Christopher Crayon's Recollections. The Life and Times of the late James Ewing Ritchie as told by himself
As a writer, unpleasant experiences have been few. 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 amused me rather. My usual signature was “Christopher Crayon.” 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.” 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 thoroughly deserving 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 deprecated my 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 the motif of 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.” For instance, I had written a book called “British Senators,” of which The Pall Mall Gazette had spoken in the highest terms. It fell into the hands of the Saturday reviewer when The Saturday Review was 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 – the Saturday took 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. The Saturday reviewer 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.” No doubt many a reader of the Saturday chuckled over the blunder of “the literary gent” thus held up to derision. But unfortunately for the Saturday reviewer, 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 the Saturday superfine reviewer cared about.
CHAPTER IX.
Cardiff and the Welsh
In 1849 I lived at Cardiff. I had come there to edit The 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 coal brought 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 he differed 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!” 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-fashioned hotel; 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 up an 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 and moral 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. The Public 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 the funds. 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 have since 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 his account, 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 his native 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 on which 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 in The 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. I was 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 treacherous memory. 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.
