done better had he kept to the pulpit. Parsons are not always practical, and the management of successful daily newspapers is not exactly in their line. The shoemaker should stick to his last; but in spite of Welsh poetic geniuses, the great fact which always strikes men in London is the commercial successes of the Welshmen who venture to try their fortune on the metropolitan stage. This especially strikes me with regard to the drapery trade. Many of the largest establishments in that way are owned at this present time by Welshmen—such as Jones, of Holloway; Evans, of Oxford Street, and many more. Few of them had capital or friends to help them, yet few men have done better in the pleasant art of money-making—an art rare, alas! to the class to which I have the honour to belong.
One national movement in which I took a prominent part was the formation of freehold land societies, which commenced somewhere about 1850, and at whichThe Times, after its manner in those days, sneered, asking scornfully what was a freehold land society. The apostle of the new movement, which was to teach the British working man how to save money and buy a bit of land on which to build a house and secure a vote, was Mr. James Taylor, born in Birmingham in 1814. Like all other Birmingham boys, James was early set to work, and became an apprentice in one of the fancy trades for which Birmingham was famed. His industrious habits soon acquired for him the approbation of his master, who, on retiring from business before Taylor was of age, gave him his indentures. About that time Taylor, earning good wages and not having the fear of Malthus before his eyes, got married and lived happily till, like too many of his class, he took to drink. After years of utter misery and degradation, Taylor, in a happy hour for himself and society,took the temperance pledge and became a new man. Nor was he satisfied with his own reform alone. He was anxious that others should be rescued from degradation as he had been. For this purpose he identified himself with the Temperance cause, and was honorary secretary to the Birmingham Temperance Society till he became the leader and originator of the Freehold Land Movement, and then for years his life was given to the public. He had but one speech, but it was a racy one, and his voice was soon lifted up in every town in the land. The plan pursued was to buy an estate, cut it up into allotments, and offer them almost free of legal expense. There never was such a chance for the working man as an investment, and thousands availed themselves of it—and were all the better for it—especially those who to pay their small subscriptions became teetotalers and gave up drink. And yet a learned writer inThe Edinburgh Reviewhad the audacity to write, “Notwithstanding this rapid popularity, however, notwithstanding also the high authorities which have been quoted on their behalf, we cannot look on these associations with unmixed favour, and we shall not be surprised if any long time elapses without well-grounded disappointment and discontent arising among their members. However desirable it may be for a peasant or an artisan to be possessor of the garden which he cultivates and ofthe house he dwells in, however clear and great the gain to him in this case, it is by no means equally certain that he can derive any pecuniary advantage from the possession of a plot of ground which is too far from his daily work for him either to erect a dwelling on it or to cultivate it as an allotment, and which from its diminutive size he will find it difficult for him to let for any sufficient remuneration. In many cases a barren site will be his only reward for £50 of saving, and however he may value this in times of excitement it will in three elections out of four be of little real interest or moment to him.â€Â Happily the working men knew better than theEdinburghreviewer, and the societies flourished all the more. The Conservatives were, of course, utterly indignant at this wholesale manufacture of faggot votes, as they were contemptuously termed, which threatened the seats of so many respectable Conservative county members, but in the end they thought better of it, and actually started a Conservative Freehold Land Society themselves, a fact announced to me in a letter from Mr. Cobden, which I have or ought to have somewhere in my possession. The societies increased so greatly that a journal was started by Mr. Cassell, calledThe Freeholder, of which I was editor, and was the means of often bringing me into contact with Mr. Cobden, a man with whom no one ever came in contact withoutfeeling for him the most ardent admiration. At one time I saw a good deal of him, as it was my habit, at his request, to call on him each morning at his house in Westbourne Park, to talk over with him matters connected with the Freehold Land Movement, in which he took, as in everything that increased human progress, the deepest interest. As he once remarked half the money spent in gin would give the people the entire county representation, and besides provide them with desirable investments against a rainy day. Mr. James Taylor was always cheered as he showed his hearers how a man who drank a quart of ale a day engulfed at the same time a yard of solid earth. Land at that time was to be had remarkably cheap, and great profits were made by the early investors, and the moral benefit was great. Men learned the value of economy and thrift, and were all the better for gaining habits of forethought and self-denial. In our days the societies have become chiefly building societies, the political need of getting a vote in that way not being of so much importance as it was then.
In the early days of the Victorian era the workman had no inducement to save, and he spent his money foolishly because he had no opportunity of spending it better. The Poor-laws as they were till they were reformed by the Whigs—a heroic reform which made themeverywhere unpopular—actually offered a premium on immorality, and the woman who had a number of illegitimate children—the parish rewarding her according to their number—was quite a prize in the matrimonial market. The old Poor-law administration became the demoralising agency to such an extent for the manufacture of paupers that honest wage-earners were at a discount, while numbers of the rate-paying classes found their lot so intolerable that they elected to swell the pauper ranks, and thereby much increased their pecuniary, if not their social, condition. The earlier a labourer became a married man and the father of a family the better off he became and the more he got out of his parish. We can scarcely credit it, yet it is an undoubted fact that under the old Poor-law, if a labourer was known to be thrifty or putting away his savings, he was refused work till his money was gone and he was reduced to his proper level. Even the labourer usually at work received parish pay for at least four children, and if he worked on the roads instead of the fields he received out of the highway rates a pound a-week instead of the usual nine shillings. If a working man joined a benefit club it generally met in a public-house, and a certain proportion of the funds were spent in refreshments—rather for the benefit of the landlords than for that of the members. It was not till 1834 that a reformedPoor-law made the practice of thrift possible. In many quarters law and custom have combined to prevent its growth among rural labourers who had been taught to live on the rates—to extract as much permanent relief as they could out of a nearly bankrupt body of ratepayers and to do in return as little hard work as was possible. The condition of things was then completely changed. The industrious man had a little better chance, and the idlers were put to the rout and, much to their disgust, forced to work, or at any rate to attempt to do so. Even the best benefit societies remained under a cloud and, till Parliament later on took the matter in hand, worked under great disadvantages. Frauds were committed; funds were made away with, and no redress could be obtained. Thrifty habits were discouraged on every side.
All England is ringing with the praise of thrift. Not Scotland, for a Scotchman is born thrifty—just as he is said to be born not able to understand a joke. And as to Irishmen, it is to be questioned whether they have such a word in their dictionary at all. No class of mutual thrift institution has flourished there, says the latest writer on the subject, Rev. Francis Wilkinson; and mostly our earlier thrift societies were started by a landlord for his own benefit, rather than for that of the members. Those were drinking days, says Mr.Wilkinson. The public-house was not only the home, but the cause of their existence; and as an evidence of the value of benefit clubs to the publican, we find the establishment of such advertised as one of the assets when the house is put up for sale. Then there was the competition of rival houses. The “Blue Boar†must have its “friendly†as well as the “Black Lion†over the way; and thus the number of clubs, as well as of public-houses, increased beyond the requirements of the village or parish, and deterioration was the natural result; and this was the humorous way in which the past generation acquired the habit of thrift, of which nowadays we hear so much.
It is very hard to be thrifty. He who would become so has to fight against tremendous odds. Let me illustrate my case by my own unpleasant experiences. I had a friend who was a mining broker. One day I had been studying the late Captain Burton’s valuable work on Brazil, which seemed to me a country of boundless resources and possibilities. The next day when I got into the train to go to town, there was my friend the broker. I talked with him about Brazil in a rather enthusiastic strain. He agreed with everything I said. There was no such place in the world, and I could not do better than buy a few General Brazilian shares. They were low just at that time, but if I were to buy some I should becertain to make ten shillings a share in a month, at any rate, and by a fortunate coincidence he had a few hundreds he had bought for an investment, and as a friend he would let me have a few. I am not a speculating man. The fact is I have never had any cash to spare; but was tempted, as our Mother Eve was by the old serpent, and I fell. I bought a few General Brazilians. As soon as I had paid for them there came a call for a shilling a share, and a little while after another call, and so it went on till the General Brazilians went down to nothing. Shortly after this my friend left the neighbourhood. He had got all his acquaintances to invest in shares, and the neighbourhood was getting unpleasant for him. He began life in a humble way; he now lives in a fine place and keeps his carriage, but he gets no more money out of me, though occasionally he did send me a circular assuring me of an ample fortune if I would only buy certain shares which he recommended. I may have stood in my own light, as he told me I did, but I have bought no more mining shares since.
Again, take the case of life assurance. Every one ought to insure his life when he marries. Like a wise man, I did, but like a fool I took the advice of a friend who recommended me a society which paid him a commission for his disinterested and friendly advice. After a time it declared a bonus which, instead of receivingin cash, I thought it better to add to the principal. In a few years, that insurance society was wound up. After the affairs of the company had been carefully investigated at an enormous and surely unnecessary expense by a distinguished firm of City accountants, another company took over our policies, marking them about a fourth of their original value. My bonus was not even added to my principal; and now, being too old to go anew into a life assurance company, a paltry sum is all I can look forward to to leave my family on my decease. It is really very ludicrous the little games played by some of these insurance companies. It is not every one who raises the cry of thrift who is anxious to promote that saving virtue. It is too often the case that even the professed philanthropist, feeling how true it is that charity begins at home, never troubles himself to let it go any further. We have Scriptural authority for saying that one who neglects to provide for his own house has denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel. We are abundantly justified, then, in looking after the cash. A great philosopher remarked that there are times when a man without money in his pocket may find himself in a peculiarly unpleasant position. It was, I think, Hazlitt who said it, and he was right. Be that as it may, it is a melancholy truth many of us have learned by experience. I can sendto gaol the poor wretch who in the street picks my pocket, but the company promoter who offers me a premium for thrift, and then robs me of my all, or as much of it as he can lay hold of, gets off scot free. Friendly societies, as they are called, are on this account often to be much suspected. The story of one that smashed up is interesting and amusing. The chief promoter early in life displayed his abilities as a rogue. He became a letter-carrier, only to lose his situation and undergo a severe term of imprisonment for stealing letters. Subsequently, he entered the service of an Assurance Company, but had eventually to be dismissed. Then he got a new character, and started afresh as a Methodist preacher. Afterwards he founded a friendly society, by means of which he raised large funds for the benefit of himself, and apparently no one else.
Let me give another case out of my own personal experience. Last year I received a prospectus of a company that was formed to purchase the business of a firm which had an immense number of shops engaged in carrying on a business in various parts of the metropolis. A firm of accountants reported that the gross returns of the firm in 1894 amounted to over £103,000, and it was added that the profit of the company would admit of annual dividends at the rate of nine per cent., and allow of £1,300 for the expenses of management andreserve. It was further shown that a considerable saving of expenditure could be effected, which would ensure an additional dividend of three per cent. Well, the thing looked so feasible that I wrote for and obtained five shares, thinking I had done a sensible thing. A few months afterward a West-end firm offered me a large number of shares at par, stating that the company were about to pay a dividend, and that the profit on the year’s earnings would be some fifty per cent. However, I did not accept the promising offer, and I thought no more of the matter. In January of this year a gentleman sent me a circular offering me shares at a shilling under par, assuring me that the company was about to pay a dividend of ten per cent. in the course of the next week. Again I declined to increase my holding, and it is well I did, as no dividend has been paid, although the circular stated that the business was of “a most profitable nature,†and “sure to considerably increase in value in the course of a few months.â€Â Since then a Manchester firm has twice written to me to offer the pound shares at sixteen shillings each. These tempting offers I have declined, and the promised dividend seems as far off as ever. Surely outside brokers who put forward such lying statements ought to be amenable to law, as well as the promoters of the company itself. To my great disgust, since the above waswritten I have received another letter from another outside firm, offering me fifty shares in the precious company at thirteen shillings a share. The writers add, as the dividend of ten per cent. will be paid almost immediately, they are well worth my attention. I suppose this sort of thing pays. The worst of it is that the class thus victimised are the class least able to bear a pecuniary loss. I happen to know of a case in which a man with an assumed name, trading at the West End, gained a large sum of money—chiefly from clergymen and widows—by offering worthless shares, certain to pay large dividends in a week or two, at a tremendous sacrifice. As a rule the victims to this state of things say nothing of their losses. They are ashamed when they think how easily they have been persuaded to part with their cash. It is time, however, that public attention should be called to the matter, that the eyes of the public were opened, and that the game of these gentry were be stopped.