CHAPTER I
POWERS IN POLITICS

T
here were some great Victorian men who did not appreciate the era in which they lived. Lord Morley was one. He was a Little Englander, in other words he was anti-British. In Ireland, in India and elsewhere, he worked “agin the government” and thus set himself the task of breaking up the Empire. No doubt he believed he was in the right. “Honest John” he was called, and as Honest John he was known to many. He was not the only “Honest John.” John Burns, of a different stratum of mentality, was also opposed to war, to controlling influence of all kinds. Indeed, it is curious to observe how Johns become “honest,” but never Toms, Dicks or Harrys. Despite his politics, John Morley was honest; he was also great in literature with his Edmund Burke, Cobden, Voltaire, Rousseau and Diderot, to say nothing of an exhaustive life of his political master, Gladstone.
As an editor he wielded a powerful influence. The Pall Mall Gazette under him was the best-written paper of the day. In the editorial chair he was a martinet, and when he travelled he did not shed his editorial martinetship.
W. T. Stead was his assistant on the
Pall Mall Gazette, and he records that some of the notes written by Mr. Morley when away from home, to his assistant, were both interesting and entertaining. Here is one dated August, 1881:
“By the divinities I beseech you not to let D—— or anybody else talk about ‘their Lordships.’ If it is irony it’s very poor
; if it’s serious it’s very vulgar.”
Another, sent in the same month, expresses concern at “the washy ending of the article on Friday on Coercion.” Whilst a third, written a month later, contains this bomb-shell for the acting editor
:
“Your article to-night turned my hair grey.”
Lord Morley was one of the most difficult subjects for the caricaturist. His clean, cold intellectual features were almost impossible to represent—or rather misrepresent. He was more easily “drawn
” by conversation than by pencil. He always looked the picture of solemnity in the House of Commons. Responsibility seemed to weigh upon him. His very gait was peculiar. His hat well down on his head, hands clasped behind his back, he walked across the lobby of the House, with slow, measured, lengthened strides, exactly as if he were measuring the lobby for a carpet. No prominent politician has been less written of in current periodicals. As a matter of fact, he was not good copy for the pen or the pencil, for which, no doubt, he felt much gratitude.
To refresh my memory, I will now dip into my diary, that has several references to Morley’s introduction to the House, beginning in the year eighteen hundred and eighty-three.
1883,
Feb. Agnew (Sir William Agnew, M.P., one of
the Proprietors of
Punch) waxed very loquacious at the Punch dinner last evening concerning John Morley’s triumph at Newcastle. Agnew disagreed profoundly with the prevailing impression of the Table, that Morley would be out of his element in Parliament and had far better keep to literature. He gave us a long tirade, to the effect that it was he—Agnew—who persuaded Morley to take an active part in politics. John was miserably conscious of his shortcomings. He said that he had not the nerve for public speaking, he would never be a success and failure was absolutely certain. But Agnew refused to listen. He insisted that John could speak, and, what was more, Agnew could force him to speak. And on that supposition Agnew escorted John Morley to a political meeting in his own constituency. John was not good, Agnew admitted, for he was horribly nervous, but Agnew led the applause and John seemed pleased.
1883,
Feb. 28th. Punch dinner last night, Lucy (“Toby M.P.”) was very excited about Morley taking his place in the House. He had, so Lucy says, an enthusiastic reception, and every one predicts that he will be a great personality in Parliament. I suggested a small drawing for the “Essence of Parliament”—Morley as “the Member who could speak fortnightly.” Lucy says, however, that he has advised John Morley not to speak for a year, or, at least until the House gets accustomed to him, and he to the House. (Sound advice)—Moreover, Morley gave up the editorship of The Fortnightly last October!
1884,
May 13th. John Morley, after listening and watching for more than a year, spoke in the House for
the first time. He was barely heard, and certainly not understood by the Press Gallery. Great excitement among the Pressmen, but proportionately great disappointment. His delivery is bad, his articulation indistinct, he seems to gargle words somewhere down in his throat. It was a thousand pities, as his matter was excellent, epigrammatic and well phrased—so we learn when reading his speech in the newspapers. His is not an easy subject for my pencil. His bright red socialistic tie is the only conspicuous thing about him, though the curious shape of his nose suggests possibilities.
1890,
March. On my way to St. James’s I called to see Beerbohm Tree at the Haymarket Theatre. When I was leaving up drove a hansom, and (to my surprise) out got Joe Chamberlain and John Morley and entered the Theatre. I mentioned this fact to George Alexander. He said the two often came to St. James’s Theatre together. One evening Chamberlain brought Morley “round” and introduced him to Alexander. They seemed to be great friends.
1893,
Sept. 9th. The discussion on the Home Rule Bill came to an end last night. When the division was taken a sigh of relief went round St. Stephen’s at the thought that we should be free, for a time at least, from the Home Rule Bill. The curtain was a poor one. In fact, the whole of the last act dragged. The facetious Dr. Wallace gave a long address, but, after his splendid effort a few weeks before, it fell very fiat. Mr. Chamberlain, as usual, was vigorous and effective. Neither Mr. Balfour nor John Morley rose to the occasion. Mr. Gladstone, after the division (and his majority of thirty-five), sat tranquilly enough at the bench writing
to Her Majesty informing her that he had at last forced the House to carry the Bill. The cheers that came from the gentlemen on the Irish benches were feeble in the extreme. As I have said, the feeling that predominated was one of relief—not triumph.
1895. End of Session. Hypnotic experiment at Westminster (good subject
!)—Morley as a professor of hypnotism putting the Home Rule Bill in a trance.
1898.
June. Sketched John Morley for my open letter in the July number of Fair Game, and I think I have got him. He is now quite a good speaker, but he does not much resemble the philosopher which is the subject of the illustration. For the life of me I cannot make John Morley a philosopher.

. . . . . .

I must stop quoting from my diary in order to quote the article mentioned above, which is written in the form of an address to Morley:
“There is too much of the philosopher about you, too much of the student, for the rough and tumble game of politics
: although I am free to confess that, when you are worked up to it, you can make a very good platform speech. It must be exceedingly repugnant to you to have occasionally to address masses of unliterary and semi-educated persons, and you have my warmest condolences on the misfortune that what stands for ambition in your character should have ever led you into such a position. You have proved your erudition and mastery of the English language by editing a daily, a weekly, and two monthlies, besides writing several severe essays which are, I suspect, more talked about
than read by the ordinary run of your political admirers. Your essay on ‘Compromise,’ or at least its title, has, I doubt not, eased the conscience of many a doubting and reluctant Home Ruler. That you abandoned letters for politics has been regretted by all who, like myself, wish you well.”

. . . . . .

But to resume my diary, I must refer back a few years preceding the last extract
1905,
Nov. 6th. Found the (hitherto) lugubrious Ritchie (who married Thackeray’s daughter) actually enjoying a jocular mood—in the smoking room of the Garrick Club after lunch. Never saw him smile before. He could not resist the temptation of recounting his interview with his new chief at the India Office—John Morley. He was rather nervous of meeting the great man—which of course he had to do as soon as Morley accepted the Ministerial appointment. Although he was well aware that Morley was a literary man, he had never read any of his books, and was only vaguely aware that his most important work was the Life of Gladstone. Primed with this fact, he ventured to remark:
“It is a great honour, I assure you, to work under so distinguished a writer.”
“Indeed
!” replied Lord Morley. “And may I inquire which of my books pleased you most?
Ritchie, being a diplomatic and resourceful man, quickly responded
: “Your Life of Gladstone appeals to me as your finest effort.”
The author, palpably pleased, said, after a pause, “I am glad to hear that, but I must admit to a fault—yes, and a bad fault too,”
“May I venture to inquire what that can be
? It seems to me perfect work.”
“No
: it has a bad fault. It is not long enough.”
Bearing in mind the exceeding length of the book that was “not long enough,” one is inclined to doubt the statement that Morley lacked a sense of humour. Yet he certainly had not the reputation of a wit, and I have always been told that, like Gladstone, he was devoid of humour.
The Rt. Hon. W. E. Forster was a somewhat unique personality, and a great force in Victorian politics. Though he never rose higher than Chief Secretary for Ireland, his period of office made history and coined a new name in politics. He was forthwith known as “Buckshot Forster,” because of his efforts to put down sedition by force.
He was an early and favourite subject of mine for caricature. I shall always remember his terrible sufferings when Chief Secretary for Ireland. Very able and strictly honourable, he was not the man to stand such bastings. And this last word recalls to memory a sketch I did for
Punch for the “Essence of Parliament,” June, 1881, entitled, “Roasting the Police Force-ter,” which represented the Chief Secretary for Ireland roasted on a spit in front of the fire. Toby M.P. wrote “around” that sketch the following words:
“Things are past a joke now. The sympathy of the House entirely with Mr. Forster, as he makes an indignant stand against the violent vituperation and unmannerly attacks made upon him night after night. They do no harm in the estimation of those who hear and see. There may or not be something in the case which Irish members
desire to present. What is certain is that it never will be listened to from the men who assume to represent Ireland under the leadership of Mr. Parnell. They have so often showed themselves incapable of distinguishing between fact and fancy, truth and deliberate lying, that men with other business to attend to cannot spare time to listen on the chance of hearing a few facts.
“To-day he has it out with them. He trembles in every limb with honest indignation, whilst the Irish members sit and watch him as the audience in a theatre sit and watch the champion dancer who gyrates for their amusement. The Chief Secretary’s will may be law at the Castle
: but there is a sweet revenge to be taken at Westminster.”
Thus Sir Henry Lucy sums up the treatment and the effect of that treatment meted out to Mr. Forster. But neither Toby M.P., nor myself, nor anyone else would care to place on record the full effect of this “Roasting
” on the unhappy Forster.
This reference to Irish Home Rule is interesting, showing the manner in which Radical opinion differentiates between “fact and fancy, truth and deliberate lying
”—as distinguished in Punch by the letterpress. The same was hotly resented when recorded by the pencil afterwards. And the substance of Toby M.P.’s argument of the treatment received by Mr. Forster might be applied with equal truth to every Chief Secretary since, Birrell excepted.
Mr. Forster was a man naturally impulsive, with an impetuous eye, furrowed and wrinkled forehead and intensity showing in every line of his face. Forced as an official to shove his head through the political pillory
labelled Ireland, he was not the man to assume an indifference he could not call his own. Mr. Balfour could bear the thumb-screw of question time, and the rack of debate. He never winced, in fact he rather seemed to enjoy it. It was his meat, but it was Mr. Forster’s poison. Mr. Forster was never at rest. He writhed under the basting he received from the Irish benches. His hair had the appearance of being fired by electricity, his forehead the aspect of suffering. He sat, as it were, on pins and needles. When he stood to make a speech he had a habit of placing his hand under his coat over his hip as if he had an attack of lumbago. Eventually the Irish played him out of the Government. Weary, worn and troubled, he turned a back-somersault and disappeared from the Ministerial Bench to one, if not of repose at least of independence, behind the Government. There he sat in the same familiar attitude with his legs crossed, with his head buried in his chest, his hand thrust in his grey trouser pocket, his coloured waistcoat ruffled—still in fact anything but peaceful. The explanation he gave to the House for his retirement from the Government—that he was unable to follow their Irish policy—was delivered in a rough but honest speech, which deeply impressed the House. A few days afterwards he had again to rise, the grey trousers and coloured waistcoat and tie now a solemn black, paying touching tribute to the memory of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke, who had been foully murdered in Phœnix Park. And then came the Kilmainham Treaty debate, one of the most sensational and certainly the most dramatic of the time. There were conspiracy, sensational accusation and dramatic reprisals, although in this
Forster played the honest man who had washed his hands of the secret tricks played by the Government. But he got no repose, he was not the man to take rest. Most old parliamentary hands when heckled refuse to be drawn by ingenious and embarrassing questions, but Mr. Forster, like Mr. Gladstone, was unable to resist replying to personal attacks and innuendoes. It was in this very debate that Mr. Forster was asked, if he was not making political use of a private letter received by some member of the Government. To which he would have replied in detail, had the Speaker not intervened and ruled the question out of order. A less sensitive man would not have required the Speaker’s intervention, he would have sat still. In the same debate, Mr. Gibson (Lord Ashbourne) referred to Mr. Gladstone’s temper in the matter under discussion and his unmeasured vituperation of Lord Beaconsfield, which brought Mr. Gladstone with a bound to his feet. A scene followed that is not easily forgotten. Had anyone twitted Mr. Disraeli with virulent attacks on Mr. Gladstone (in debate), Mr. Disraeli would not have moved a muscle until the time was ripe.
The Victorian era can boast of greater politicians than poor Forster, but few as honest and respected. I wonder what respect the present-day politicians will command after their ignominious surrender to the Irish rebels, those rebels Forster refused to shake by the hand.
On the Victorian political horizon Sir William Harcourt loomed very large—in every sense of the word. In appearance an inflated Sir Robert Peel, but there comparison ends, for he never became Prime Minister, and he was most unlucky. After years of hard work,
that he should be denied the highest prize gained him universal sympathy. More especially as the man by whom he was robbed—Lord Rosebery—proved himself a failure. Poor Harcourt was then getting old, and the parliamentary Pecksniff might have ruminated in the words of Dickens
:
‘Time and tide will wait for no man,’ saith the adage. But all men have to wait for time and tide. Mr. Pecksniff had in this respect endured the common lot of men. ‘An uncommon lot of that common lot,’ Mr. Pecksniff opined.”
With the exception of Gladstone, I do not think I have caricatured any politician more often than Harcourt, and yet, strange to say, he did not like it
! Disraeli, when he first saw a caricature of himself, exclaimed: “Now I am famous!” Lord Rosebery, W. E. Gladstone’s greatest political friend, collected (or rather Lady Rosebery did) my caricatures of the G.O.M. Sir William Harcourt sent me word that I made him too stout.
Sir William was fair game. As a matter of fact, the pen has run the pencil very close in holding the late Sir William up to ridicule, sometimes using my caricatures as pegs on which to hang some elaborate pen-portrait. For instance—“Here is the Great Sir William Harcourt—Mr. Furniss’s Harcourt—bearing before him reef over reef of that hundredfold chin
: wearing ever that sinuous smile, curling ever a finger at one of his own disciples, a vision of personified complacency,” is a pen description of my pencil portrait.

. . . . . .

I sent Sir William a letter through the pages of my
Fair Game, which contained the essence of a Harcourt biography in the following:
“As the inheritor of archiepiscopal traditions you might have aspired to a bishopric, but circumstances impelled you to join a calling that knows no distinction between black and white, provided the brief is well and truly marked.
“In the fullness of time you found yourself in the House of Commons
; and there your forensic gifts served you in good stead, enabling you to argue with irresponsible freedom on behalf of Faction, while making brave show of abundant Patriotism. One so well equipped for the strife and hurly-burly of the Babble Shop could not fail to succeed; and you have succeeded—in a measure. Your qualifications were varied. For we have it on the authority of your sponsors that you were launched on the world as William George Granville Venables Vernon Harcourt. Coupled with this is your own statement that you are a scion of the Plantagenets: you are a Knight Bachelor; and you have even been described—wholly without warrant—as ‘the Squire of Malwood.’ As befits one so happily endowed by nature and art, you have held the candle to blatant Democracy; you have lost no opportunity of girding at the Church of your forefathers; and you are the author of that monumental saying, ‘We are all Socialists now.’
“Moreover, you are ‘Historicus,’ of
The Times. You have written much, and with a show of erudition, on the Law of Nations: and you have done what in you lies to impose as many bad laws as possible on the nation to which you belong. Altogether, yours is a noble record—a record of golden opportunities just missed.
“In debate you have contrived to unite the methods of the bully with the special pleadings of the police-court attorney. Over and over again you have shown that, though you can strike a heavy blow, you take your punishment badly.
“From Solicitor-General you soared to Home Secretary (and the best Home Secretary we ever had)
: later in life you developed a genius for finance, and an admiring country saw you a full-blown Chancellor of the Exchequer. As author of the Finance Act you sent out the undying signal, ‘England, Home and Duties!’—Death Duties.
“You nearly escaped being Lord Chancellor
; you ought to have been Prime Minister—but your loss was England’s gain. Time was when you could make an amusing speech. Your annual addresses to the ‘Druids’ of Oxford are an abiding memory; but nowadays you are only a preacher of heavy sermons, studded with platitudes that faintly echo epigrams. . . .”
In February, 1877, when Disraeli undramatically walked out of the House of Commons, and quietly entered the House of Lords as the Earl of Beaconsfield, Sir Stafford Northcote took his place. I was then cartoonist to a paper called
Yorick, and for it drew a cartoon representing Sir Stafford standing at the table with a paper labelled Power in his hand; on the seat behind him was seated the ghost—or astral body—of Beaconsfield in full robes, whispering, “Go on! Go on! My body may be in ‘another place,’ but my guiding spirit is with you still.”
Sir Stafford, however, lacked the spirit of Disraeli. He was a painstaking “safe
” politician. As a younger
man he was a Liberal and Gladstone’s secretary, but he was unlike his early as well as his later master. Yet in one particular he had a greater influence than Gladstone. Sir Stafford, or as he was later Lord Iddesleigh, influenced quite a number of junior politicians, who imitated his peculiar parliamentary manner. The reason possibly being that he had the best style of any in the House of Commons. Gladstone had too strong an individuality for anyone to attempt an imitation, moreover he was too flamboyant. Sir Stafford spoke in a monotone. He had a peculiar lisping delivery, but it was clear and effective
; and he was, in my opinion, a great Victorian statesman, pace Lord Randolph Churchill and other ambitious Conservatives, who looked upon Disraeli’s successor as an old woman—and as such he was frequently caricatured. This, no doubt, encouraged the young aggressive Fourth Party, and led in time to Lord Randolph Churchill’s (self-constituted) leadership of the House.
Lord Randolph departed from the world of politics, a disappointed failure, without power and without friends. Lord Iddesleigh died in harness and in Downing Street.