An important person—The mayor-maker—Two systems—The puff and the huff—“Oh that mine enemy were reported verbatim!”—Errors of omission—Summary justice—An example—The abatement of a nuisance—The testimony of the warm-hearted—The fixed rate—A possible placard—A gross insult—Not so bad as it might have been—The subdivision of an insult—An inadequate assessment—The Town Councillor’s bribe—Birds of a feather—A handbook needed—An outburst of hospitality—Never again—The reporters “gloom”—The March lion—The popularity of the coroner.
THE chief of the reporting staff is usually the most important person connected with a provincial newspaper. It is not too much to say that it is in his power to make or to annihilate the reputation of a Town Councillor, or even a Poor Law Guardian. He may do so by the adoption of either of two systems: the first is persistent attention, the second is persistent neglect. He may either puff a man into a reputation, or puff him out of it. There are some men who become universally abhorred through being constantly alluded to as “our respected townsman”; such a distinction seems an invidious one to the twenty thousand townsmen who have never been so referred to. If a reporter persists in alluding to a certain person as “our respected townsman,” he will eventually succeed in making him the most highly disrespected burgess in the municipality, if he was not so before.’ On the other hand a reporter may, by judicious neglect of a burgess who burns for distinction, destroy his chances of becoming a Town Councillor; and, perhaps, before he dies, Mayor. But my experience leads me to believe that if a reporter has a grudge against a Town Councillor, a Poor Law Guardian, or a Borough Magistrate, and if he is really vindictive, the most effective course of vengeance that he can adopt is to record verbatim all that his enemy utters in public. The man who exclaimed, at a period of the world’s history when the publishing business had not attained its present proportions, “Oh that mine enemy had written a book!” knew what he was talking about. “Oh that mine enemy were reported verbatim!” would assuredly be the modern equivalent of the bitter cry of the patriarch. The stutterings, the vain repetitions, and the impossible grammar which accompany the public utterances—imbecile only when they are not commonplace—of the average Town Councillor or Poor Law Guardian, would require the aid of the phonograph to admit of their being anly when they are not commonplace—of the average Town Councillor or Poor Law Guardian, would require the aid of the phonograph to admit of their being adequately depreciated by the public.
The worst offenders are those men who are loudest in their complaints against the reporters, and who are constantly writing to correct what they call “errors” in the summary of their speeches. A reporter puts in a grammatical and a moderately reasonable sentence or two the ridiculous maunderings and wanderings of one of these “public men,” and the only recognition he obtains assumes the form of a letter to the editor, pointing out the “omissions” made in the summary. Omissions! I should rather think there were omissions.
I have no hesitation in affirming that the verbatim reporting of their speeches would mean the annihilation of ninety-nine out of every hundred of these municipal orators.
Only once, on a paper with which I was connected, had a reporter the courage to try the effect of a literal report of the speech of a man who was greatly given to complaining of the injustice done to him in the published accounts of his deliverances. Every “haw,” “hum,” “ah,” “eh—eh;” every repetition, every reduplication of a repetition, every unfinished sentence, every singular nominative to a plural verb, every artificial cough to cover a retreat from an imbecile statement, was reported. The result was the complete abatement of this nuisance. A considerable time elapsed before another complaint as to omissions in municipal speeches was made.
To my mind, the ability and the judgment shown by the members of the reporting staff cannot be too warmly commended. It is not surprising that occasionally attempts should be made by warm-hearted persons to express in a substantial way their recognition of the talents of this department of a newspaper. I have several times known of sums of money being offered to reporters in the country, with a view of obtaining the insertion of certain paragraphs or the omission of others. Half-a-crown was invariably the figure at which the value of such services was assessed. I am still of the opinion that this was not an extravagant sum to offer a presumably educated man for running the risk of losing his situation. Curiously enough, the majority of these offers of money came from competitors at ploughing matches, at exhibitions of oxen and swine, and at flower shows. Why agriculturalists should be more zealous to show their appreciation of literary work than the rest of the population it would be difficult to say; but at one time—a good many years ago—I heard so much about the attempted distribution of half-crowns in agricultural districts, I began to fear that at the various shows it would be necessary to have a placard posted, bearing the words: “GRATUITIES TO REPORTERS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.”
Many years ago I was somewhat tired of hearing about the numerous insults offered to reporters in this way. A head-reporter once told me that a junior member of his staff had come to him after a day in the country, complaining bitterly that he had been grossly insulted by an offer of money.
“And what did you say to him?” I inquired.
“I asked him how much he had been offered,” replied the head-reporter, “and when he said, ‘Half-a-crown,’ I said, ‘Pooh! half-a-crown! that wasn’t much of an insult. How would you like to be offered a sovereign, as I was one day in the same neighbourhood? You might talk of your insults then.’ That shut him up.”
I did not doubt it.
“You think the juniors protest too much?” said I.
The reporter laughed shrewdly.
“You remember Punch’s picture of the man lying drunk on the pavement, and the compassionate lady in the crowd who asked if the poor fellow was ill, at which a man says, ‘Ill? ‘im ill? I only wish I’d alf his complaint’?”
I admitted that I had a vivid recollection of the picture; but I added that I could not see what it had to say to the subject we were discussing.
Again the reporter smiled.
“If you had seen the chap’s face to-day when I talked of the sovereign you would know what I meant; his face said quite plainly, ‘I wish I had half of that insult.’”
That view was quite intelligible to me some time after, when a reporter, whose failings were notorious, came to me with the old story. He had been offered half-a-crown by a man in a good social position who had been fined at the police court that day for being drunk and assaulting a constable, and who was anxious that no record of the transaction should appear in the newspaper.
“Great heavens!” said I, “he had the face to offer you half-a-crown?”
“He had,” said the reporter, indignantly. “Half-a-crown! The low hound! He knew that if I included his case in to-morrow’s police news he would lose his situation, and yet he had the face to offer me half-a-crown. What hounds there are in the world! Two pounds would have been little enough.”
I never heard of a Town Councillor offering a bribe to a reporter; but I have heard of something more phenomenal—a Town Councillor indignantly rejecting what he conceived to be a bribe. He took good care to boast of it afterwards to his constituents. It happened that this Councillor was the leader of a select faction of three on the Corporation, whose métier consisted in opposing every scheme that was brought forward by the Town Clerk, and supported by the other members of the Corporation. Now the Town Clerk had hired a shooting one autumn, and as the birds were plentiful, he thought that it would be a graceful act on his part to send a brace of grouse to every Alderman and every Councillor. He did so, and all the members of the Board accepted the transaction in a right spirit—all, except the leader of the opposition faction. He explained his attitude to his constituents as follows:
“Gentlemen, you’ll all be glad to hear that I’ve made myself formidable to our enemies. I’ve brought the so-called Town Clerk down on his knees to me. An attempt was made to bribe me last week, which I am determined to expose. One night when I came home from my work, I found waiting for me a queer pasteboard box with holes in it. I opened it, and inside I found a couple of fat brown pigeons, and on their legs a card printed ‘With Mr. Samuel White’s compliments.’ ‘Mr. Samuel White! That’s the Town Clerk,’ says I, ‘and if Mr. Samuel White thinks to buy my silence by sending me a pair of brown pigeons with Mr. Samuel White’s compliments, Mr. Samuel White is a bit mistaken;’ so I just put the pigeons back into their box, and redirected them to Mr. Samuel White, and wrote him a polite note to let him know that if I wanted a pair of pigeons I could buy them for myself. That’s what I did.” (Loud cheers.)
When it was explained to him some time after that the birds were grouse, and not pigeons, he asked where was the difference. The principle would be precisely the same, he declared, if the birds were eagles or ostriches.
It has often occurred to me that for the benefit of such men, a complete list should be made out of such presents as may be legitimately received from one’s friends, and of those that should be regarded as insultive in their tendency. It must puzzle a good many people to know where the line should be drawn. Why should a brace of grouse be looked on as a graceful gift, while a pair of fowl—a “yoke,” they are called in the West of Ireland—can only be construed as an affront? Why should a haunch of venison (when not over “ripe”) constitute an acceptable gift, while a sirloin of prime beef could only be regarded as having an eleemosynary signification? Why may a lover be permitted to offer the object of his attachment a fan, but not a hat? a dozen of gloves, but not a pair of boots? These problems would tax a much higher intelligence—if it would be possible to imagine such—than that at the command of the average Town Councillor.
It was the same member of the Corporation who, one day, having succeeded—greatly to his astonishment—in carrying a resolution which he had proposed at a meeting, found that custom and courtesy necessitated his providing refreshment for the dozen of gentlemen who had supported him. His ideas of refreshment revolved round a public-house as a centre; but when it was explained to him that the occasion was one that demanded a demonstration on a higher level, and with a wider horizon, he declared, in the excitement of the moment, that he was as ready as any of his colleagues to discharge the duties of host in the best style. He took his friends to a first-class restaurant, and at a hint from one of them, promptly ordered a couple of bottles of champagne. When these had been emptied, the host gave the waiter a shilling, telling him in a lordly way to keep the change. The waiter was, of course, a German, and, with a smile and a bow, he put the coin into his pocket, and hastened to help the gentlemen on with their overcoats. When they were trooping out, he ventured to enquire whom the champagne was to be charged to.
The hospitable Councillor stared at the man, and then expressed the opinion that all Frenchmen, and perhaps Italians, were the greatest rogues unhung.
“You savey!” he shouted at the waiter—for like many persons on the social level of Town Councillors, he assumed that all foreigners are a little deaf,—“You savey, I give you one shilling—one bob—you savey!”
The waiter said he was “much oblige,” but who was to pay for the champagne?
The gentlemen who had partaken of the champagne nudged one another, but one of them was compassionate, and explained to the Councillor that the two bottles involved the expenditure of twenty-four shillings.
“Twenty-eight shillings,” the waiter murmured in a submissive, subject-to-the-correction-of-the-Court tone. The wine was Heidsieck of ‘74, he explained.
The Councillor gasped, and then smiled weakly. He had been made the subject of a jest more than once before, and he fancied he saw in the winks of the men around him, a loophole of escape from an untenable position.
“Come, come,” said he, “I’ve no more time to waste. Don’t you flatter yourselves that I can’t see this is a put-up job between you all and the waiter.”
“Pay the man the money and be hanged to you!” said an impetuous member of the party.
Just then the manager of the restaurant strolled up, and received with a polite smile the statement of the hospitable. Councillor regarding what he termed the barefaced attempt to swindle on the part of the German waiter.
“Sir,” said the manager, “the price of the wine is on the card. Here it is,”—he whipped a card out of his pocket. “‘Heidsieck—1874—14s.’”
The generous host fell back on a chair speechless.
Had any of his friends ever read Hamlet they would certainly not have missed quoting the lines:
“Indeed this (Town) Councillor
Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,
Who was in life—”
Well—otherwise. However, Hamlet remained unquoted.
After a long pause he recovered his powers of speech.
“And that’s champagne—that’s champagne!” he said in a weak voice, “Champagne! By the Lord Harry, I’ve tasted better ginger-beer!”
He has lately been very cautious in bringing forward any resolutions at the Corporation. He is afraid that another of them may chance to be carried.
The reporter who told me the story which I have just recorded, was an excellent specimen of the class—shrewd, a capital judge of character, and a good organiser. He had, however, never got beyond the stereotyped phrases which appear in every newspaper—indeed, there was no need for him to get beyond them. Every death “cast a gloom” over the locality where it occurred; and a chronicle of the weather at any time during the month of March caused him to let loose the journalist’s lion upon an unsuspecting public.
Once it occurred to me that he went a little too far with the gloom that he kept, as Captain Mayne Reid’s Mexicans kept their lassoes, ready to cast at a moment’s notice.
He wrote an account of a fire which had caused the death of two persons, and concluded as follows:—
“The conflagration, which was visible at a distance of four miles, and was not completely subjugated until a late hour, cast a gloom over the entire quarter of the town, that will be felt for long, more especially as the premises were wholly uninsured.”
Yes, I thought that this was carrying the gloom a little too far.
I will say this for him, however: it was not he who wrote: “A tall but well-dressed man was yesterday arrested on suspicion of being concerned in a recent robbery.”
Nor was it he who headed a paragraph, “Fatal Death by Drowning.”
In a town in which I once resided the coroner died, and there was quite a brisk competition for the vacant office. The successful candidate was a gentleman whose claims had been supported by a newspaper with which I was connected. Three months afterwards the proofreader brought under the notice of the sub-editor in my presence a paragraph which had come from the reporter’s room, and which had already been “set up.” So nearly as I can remember, it was something like this:—“Yesterday, no fewer than three inquests were held in various parts of this town by our highly respected coroner. Indeed, any doubts that may possibly have existed as to the qualification of this gentleman for the coronership, among those narrowminded persons who opposed his selection, must surely be dispelled by reference to the statistics of inquests held during the three months that he has been in office. The increase upon the corresponding quarter last year is thirteen, or no less than 9.46 per cent. Compared with the immediately preceding quarter the figures are no less significant, showing, as they do, an increase of seventeen, or 12.18 per cent. In other words, the business of the coroner has been augmented by one-eighth since he came into office. This fact speaks volumes for the enterprise and ability of the gentleman whose candidature it was our privilege to support.”
Of course this paragraph was suppressed. The sub-editor told me the next day that it had been written by a junior reporter, who had misunderstood the instructions of his chief. The fact was that the coroner wanted an increase of remuneration,—he was paid by a fixed salary, not by “piece work,” so to speak,—and he had suggested to the chief reporter that a paragraph calling attention to the increase of inquests in the town might have a good effect. The chief reporter had given the figures to a junior, with a few hasty instructions, which he had somehow misinterpreted.
The lecture society—“Early Architecture”—The professional consultation—Its result—“Un verre d’eau”—Its story—Lyrics as an auxiliary to the lecture—The lecture in print—A well-earned commendation—The preservation of ancient ruins—The best preservative—“Stone walls do not a prison make”—The Parnell Commission—A remarkable visitor—A false prophet—Sir Charles Russell—A humble suggestion—The bashful young man—Somewhat changed—“Ireland a Nation”—Some kindly hints—The “Invincibles” in court—The strange advertisement—How it was answered—Earl Spencer as a patron—“No kindly act was ever done in vain!”
A REPORTER is now and again compelled to exercise other powers than those which are generally supposed to be at the command of the writer of shorthand and the paragraphist. I knew a very clever youth who in a crisis showed of what he was capable. There was, in the town where we lived, a society of very learned men and equally learned women. Once a fortnight a paper was read, usually on some point of surpassing dulness—this was in the good old days, when lectures were solemn and theatres merry. Just at present, I need scarcely say, the position of the two is reversed: the theatres are solemn (the managers, becoming pessimistic by reason of their losses, endeavour to impress their philosophy upon the public), but the lecture-room rings with laughter as some savant treats of the “Loves of Coleoptera” with limelight illustrations, or “The Infant Bacillus.” The society which I have mentioned had engaged as lecturer for a certain evening a local architect, who had largely augmented his professional standing by a reputation for conviviality; and the subject with which he was to deal was “Early Architecture.” A brother professional man, whose sympathies were said to extend in many directions, had promised to take the chair upon this occasion. It so happened, however, that, owing to his pressing but unspecified engagements, the lecturer found himself, on the day for which the lecture was announced, still in doubt as to the sequence that his views should assume when committed to paper. About noon on this day he strolled into the office of the gentleman who was advertised to take the chair in the evening, and explained that he should like to discuss with him the various aspects of the question of Early Architecture, so that his mind might be at ease on appearing before the audience.
They accordingly went down the street, and made an earnest inspection of the interior of a cave-dwelling in the neighbourhood—it was styled “The Cool Grot,” and tradition was respected by the presence therein of shell-fish, oat-cake, and other elementary foods, with various samples of alcohol in a rudimentary form. In this place the brother architects discussed the subject of Early Architecture until, as a reporter would say, “a late hour.” The result was not such as would have a tendency to cause an unprejudiced person to accept without some reserve the theory that on a purely æsthetic question, a just conclusion can most readily be arrived at by a friendly discussion amid congenial surroundings.
A small and very solemn audience had assembled some twenty minutes or so before the lecturer and chairman put in an appearance, and then no time was lost in commencing the business of the meeting. The one architect was moved to the chair, and seconded, and he solemnly took it. Having explained that he occupied his position with the most pleasurable feelings, he poured himself out a glass of water with a most unreasonable amount of steadiness, and laid the carafe exactly on the spot—he was most scrupulous on this point—it had previously occupied. He drank a mouthful of the water, and then looked into the tumbler with the shrewd eye of the naturalist searching for infusoria. Then he laughed, and told a story that amused himself greatly about a friend of his who had attended a temperance lecture, and declared that it would have been a great success if the lecturer had not automatically attempted to blow the froth off the glass of water with which he refreshed himself. Then he sat down and fell asleep, before the lecturer had been awakened by the secretary to the committee, and had opened his notes upon the desk. For about ten minutes the lecturer made himself quite as unintelligible as the most erudite of the audience could have desired; but then he suddenly lapsed into intelligibility—he had reached that section of his subject which necessitated the recitation of a poem said to be in a Scotch dialect, every stanza of which terminated with the words, “A man’s a man for a’ that!” He then bowed, and, recovering himself by a grasp of the desk, which he shook as though it were the hand of an old schoolfellow whom he had not met for years, he retired with an almost supernatural erectness to his chair.
In a moment the chairman was on his feet—the sudden silence had awakened him. In a few well-chosen phrases he thanked the audience for the very hearty manner in which they had drunk his health. He then told them a humorous story of his boyhood, and concluded by a reference to one “Mr. Vice,” whom he trusted frequently to see at the other end of the table, preparatory to going beneath it. He hoped there was no objection to his stating that he was a jolly good fellow. No absolute objection being made, he ventured on the statement—in the key of B flat; the lecturer joined in most heartily, and the solemn audience went to their homes, followed by the apologies of the secretary to the committee.
The chairman and the lecturer were then shaken up by the old man who came to turn out the lights. He turned them out as well.
Now, the reporter who had been “marked” for that lecture found that he had some much more important business to attend to. He did not reach the newspaper office until late, and then he seated himself, and thoughtfully wrote out the remarks which nine out of every ten chairmen would have made, attributing them to the gentleman who presided at the lecture; and then gave a general summary of the lecture on “Early Architecture” which ninety-nine out of every hundred working architects would deliver if called on. He concluded by stating that the usual vote of thanks was conveyed to the lecturer, and suitably acknowledged by him, and that the audience was “large, representative, and enthusiastic.”
The secretary called upon the proprietor of the paper the next day, and expressed his high appreciation of the tact and judgment of the reporter; and the proprietor, who was more accustomed to hear comments on the display of very different attainments on the part of his staff, actually wrote a letter of commendation to the reporter, which I think was well earned.
The most remarkable point in connection with this occurrence was the implicit belief placed in the statements of the newspaper, not only by the public—for the public will believe anything—but also by the architect-lecturer and the architect-chairman. The professional standing of the former was certainly increased by the transaction, and till the day of his death he was accustomed to allude to his lecture on “Early Architecture.” The secretary to the committee, for his own credit’s sake, said nothing about the fiasco, and the solemn members of the audience were so accustomed to listen to incomprehensible lectures in the same room that they began to think that the performance at which they had “assisted” was only another of the usual type, so they also held their peace on the matter.
Having introduced this society, I cannot refrain from telling the story of another transaction in which it was concerned. The ramifications of the society extended in many directions, and a more useful organisation could scarcely be imagined. It was like an elephant’s trunk, which can uproot a tree—if the elephant is in a good humour—but which does not disdain to pick up a pin—like the boy who afterwards became Lord Mayor of London. The society did not shrink from discussing the question “Is a Monarchy or a Republic the right form of Government?” on the same night that it dealt with a new stopper for soda-water bottles. The Carboniferous Future of England was treated of upon the same evening as the Immortality of the Soul; perhaps there is a closer connection than at first meets the eye between the two subjects. It took ancient buildings under its protection, as well as the most recently fabricated pre-historic axe-head; and it was the discharge of its functions in regard to ancient buildings that caused the committee to pass a resolution one day, calling on their secretary to communicate with the owner of a neighbouring property, in the midst of which a really fine ruin of an ancient castle, with many interesting associations, was situated, begging him to order a wall to be built around the ruins, so as to prevent them from continuing to be the resort of cows with a fine taste in archaeology, when the summer days were warm and they wanted their backs scratched.
The property was in Ireland, consequently the landlord lived in England, and had never so much as seen the ruins. It was news to him that anything of interest was to be found on his Irish estates; but as his son was contemplating the possibility of entering Parliament as the representative of an Irish borough, he at once crossed the Channel, had an interview with the society’s secretary, and, with the president, visited the old castle, and was delighted with it. He sent for his bailiff, and told him that he wanted a wall four feet high to be built round the field in the centre of which the ruins lay—he even went so far as to “peg out,” so to speak, the course that he wished the wall to take.
The Irish bailiff stared at his master, but expressed the delight it would give him to carry out his wishes.
The owner crossed to England, promising to return in three months to see how the work had been done.
He kept his word. He returned in three months, and found, sure enough, that an excellent wall had been built on the exact lines he had laid down, but every stone of the ruins of the ancient castle had disappeared.
The bailiff stood by with a beaming face as he explained how the ruins had gone.
He had caused the wall to be built out of the stones of the ancient castle, to save expense.
If reporters were only afforded a little leisure, any one of them who has lived in a large town could compile an interesting volume of his experiences. I have often regretted that I could never master the art of shorthand. I worked at it for months when a boy, and made sufficient progress to be able to write it pretty fairly; but writing is not everything. The capacity for transcribing one’s notes is something to be taken into account; and it was at this point that I broke down, and was forced to become a novelist—a sort of novelist. The first time that I went up country in Africa, my stock of paper being limited, I carried only two pocket-books, and economised my space by taking my notes in shorthand. I had no occasion to refer to these notes until I was writing my novel “Daireen,” and then I found myself face to face with a hundred pages of hieroglyphs which were utterly unintelligible to me. In despair I brought them to a reporter, and he read them off for me much more rapidly than he or anyone else could read my ordinary handwriting to-day. In fact, he read just a little too fast,—I was forced to beg him to stop. There are some occurrences of which one takes a note in shorthand in one’s youth in a strange country, but which one does not wish particularly to offer to the perusal of strangers years afterwards.
But although I could never be a reporter, I now and again availed myself of a reporter’s privileges, when I wished to be present at a trial that promised some interesting features to a student of good and evil. It seemed to me that the Parnell Commission was an epitome of the world’s history from the earliest date. No writer has yet done justice to that extraordinary incident. I have asked some reporters, who were present day after day, if they intended writing a real history of the Commission; not the foolish political history of the thing, but the story of all that was laid bare to their eyes hour after hour,—the passions of patriotism, of power, of hate, of revenge; the devotion to duty, the dogged heroism, the religious fervour; every day brought to light such examples of these varied attributes of the Irish nature as the world had never previously known.
The reporters said they had no time to devote to such thankless work; and, besides, every one was sick of the Commission.
Often as I went into the court and faced the scene, it never lost its glamour for me. Every day I seemed to be wandering through a world of romance. I could not sleep at night, so deeply impressed was I with the way certain witnesses returned the scrutiny of Sir Charles Russell; with the way Mr. Parnell hypnotised others; with the stories of the awful struggle of which Ireland was the centre.
Going out of the courts one evening, I came upon an old man standing with his hat off and with one arm uplifted in an attitude of denunciation that was tragic beyond description. He was a handsome old man, very tall, but slightly stooped, and he clearly occupied a good position in the world.
We were alone just outside the courts. I pretended that I had suddenly missed something. I stood thrusting my hands into my pockets and feeling between the buttons of my coat, for I meant to watch him. At last I pulled out my cigarette-case and strolled on.
“You were in that court?” the old man said, in a tone that assured me I had not underestimated his social position.
He did not wait for me to reply.
“You saw that man sitting with his cold impassive face while the tears were on the cheeks of every one else? Listen to me, sir! I called upon the Most High to strike him down—to strike him down—and my prayer was heard. I saw him lying, disgraced, deserted, dead, before my eyes; and so I shall see him before a year has passed. ‘Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.’”
Again he raised his arm in the direction of the court, and when I saw the light in his eyes I knew that I was looking at a prophet.
Suddenly he seemed to recover himself. He put on his hat and turned round upon me with something like angry surprise. I raised my hat. He did the same. He went in one direction and I went in the opposite.
He was a false prophet. Mr. Parnell was not dead within the year. In fact, he was not dead until two years and two months had passed. In accordance with the thoughtful provisions of the Mosaic code, that old gentleman deserved to be stoned for prophesying falsely. But his manner would almost have deceived a reporter.
Having introduced the subject of the Parnell Commission, I may perhaps be permitted to express the hope that Sir Charles Russell will one day find sufficient leisure to give us a few chapters of his early history. I happen to know something of it. I am fully acquainted with the nature of some of its incidents, which certainly would be found by the public to possess many interesting and romantic elements; though, unlike the romantic episodes in the career of most persons, those associated with the early life of Sir Charles Russell reflect only credit upon himself. Every one should know by this time that the question of what is Patriotism and what is not is altogether dependent upon the nature of the Government of the country. In order to prolong its own existence for six months, a Ministry will take pains to alter the definition of the word Patriotism, and to prosecute every one who does not accept the new definition. Forty years ago the political lexicon was being daily revised. I need say no more on this point; only, if Sir Charles Russell means to give us some of the earlier chapters of his life he should lose no time in setting about the task. A Lord Chief Justice of England cannot reasonably be expected to deal with any romantic episodes in his own career, however important may be the part which he feels himself called on now and again to take in the delimitation of the romantic elements (of a different type) in the careers of others of Her Majesty’s subjects.
It may surprise some of those persons who have been unfortunate enough to find themselves witnesses for the prosecution in cases where Sir Charles Russell has appeared for the defence, to learn that in his young days he was exceedingly shy. He has lost a good deal of his early diffidence, or, at any rate, he manages to prevent its betraying itself in such a way as might tend to embarrass a hostile witness. As a rule, the witnesses do not find that bashfulness is the most prominent characteristic of his cross-examination. But I learned from an early associate of Sir Charles’s, that when his name appeared on the list to propose or to respond to a toast at one of the dinners of a patriotic society of which my informant as well as Sir Charles was a member, he would spend the day nervously walking about the streets, and apparently quite unable to collect his thoughts. Upon one occasion the proud duty devolved upon him of responding to the toast, “Ireland a Nation!” Late in the afternoon my informant, who at that time was a small shopkeeper—he is nothing very considerable to-day—found him in a condition of disorderly perturbation, and declaring that he had no single idea of what he should say, and he felt certain that unless he got the help of the man who afterwards became my informant he must inevitably break down.
“I laughed at him,” said the gentleman who had the courage to tell the story which I have the courage to repeat, “and did my best to give him confidence. ‘Sure any fool could respond to “Ireland a Nation!”’ said I; ‘and you’ll do it as well as any other.’ But even this didn’t give him courage,” continued my informant, “and I had to sit down and give him the chief points to touch on in his speech. He wrung my hand, and in the evening he made a fine speech, sir. Man, but it was a pity that there weren’t more of the party sober enough to appreciate it!”
I tell this tale as it was told to me, by a respectable tradesman whose integrity has never been questioned.
It occurred to me that that quality in which, according to his interesting reminiscence of forty years ago, his friend Russell was deficient, is not one that could with any likelihood of success be attributed to the narrator.
If any student of good and evil—the two fruits, alas! grow upon the same tree—would wish for a more startling example of the effect of a strong emotion upon certain temperaments than was afforded the people present in the Dublin Police Court on the day that Carey left the dock and the men he was about to betray to the gallows, that student would indeed be exacting.
I had been told by a constabulary officer what was coming, so that, unlike most persons in the court, I was not too startled to be able to observe every detail of the scene. Carey was talking to a brother ruffian named Brady quite unconcernedly, and Brady was actually smiling, when an officer of constabulary raised his finger and the informer stepped out of the dock, and two policemen in plain clothes moved to his side. Carey glanced back at his doomed accomplices, and muttered some words to Brady. I did not quite catch them, but I thought the words were, “It’s half an hour ahead of you that I am, Joe.”
Brady simply looked at his betrayer, whom it seems he had been anxious to betray. There was absolutely no expression upon his face. Some of the others of the same murderous gang seemed equally unaffected. One of them turned and spat on the floor. But upon the faces of at least two of the men there was a look of malignity that transformed them into fiends. It was the look that accompanies the stab of the assassin. Another of them gave a laugh, and said something to the man nearest to him; but the laugh was not responded to.
The youngest of the gang stared at one of the windows of the court-house in a way that showed me he had not been able to grasp the meaning of Carey’s removal from the dock.
In half-an-hour every expression worn by the faces of the men had changed. They all had a look that might almost have been regarded as jocular. There can be no doubt that when a man realises that he has been sentenced to death, his first feeling is one of relief. His suspense is over—so much is certain. He feels that—and that only—for an hour or so. I could see no change on the faces of these poor wretches whom the Mephistophelian fun of Fate had induced to call themselves Invincible, in order that no devilish element might be wanting in the tragedy of the Phoenix Park.
I do not suppose that many persons are acquainted with the secret history of the detection of the “Invincibles.” I think I am right in stating that it has never yet been made public. I am not at liberty to mention the source whence I derived my knowledge of some of the circumstances that led to the arrest of Carey, but there is no doubt in my mind as to the accuracy of my “information received” on this matter.
It may, perhaps, be remembered that, some months after the date of the murders, a strange advertisement appeared in almost every newspaper in Great Britain. It stated that if the man who had told another, on the afternoon of May 6th, 1882, that he had once enjoyed a day’s skating on the pond at the Viceregal Lodge, would communicate with the Chief of the Detective Department at Dublin Castle, he would be thanked. Now beyond the fact that May 6th was the date of the murders, and that they had taken place in the Phoenix Park, there was nothing in this advertisement to suggest that it had any bearing upon the shocking incident; still there was a general feeling that it had a very intimate connection with the efforts that the police were making to unravel the mystery of the outrage; and this impression was well founded.
I learned that the strangely-worded advertisement had been inserted in the newspapers at the instigation of a constabulary officer, who had, in many disguises, been endeavouring to find some clue to the assassins in Dublin. One evening he slouched into a public-house bespattered as a bricklayer, and took a seat in a box, facing a pint of stout. He had been in public-house after public-house every Saturday night for several weeks without obtaining the slightest suggestion as to the identity of the murderers, and he was becoming discouraged; but on this particular evening he had his reward, for he overheard a man in the next box telling some others, who were drinking with him, that Lord Spencer was not such a bad sort of man as might be supposed from the mere fact of his being Lord-Lieutenant. He (the narrator) had been told by a man in the Phoenix Park on the very evening of the murders that he (the man) had not been ashamed to cheer Lord Spencer on his arrival at Dublin that day, for when he had last been in Dublin he had allowed him to skate upon the pond in the Viceregal grounds.
The officer dared not stir from his place: he knew that if he were at all suspected of being a detective, his life would not be worth five minutes’ purchase. He could only hope to catch a glimpse of some of the party when they were leaving the place. He failed to do so, for some cause—I cannot remember what it was—nor could the barmaid give any satisfactory reply to his cautiously casual enquiries as to the names of any of the men who had occupied the box.
It was then that the advertisement was inserted in the various newspapers; and, after the lapse of some weeks, a man presented himself to the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, saying that he believed the advertisement referred to him. The man seemed a respectable artisan, and his story was that one day during the last winter that Earl Spencer had been in Ireland, he (the man) had left his work in order to have a few hours’ skating on the ponds attached to the Zoological Gardens in the Phoenix Park, but on arriving at the ponds he found that the ice had been broken. “I was just going away,” the man said, “when a gentleman with a long beard spoke to me, and enquired if I had had a good skate. I told him that I was greatly disappointed, as the ice had all been broken, and I would lose my day’s pay. He took a card out of his pocket, and wrote something on it,” continued the man, “and then handed it to me, saying, ‘Give that to the porter at the Viceregal Lodge, and you’ll have the best day’s skating you have had in all your life.’ He said what was true: I handed in the card and told the porter that a tall gentleman with a beard had given it to me. ‘That was His Excellency himself,’ said the porter, as he brought me down to the pond, where, sure enough, I had such a day’s skating as I’ve never had before or since.”
“And you were in the Phoenix Park on the evening of the murders?” said the Chief of the Department.
“I must have been there within half-an-hour of the time they were committed,” replied the man. “But I know nothing of them.”
“I’m convinced of it,” said the officer. “But I should like to hear if you met any one you knew in the Park as you were coming away.”
“I only met one man whose name I knew,” said the other, “and that was a builder that I have done some jobs for: James Carey is his name.”
This was precisely the one bit of evidence that was required for the committal of Carey.
An hour afterwards he offered to turn Queen’s Evidence.