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 Preface

When I set out to prepare this resource, my aim was to maximize the opportunities
for success encountered by students at colleges and universities nationwide. This
learning focuses on the traditional classroom learning, the structured and semi-
structured out-of-classroom experiences, and self-directed opportunities faced by
students. My experience as a student affairs administrator and faculty member at
several institutions of higher education demonstrated to me that many students
miss out on the opportunities made available for them. While I know that a lot
of the responsibility lies with the students themselves, much of the responsibility
rests with the professionals on the campus who genuinely want students to suc-
ceed, to flourish, to excel, and to take full advantage of the college experience.
My emphasis with this book is proactive. I seek to prepare, and perhaps inspire,
more systematically, the professionals working with college students as these stu-
dent affairs practitioners, faculty members, and other professionals deal with the
students on a range of issues. Many times, these issues are outside the normal and
expected purview of the professional: an academic advisor who senses a student’s
mental anguish over a changed relationship, a residence hall staff member who
observes a student’s prioritization of game-playing on a smartphone, a coach who
notices several students’ diminished grades, a faculty member who hears about the
regular abuse of drugs or alcohol, or a chief student affairs officer who observes
staff indifference to incessant student complaints about the campus climate. How
can campus professionals best serve their students and their institutions, while
maintaining their personal and professional commitment through their work,
their service, their research, and their professional development? Campus pro-
fessionals are increasingly placed in challenging positions, whether through the
changing nature of the student body, consistently diminished resources, modified
priorities, and varied and competing mandates. What would benefit them to con-
tinue to serve multiple needs with varying priorities, and to continue to believe
that they, in fact, are making a difference in the lives of students?
This book is designed for professionals serving colleges and universities, regard-
less of the nature or size of the institution, regardless of the professional position,
and regardless of the level of experience. The chapters compiled here are designed
to provide substantive, current, and insightful knowledge helpful to professionals
as they strive to help students succeed in college. Whether incorporated in a grad-
uate preparation program in higher education or student development, utilized

vii
viii • Preface

as part of staff training activities, referred to on an as-needed basis, provided to

new staff and faculty, or serving to anchor discussions and training seminars, this
resource can be used to enhance the lives of students.

Overview of This Resource

Wellness Issues for Higher Education is designed to accomplish several things for
each of 12 wellness issues:

• Provide current research, including correct misperceptions, identify controver-

sies, and suggest future directions in the field of study.
• Make suggestions appropriate for implementation by a variety of campus pro-
fessionals in a range of campus settings.
• Offer issues and questions for consideration on campus.
• Identify resources for further information and study.

With each of the topics, an obvious challenge is one of knowledge. Each field of
study has extensive research, and many have volumes and volumes prepared about
the topic area. Further, many controversies and differences of opinion exist, and
new knowledge continues to emerge. Within this context, how can a professional
staff member or faculty member be expected to be fully knowledgeable on a topic,
or more accurately, a variety of topics? The answer is that she or he is not expected
to be fully knowledgeable on all topics; however, since this vast network of profes-
sionals has the primary contact with students on campus, and since specialists on
numerous topical areas are available on or near campus, some basic knowledge is
viewed as essential. This book is designed to provide the requisite overview of the
necessary content for the identified topic areas.
Similarly, while many suggestions and issues are raised by the chapters’ authors,
this book is not designed to suggest that “one size fits all.” Rather, the chapter
authors are, intentionally, offering their best wisdom and insights. They are often
quite provocative with their suggestions, seeking to facilitate progress with regard
to their specific topic areas.
The design of the book is around 12 distinct wellness topics. Indeed, dozens
of wellness topics could have been included. These 12 were selected based on
two overarching criteria: representation of the wellness schema, and significant
affiliation with students’ success in college. For the first, numerous schema or clas-
sifications exist regarding wellness: the five dimensions of wellness, the six aspects
of wellness, the seven components of wellness; this volume identifies five main
wellness areas within which the 12 topics are aligned. The issue of student success
served as the second organizing principle, as most institutions seek to retain stu-
dents who enroll; retention is a topic priority. Thus, while tobacco use and body
image are significant health issues among college students, they were not identified
as among the top ones that might affect a student’s success. Issues surrounding
study skills, stress, mental health, alcohol, and technology are among those iden-
tified for the focused attention in this volume. The 12 topical areas selected are
important in the lives of students, and often contribute to students’ nonsuccess or
 Preface • ix

withdrawal from college. The premise is that if these issues were better addressed
and/or were less of a problem among students, improvement would be found in
academic performance, retention, satisfaction, and quality of life.
What’s special about this book? First, it focuses on praxis, the intersection
between theory and practice. For this book, the theory is represented by current
knowledge. Second, it addresses an audience from various professional roles; these
are not just student affairs, not just residence hall professionals, and not just those
in an instructional position. Third, this book is written for professionals with
various levels of experience, including the very seasoned, senior professional, the
middle career person, and the graduate student who is preparing to embark on his
or her career. Fourth, many of the chapters have specific questions or queries that
can serve as the basis of discussion or further exploration. Some have checklists,
some have case studies, some incorporate specific examples for use on campus, and
some include testimonials. Finally, this book can provide a new foundation for
academic preparation programs, primarily in higher education and student affairs,
whether as the foundation for a specific course on wellness issues or through being
woven into existing courses.

The Book’s Audiences and Context

As documented in the introduction, only 1 of 180 masters-level preparation pro-
grams in higher education nationwide has a required course on wellness issues.
That raises questions about where the emerging professionals (and soon-to-be
midcourse professionals) are obtaining their preparation on these issues. Are they
gaining appropriate knowledge and skills on these key wellness issues in other
coursework, seminars, or discussions? Are their skills enhanced through profes-
sional development sessions? Does this occur with in-service training, or is it
accomplished through self-learning or personal experience? An opportunity
exists for reexamining the professional preparation programs for these gradu-
ate students, as well as to review current in-service and professional development
opportunities for other student affairs professionals.
Beyond the student affairs profession, where much of the responsibility for
addressing these issues often tends to fall, the question is raised about what prepa-
ration is available for other professionals on campus, who may not be formally or
informally part of the student affairs staff. What expectations are made, and what
preparation is available, for faculty? How about other professional staff members?
The intent of this book is to be proactive, and to prepare more broadly and
completely those professionals who serve in various roles and capacities on our
campuses. It is this wide number of individuals who serve, in essence, on the front
lines with students. This book is designed to serve as a practical resource for those
working in residence life, student activities, orientation, health education, student
leadership, advising, and other areas of student development; it is designed to aid
and guide those in various other roles on campus, such as with athletics teams,
instructional faculty, and research faculty. This book is not designed at all to dimin-
ish the important role played by specialists: the counselors who address mild and
more serious mental health concerns; the health professionals who diagnose and
x • Preface

treat physical symptoms; the nutritional specialists and athletic trainers who pro-
vide specialized services; the career counselor who links individual attributes, job
markets and potentials, and skills preparation; the faculty member and academic
advisor who help students better understand content and prepare for examina-
tions. Each of these individuals, and countless more, has significant and vital roles
to play in the growth and development of students. However, many of these spe-
cialists are typically not on the “front lines” with the general student body; they are
consumed with their focused professional responsibilities.
With this resource, all professionals working with college students have
the opportunity to be exposed to and better prepared to address these various
wellness issues. They can identify earlier, and refer, students to the appropriate
professionals who can best address the specific needs and issues. These numer-
ous professionals, better prepared on the range of wellness issues, can redirect,
advise, and assist students. The intent, then, is for the wide range of professionals
on campus—student affairs, faculty, or other staff—to be better equipped from
both a proactive and reactive perspective. The proactive efforts are wellness-based,
seeking to promote healthier, safer, and more productive campus environ-
ments. From this proactive approach, these professionals can help shape the
campus environment to promote healthy decision-making by students, and to
acquaint students with and nurture students to access the range of services and
stimuli that help them, the students, to maximize their own potential. From a
reactive point of view, these professionals can better and earlier identify problems
or issues faced by students, and refer them to appropriate specialists as needed.
Reactive approaches incorporate earlier intervention, so that appropriate campus
specialists can be engaged as needed, and at the earliest possible time (e.g., the
counseling center staff will get engaged with a student on mental health concerns
earlier than otherwise would be achieved, because the student affairs professional
would be better prepared to identify and refer at the earlier time). A potential and
likely consequence of each of these thrusts is that more students will be seeking
services of specialists so that minor issues and problems do not then escalate into
larger ones. Further, a likely consequence is that larger, problematic, and poten-
tially dire situations will be minimized and, ideally, averted.
For each topic area, authors provide a better understanding for student affairs
professionals in a variety of roles and settings, so they are better prepared to
address the issue from both proactive perspectives and reactive approaches. Cur-
rently, without basic content knowledge, many wellness issues and opportunities
go unaddressed and can ultimately contribute to students’ lack of satisfaction, poor
academic performance, attrition, substance abuse, or other problematic behavior.

The Book’s Contents

The organization of this book is around five dimensions of wellness: emotional,
social, intellectual, physical, and spiritual. Within these dimensions, 12 key top-
ics are identified, with a range from one to four topics. These topics can also
be viewed as those most central for students’ success in college; that is, healthy
 Preface • xi

decisions in the topical area can contribute to students’ success, and unwise or
inappropriate decisions in a topical area can result in harmful or negative conse-
quences for the student. While numerous other wellness topics do exist, these 12
are chosen because of their strong relationship to students’ success or nonsuccess
in college. The aim of this book is to better prepare professional staff members to
understand and deal with these issues, thus contributing to students’ overall suc-
cess and well-being.
There is undoubtedly overlap among the identified topics. While each topic will
be developed and presented as a distinct wellness issue, obvious linkages among
them exist (e.g., students drink alcohol or use illicit drugs to deal with stress, alco-
hol abuse affects sexual decision-making, prescription drug abuse links to study
skills as well as sleep, and technology involvement can affect relationship health as
well as study skills).
The introduction grounds the need for increased and focused attention to well-
ness issues within the context of the mission and role of institutions of higher
education. The growing numbers of college students, an overview of wellness, and
current ways in which wellness is addressed with professional preparation activi-
ties are highlighted. Most important, the opportunity that exists for campuses and
their personnel to make a difference in the lives of students, and ultimately our
culture, is emphasized.
Emotional Wellness is the initial section of this book. The section starts with a
chapter on stress management, where the authors examine stressors within the lives
of different types of students: millennials, nontraditional, international, veterans,
and those in recovery. Using several examples, the authors highlight ways of devel-
oping appropriate outcomes and methods to assess stress on campus. The chapter
on mental health, a critical area of increasing importance, emphasizes some of the
current issues among students; critical to this discussion is an examination of, and
call to action for, the important role of colleges and universities. Collaboration
toward building a caring community and a resiliency framework is a major point
of this author. Technology is the third area within this section; while this could be
included within the Social Wellness section as well, the author highlights current
young adult usage patterns and shows research on linkages with mental health,
interpersonal communication, cyberbullying, and other issues.
The second section emphasizes four topics associated with social wellness. Its
first chapter, Relationship Health, offers current research as well as recommen-
dations on self and self-identity, families, friends and peers, significant others,
and faculty and staff. The author also provides some insights about the Inter-
net and technology as they affect relationship health. The next chapter, Sexual
Decision-Making, addresses topics from sexual orientation and gender identity to
contraception and safer sex strategies, social norms, and sexual health educators.
Numerous campus applications, with appropriate scenarios, provide a rich founda-
tion for discussion and further examination. The chapter on alcohol abuse reviews
current patterns of college student alcohol use, and highlights several common
myths surrounding alcohol use. The authors address peer approaches, screening,
outreach, and suggestions for changing the campus culture. Complementing this
xii • Preface

chapter is one on prescription and illicit drug abuse, which addresses student drug
use and areas of concern, constructs for understanding how drugs affect the body,
drug classifications, and an overview of substance abuse disorder, treatment, and
recovery issues. Focused attention is provided on marijuana, heroin, and prescrip-
tion drugs as “study aids.”
The third section, Intellectual Wellness, includes a chapter on study and writing
skills. The author emphasizes the importance of a well-prepared workforce, and
how quality academic activity can prepare students with career readiness. Healthy
strategies for traditional and nontraditional students are highlighted, with habits
designed to better prepare a student to be successful. The role of technology, time
management, research, and writing skills is highlighted.
Physical wellness is the construct for the fourth wellness dimension. The author
of the Sleep chapter highlights the role of sleep in quality of life, and the need to
promote healthy living and learning environments. With tips and case studies, the
author provides recommendations for faculty, administrators, staff members, stu-
dents, and family members. The chapter on nutrition addresses numerous myths
associated with nutrition, providing an overview of food, nutrition, and suste-
nance. Strategies for higher education professionals as well as individual students
are highlighted in this provocative chapter. In much the same vein, the authors of
the Exercise chapter examine fitness trends and emphasize ways cardiovascular
exercise, strength training, stretching and flexibility, and hydration and nutrition
can be incorporated in healthy and appropriate ways. They also address weight
control and motivation for maximum results.
Spiritual Wellness is the last section of the book, with a single chapter on spiri-
tuality. In this chapter, the author emphasizes the ways in which discussions about
spirituality, while often uncomfortable for professionals, are an important part of
students’ lives. She provides an understanding of spirituality, and posits how much
spirituality and wellness are actually partners. With the use of case studies, she also
makes recommendations for the campus as well as for professionals themselves.

Summing Up
While this book does not encompass all wellness issues, it does provide attention to a
dozen key topics important to the lives of students. Grounded in the context of stu-
dent success and retention, these 12 wellness topics are offered with current research,
noted controversies, and specific and global action steps for campuses to consider.
Each of the authors responded well to a tall order: summarize the current sci-
ence, and discuss ways in which campus professionals, from all walks of life on
campus, can incorporate this in the individual as well as campus-wide perspective.
Plus, they were advised, it is important to do this in a relatively short space of a
single chapter. Indeed, entire books and book series have been written on these
topics; some of these are identified in the references at the end of each chapter. In
addition, resources for students, faculty, staff, and administrators are shared in the
online resources. These resources are available for download at: www.routledge.
com/books/details/9781138020979/.
 Preface • xiii

The reader is encouraged to examine these topics, and identify ways in which
they can be best addressed with his or her own life, and on the campus. Further
professional development and discovery are anticipated.
Will this make a difference? Time will tell. It’s the opportunity we have with our-
selves and with our students, for a healthier tomorrow. I think our opportunity,
indeed our challenge, is best summed up by the campus motto inscribed at the
entrance of Radford University’s Hurlburt Student Center: “Investing in Lifetimes.”
This page intentionally left blank
 1
Introduction
A Mandate for Higher Education
DAVID S. ANDERSON

Overview
College students’ health and wellness are, to a large extent, vital for the overall suc-
cess of students while enrolled as a student. Called “survival skills,” “approaches
to enhance college success,” or simply “wellness strategies,” positive results with
these issues can make a difference with students’ growth and goal attainment in
various areas, from intellectual success to emotional balance, from life health skills
of exercise, nutrition, and sleep to study skills and stress management approaches.
Further, students’ success with wellness affects the achievement of their college’s
mission. Institutions of higher education have the growth and development of
students as a central part of their missions, regardless of institutional size, religious
affiliation, private or public status, urban or rural setting, or years of existence.
Typical mission statements articulate the development of sound minds, critical
thinking, strong values, career-oriented skills, a worldview, cultural appreciation,
and skills, all designed to last a lifetime. Thus, students’ skills surrounding well-
ness issues and topics are beneficial to both the individual students as well as to
the institution itself.
Attention to the lives of students outside the academic classroom has long been
rooted within the academy in the United States. The traditional role of the faculty
serving all aspects of students’ lives, to the highly fully developed profession of
student affairs found throughout higher education institutions, has been a con-
tinuous evolution over decades and even centuries.

American higher education as we know it today represents the end product

of a long period of interaction between the Western European university
heritage and the native American physical and social environment. From
this process of transplantation and continuous adaptation have emerged
those aspects of academic culture which we have come to recognize as “char-
acteristically American.”
(Brubacher & Rudy, 1968, p. 390)

The evolution of supportive services, meaningful activities, prepared profes-

sionals, and healthy engagement of students in their institutions of higher learning
will undoubtedly continue. This evolution is not necessarily one of increased activ-
ities and services (although that may be part of a redesigned future), particularly

1
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during years of financial constraints and a reexamination of services; the evolution

anticipated, and needed, is based on a careful assessment of the nature and scope
of interaction between the students and the institution where they are enrolled.
Drawing upon the mission statements found at our colleges and universities, it
is appropriate and timely to assess ways in which students can be supported, and
encouraged, to maximize the opportunities they have for education and growth.
The evolution, then, is one of determining how best to achieve these needs, and
how best to facilitate students’ actualization of their own potential.
The opportunities and responsibilities of institutions of higher education were
highlighted well by Sanford (1962) over a half-century ago: “If our culture and our
society are to be changed at all by the deliberate application of intelligence and
foresight, no agency has a better chance of initiating change than our institutions
of higher learning” (p. 19).

College Students
According to the National Center for Education Statistics (NCES), over 21 million
individuals are enrolled in degree-granting institutions in the United States. This
is a significant increase over the nearly 16 million enrolled in 2001, which was up
11% over 1991. During the 2001–2011 decade, full-time students increased 38%,
and the number of part-time students rose 23%. During this same time period,
the percentage of traditional-age college students (18 to 24 years old) enrolled in
college reached a level of 41% from a level of 36% in 2001. For students over
age 25, enrollment rose by 41 over the 2001–2011 decade. The NCES estimates, for
the decade 2011–2021, an enrollment rise of 13% for students under age 25, and
14% for those age 25 and above.
The “traditional” college student arrives on campus having recently graduated
from high school. This young person is eager to participate in the academic, social,
cultural, recreational, and personal life opportunities and challenges that abound
on the college campus. Many college students live on a residential campus, having
experiences in the residence halls and much that a life on campus offers. Many
other students are commuters, sometimes traveling to campus solely for classes,
and often becoming involved with campus life at varying levels. Many college stu-
dents work, sometimes remaining as full-time students, and other times managing
college studies as a supplement to their full-time employment. Some students
transfer from one school to another, sometimes enrolling in a community college
for the first year or two before relocating to a four-year institution. Still others are
what is referred to as “nontraditional,” including those who have provided service
to the nation and arrive at, or return to, college as a veteran; some students work
after high school, and/or were not prepared to attend or desirous of attending col-
lege, and then arrive on campus at an older age.
Regardless of the background of the student, and whether the individual is a
first-generation college student or comes from a family where enrollment in col-
lege has been a way of life for many generations, students have health and wellness
needs. The issues associated with student success or nonsuccess in college abound;
 Introduction • 3

these include, but are not limited to, handling the newfound stress, developing
appropriate ways to study and write, gaining new understanding about such com-
mon topics as sleep or nutrition, and learning about alcohol or drugs in ways not
previously heard. Ultimately, the aim is to succeed in college, and to make the
investment of time, money, and effort worthwhile.
While the aims of academic, social, cultural, and personal growth abound for
students, various factors can get in the way. For students who seek academic suc-
cess or progress in various other areas of their lives, any of a range of concerns can
block the attainment of these goals. While some of these can be anticipated, others
are totally unexpected.

• Consider study skills: Could a student do better on exams or with written assign-
ments if greater time was taken or academic preparation was more appropriate?
Absolutely.
• Consider a student whose participation with an athletic team or student organi-
zation is important to his or her self-esteem, and believes that drugs or alcohol
are necessary to succeed; is this an appropriate or helpful strategy? Definitely not.
• Could students be provided with skills and attitudes that aid them in these and
similar situations, on campus and throughout life? Definitely.
• Alternatively, the unexpected loss of funding for college, whether through per-
sonal employment or parents’ or others’ financial assistance being dropped, is a
challenge for which few are prepared.
• Similarly, stressors abound with changes in assignments, new grading criteria,
departure of friends and trusted mentors, health issues, and even fluctuations
in the weather.

Each of these issues, anticipated and unanticipated, affects the lives of our
students, the culture of our campuses, and the lives of professionals. College
professionals, whether student affairs, faculty, staff, or other individuals, are well
served to be as acquainted as possible with the issues facing students, and identify-
ing ways of minimizing the impact of these on the lives of students. This doesn’t
mean making things easier or negating many aspects of the “real world”; it means
that it is appropriate, and, in fact, the obligation of college professionals, to con-
nect students with the resources and services that do exist, and to facilitate their
engagement with these resources. This doesn’t translate to a guarantee that every-
thing will go well, and that the student will demonstrate exemplary work and skills
in all aspects of life in college; what it does do is connect students with resources,
and further reminds them of the importance of self-responsibility for maximizing
their own success.

What Is Wellness?
Before turning to specific needs surrounding wellness, it is helpful to provide a
brief overview of wellness. Wellness is a concept that goes by varying definitions.
Some view wellness as the state of not having disease or not being ill; that is, if
4 • David S. Anderson

someone is not sick then they must be well. Others view wellness as a measure of
reducing the incidence of negative behaviors or attitudes, such as stress, low self-
esteem, lack of exercise, poor nutrition, drug abuse, or sleep disorders.
A starting point is with the World Health Organization, which nearly 70 years
ago articulated, “Health is a state of complete positive physical, mental and social
well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity” (Preamble to the
Constitution of the World Health Organization, 1946). Further, its Universal Dec-
laration of Human Rights (1948) states the following:

• All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are
endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a
spirit of brotherhood. (Article 1)
• Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and
well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing and
medical care and necessary social services, and the right to security in the event
of unemployment, sickness, disability, widowhood, old age or other lack of live-
lihood in circumstances beyond his control. (Article 25 [1])
• Everyone has the right to rest and leisure, including reasonable limitation of
working hours and periodic holidays with pay. (Article 24 [1])
• Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the commu-
nity, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits.
(Article 27 [1])

All of these elements are important parts of wellness.

Over three decades ago, health was reconceptualized as being not the absence
of disease but rather overall fitness that applies to the body, mind, and spirit.
This quality health concept was named “wellness” and emphasized healthy living.
Powers and Dodd (2003, p. 8) define wellness as “a state of healthy living” and
emphasize that it is “achieved by the practice of a healthy lifestyle, which includes
regular physical activity, proper nutrition, eliminating unhealthy behaviors, and
maintaining good emotional and spiritual health.”
The focus with wellness is on optimum health and well-being, and includes
multiple dimensions. Emotional wellness addresses feelings and ways of problems
and situations that occur throughout one’s daily life. Intellectual wellness empha-
sizes cognitive abilities, problem-solving, adaptability, creativity, and critical
thinking. Occupational wellness blends one’s professional productivity and skills
with making a living and contributing to society as a whole. Social wellness includes
communications and relationship skills. Spiritual wellness links one’s personal
needs to the larger societal and world context.
A more forward-looking view is espoused by Seligman (2008, p. 3), with an
emphasis on positive health that combines “excellent status on excellent biological,
subjective and functional measures.” In essence, wellness is about being positive
and proactive. Wellness is preventive. Wellness is optimistic. Wellness is never-
ending. Wellness is a journey. While wellness doesn’t have a defined “endpoint” (e.g.,
a person is never completely “there”), a state of wellness is one of relative balance
 Introduction • 5

and productivity in a person’s life. It’s about actualized potential, knowing that one
can always get better and be better throughout the range of aspects of life.
The former director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention from
1977 to 1983, William Foege, MD, summed up prevention well decades ago. He
said, “The rationale for prevention is clearly the improvement of life quality;
nonetheless, when prevention programs can be shown not only to improve life
quality but also to reduce health-care expenditures and provide savings in other
ways, a decision by budget makers to avoid adequate funding of such programs is
already a decision to increase expenditures for that condition and simultaneously
to increase human suffering. It is a decision to tolerate fraud, waste and abuse.”

Student Issues With Wellness

Just as a range of knowledge, skills, and attitudes can be helpful for students to
achieve their goals and dreams, a range of issues can also get in the way of their
success. A helpful starting point is to understand the nature and scope of some of
the issues facing students today. Undoubtedly, numerous other issues are not cur-
rently assessed or identified, thus providing a tremendous research opportunity.
One of the primary sources of information and data about college students’
health and wellness is the American College Health Association’s (ACHA) National
College Health Assessment (NCHA). Conducted since 2000, the data provides a
rich compilation of students’ issues surrounding health (ACHA, 2014). Notewor-
thy, as a starting point, is that over one-half (58.6%) of students described their
health as very good or excellent, and over 9 in 10 students (91.2%) described it as
good, very good, or excellent.
Students were asked about the extent to which various factors affected their
academic performance, all within the last year. For 2014, top among that listing
were stress (30.8%), anxiety (21.8%), sleep difficulties (21.0%), cold/flu, sore
throat (15.1%), work (13.8%), depression (13.5%), Internet use/computer games
(11.6%), concern for a troubled friend or family member (10.9%), and participa-
tion in extracurricular activities (10.5%). While some may not have been identified
as particularly high (e.g., relationship difficulties were 9.5%, alcohol use was 4.1%,
and finances were 6.2%), these issues may actually be having greater impact, yet
not be acknowledged by students through this self-report survey process.
Among the students citing alcohol use, over one in five (22%) reported consum-
ing seven or more drinks at a time, with the average number of drinks being 4.82 per
person. Nearly one in seven (14.0%) students reported using one or more prescription
drugs not prescribed for them during the last year, with 8.3% reporting the use of stim-
ulants, 6.2% using pain killers, and 3.6% using sedatives. This is consistent with other
data, from the Monitoring the Future Study, which documents that, on a monthly
basis, 63.1% of full-time college students drink alcohol, 14.0% use tobacco, and 20.6%
use marijuana; further, 35.2% of students consumed five or more drinks at least once
in the past two weeks (Johnston, O’Malley, Bachman, & Schulenberg, 2012).
From an overall contextual perspective, students reported feeling, in the last
two weeks, overwhelmed by all they had to do (51.4%), feeling exhausted, and
6 • David S. Anderson

not from physical activity (50.1%), feeling very sad (24.7%), feeling very lonely
(24.1%), feeling overwhelming anxiety (22.1%), and feeling things were hope-
less (16.6%). Reflecting on the past year, six in seven students (86.4%) reported
feeling overwhelmed, and four in five (82.1%) felt exhausted. One in six students
(17.3%) reported having received a verbal threat over the past year, with 1 in 11
(9.1%) citing an emotionally abusive intimate relationship. Beyond this, nearly
one-half (49.1%) of students reported 3 or more of 12 issues being traumatic or
very difficult to handle during the past year. These issues included academics (with
47.4% citing this one alone), finances (33.2%), intimate relationships (30.7%),
family problems (27.6%), and sleep difficulties (27.1%). Noteworthy is that less
than one in four (24.9%) cited none of these issues. Translating that slightly, three
in four students reported having some issue, over the past year, that was traumatic
or very difficult to handle.
Similar results surrounding wellness issues are found with the well-regarded
research done by the Higher Education Research Institute (HERI) at UCLA,
founded by Alexander Astin. HERI’s studies provide insights regarding fresh-
men as well as seniors enrolled at colleges and universities nationwide. Among
freshmen, one-third (33.1%) reported being overwhelmed by all they had to do,
8.9% felt depressed, at a level of “frequently” during the past year; further 45.1%
reported falling asleep in class, “frequently” or “occasionally” during the past year
(Eagan, Lozano, Hurtado, & Case, 2013). Approximately two-thirds of respon-
dents, however, cited as “a major strength” or “somewhat strong” their critical
thinking skills (63.7%) and problem-solving skills (69.7%); interpersonal skills
were rated at these levels by 50.4% of respondents, and ability to manage time
effectively by 52.9% (Eagan et al., 2013).
HERI’s (2014) study of college seniors provides further insights. “Whether
through formal mentorship programs, classroom interactions, or informal
encounters, faculty and staff play an important role in students’ academic, social,
and personal growth. Among graduating seniors, 40.6% responded that faculty
frequently provided them with emotional support and encouragement. Addition-
ally, 45.5% of students “strongly agree[d]” that at least one faculty member took
an interest in their development, while 83.2% of students “agree[d]” or “strongly
agree[d]” that faculty showed concern about their progress” (p. 2). It reports that
the majority of respondents felt overwhelmed by all they had to do during their
senior year (96% of women and 87.2% of men); among women, 46.1% cited that
this happened frequently, and 26.8% of men reported this.
The concern, cited by this HERI report, is that college students’ emotional
health and well-being have changed, with fall 2010 having the lowest self-ratings
of emotional health since 1985. “There is a growing demand for campus support
services and resources that provide important forms of emotional health and per-
sonal counseling for students throughout their college years” (HERI, 2014, p. 4).
Students’ wellness considerations are not limited to emotional health, stress,
and their coping mechanisms with the use of substances. Attention to basics of a
more physiological nature is also noted with the ACHA survey. Nutritional stan-
dards of three or more servings of fruits and vegetables per day were met by one
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
“leaders,” it may be mentioned here that those superior critics
sometimes mistook for Sala’s the work of Williams, whose
scholarship was at least equal to that of the detractors. As a
descriptive writer, Sala was quite without a rival, and the public soon
“tumbled” to his piping. The early vogue of the “Telly” was due to
his brilliant and unceasing series of pen-pictures. One saw the
pageants that he wrote about. Coronations, royal functions, the
marriage of Princes, great cathedral services—these incidents lived
again in his vivid columns. Sala’s versatility was amazing. He wrote
at least one remarkable novel; he illustrated some of his own
humours; he is the author of a ballad—printed for private circulation
only—of which Swift would have been proud. His “Conversion of
Colonel Quagg” is one of the most humorous short stories ever
written. He wrote an excellent burlesque for the Gaiety Theatre.
His articles on Hogarth, contributed to the Cornhill, at the suggestion
of Thackeray, exhibit him as an art critic of insight and of profound
technical knowledge. His lectures on the conflict between North and
South, delivered on his return from his mission as Special
Correspondent during the American War, drew the town. He was a
fine linguist, and, at a time when the art of after-dinner speaking
was still held in some repute, he was easily first among many rivals.
In the preface to one of his books, he says of the proprietors of the
paper with which he was identified: “They accorded me the
treatment of a gentleman and the wages of an Ambassador.” It is
pleasant to be able to reflect that, however high the scale of
remuneration may have been, Sala was always worth a bit more
than his pay.
There is one phrase of Sala’s which, by means of quotation, has
become a household word. “‘Sir,’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘let us take a
walk down Fleet Street,’” is piously repeated even by well-informed
literary persons as a saying of the great dictionary-maker duly
recorded in Boswell’s “Life.” Johnson and Boswell were both
innocent of it. The saw was one of Sala’s harmless forgeries, and
was used by him as the motto of Temple Bar when he edited that
magazine. There appeared in Punch one week a clever skit entitled
“Egoes of the Week.” This was a travesty of an article which Sala
was then contributing to the Illustrated London News under the title
of “Echoes of the Week.” The parody was merciless, and, as some
thought, malicious. The weaknesses of Sala’s manner were
rendered with laughable exaggeration. His peculiarities of diction
were ruthlessly imitated and emphasized. Some of his friends hoped
to see him incensed, and looked forward eagerly for reprisals. But
Sala took the attack lying down, emulating the spirit of his own
Colonel Quagg. And the reason for this evidence of magnanimity
under attack somewhat puzzled his associates until it was discovered
that the Punch parody was written by Sala himself!
Godfrey Turner was another of the “handy-men” of the Telegraph.
He had not that élan in style which characterized his colleague Sala,
but he was a most agreeable essayist, and turned out some
extremely neat vers de société. His song, supposed to be written by
Boswell on Dr. Johnson, has genuine humour. Boswell sets out sober
in the first stanza; he becomes merry as he proceeds; when he gets
to the last verse he is drunk, and blurts out his real opinion of the
great lexicographer. That catastrophic verse ran something like this,
I think:

“‘The man that makes a pun,’ says he,

‘Would e’en commit a felony.
And hanged he deserves to be’—
Says (hic) that old fool Doctor Johnson.”

Turner was a bit of a purist, and sought always for the fittest word;
and he was as particular in his dress as in his “copy.” He was a
stickler for “good form,” and sometimes, when engaged on a
mission, would offer a gentle hint to some eager correspondent
whose manner in public offended his fastidious taste. Sometimes
the hint was taken in good part; sometimes it was resented. On one
occasion it secured for poor Godfrey a retort which covered him for a
moment with ridicule. It happened in this way:
Some sapient person in society had come to the conclusion that the
ordinary coffin was not constructed on the right hygienic principles.
He contended that we should, when our turns came, be buried in
coffins made of wicker-work. He constructed quite a number of
these melancholy receptacles. They were brought to Stafford House
for exhibition, and the leaders of Society and the representatives of
the Press were invited to inspect. I attended the quaint and rather
gruesome collection. Among the other journalists present were my
friend Godfrey Turner and Humphreys, the sub-Editor of the Morning
Post. Humphreys was an Irishman, a hopelessly eccentric individual,
negligent in his dress and flamboyant in his manner. He was a fine
fellow, however, had a head and beard like those attributed to
Homer, and was every inch a gentleman. His foible was a belief in
spiritualism. That he really believed in the actual presence of the
dear departed I am convinced, for I have been in his company in the
Strand and close to the offices of his own paper when he has
interrupted the conversation to speak with the spirit of his great-
grandfather, which had just made its presence known to him. The
coffins at Stafford House seemed to appeal to his sense of humour.
He became quite hilarious over them, and addressed several of the
noble persons present by name, slapping belted Earls on the back,
and repeating his cemetery jokes for the benefit of Countesses. This
affronted the fastidious taste of Turner, who at last got Humphreys
into a corner, and thus gently admonished him:
“I say, my dear fellow, do let us try and behave like gentlemen!”
“Thry away, me boy. It costs me no effort!” exclaimed Humphreys,
leaving his discomfited friend for the society of a Viscount.
Clement Scott was another of the “young lions.” He was not very
popular with the other members of the staff. Sala, I know, disliked
him, for he told me so. Scott was the dramatic critic of the paper.
He wrote a sugary, young-ladylike style that “took” with a large
section of the public. It was a chocolate-creamy style, and “went
down”—like chocolate creams. He understood the value of a phrase,
and when he got hold of an effective one he ran it to death. For
instance, there are poppies in the cornfields round Cromer. Probably
there is a much greater profusion of poppies in cornfields in Kent or
in Bucks, but Scott gives to Cromer a kind of monopoly in the right
sort of poppy. The country in that part of East Anglia he “wrote up”
as “Poppyland,” to the great advantage of the Great Eastern Railway
Company, to which corporation he became a sort of unofficial Poet
Laureate. When I first knew him, Scott had not yet “discovered”
Cromer or written the syrupy sentiments of “The Garden of Sleep.”
He was eloquent at that period over the beauties of the Isle of
Thanet, for “Clemmy” was a personal friend of Mr. Joseph Moses
Levy, the principal proprietor of the Telegraph, and was frequently
his guest somewhere in the neighbourhood of Ramsgate. Clement
Scott always took himself very seriously. Now, that was a pose
rarely adopted by the journalists of my day. We regarded our calling
as a means of obtaining a livelihood, certainly, and to that extent a
serious occupation, but in the pursuit of it we gave ourselves no
airs. We considered the whole business rather good fun, and were
upheld by a consciousness of the fact that we were all more or less
humbugs. Scott’s nonsense, however, suited the nonsense of the
followers of Peterborough Court, and at a time of general scepticism
it was refreshing to encounter a man who believed in something,
even if that something happened to be himself.
Another of the “young lions” who roared in the Peterborough Court
menagerie was Drew Gay. Phil Robinson perched for a while on the
staff, and flitted elsewhere. All those I have named have finished
their accounts with this world. Bennet Burleigh still lives, a
prosperous gentleman, and the doyen of war-correspondents.
Burleigh professed strong Socialistic principles at a time when they
were regarded by respectable people as the most damnable
heresies. My first experience of a Socialist Club was gained through
Bennet Burleigh. He introduced me one night to the Social
Democratic Club. This select association held its meetings in the
cellars of a new building in Chancery Lane. One had to dive down
two flights of stone steps to the subterranean rooms of the club.
The rooms were full of gaunt, long-haired men of both home and
foreign growth, and women in clinging (and not very cleanly)
raiment. Whiskies and sodas were hospitably dispensed, and most
of the women were smoking cigarettes and trying to look as though
they were quite used to it and liked it. I encountered Dr. Tanner, the
Member for Mid-Cork. He introduced me to a bright, interesting old
lady, whose name I forget. We had an edifying chat, she and I, and
when, a few nights afterwards, I met Tanner in the Lobby of the
House of Commons, I asked him about the lady to whom he had
introduced me.
“Oh,” replied Tanner good-humouredly, “that was the celebrated
Madeline Smith. She is a married woman now.”
“You don’t mean Madeline Smith, the murderess?” I asked.
“I mean Madeline Smith, who was tried for murder, and for whom
the jury found a Scotch verdict of ‘Not proven,’” he reminded me.
“And of such is the Social Democratic Club?” I observed.
“Que voulez-vous?” said Tanner, shrugging his shoulders.
But I have wandered somewhat wide of the matter in hand, which
was to afford a little idea of the principal members of the staff
among whom Robert Williams became enrolled.
Fleet Street—the thoroughfare itself, I mean—has undergone
considerable change since those days. Nearly all the Dickens
features have been shorn away from it, and the Dickens-land that
impinged upon it has ceased to be recognizable. From the West we
then entered Fleet Street through Temple Bar. In the north wing of
that historic but obstructive gateway an old barber plied his calling.
He reminded me of Mr. Krook in “Bleak House.” He was never what
you would call quite sober. His face was blotched and fiery with his
excesses, and his hand that held the razor trembled so violently that
one wondered how he got through the day without wounding some
of his customers. Once the operation commenced, however, the
trembling ceased, and the razor sped unerring, steady, expert. What
became of the old fellow when Temple Bar was taken down I have
never heard. He would hardly, I imagine, have survived his
disestablishment.
Sir Henry Meux bought the old structure, and had the Bar erected
again as one of the entrances to Theobald Park. I have no doubt
that Lady Meux had a word to say in the matter, for Lady Meux was
a “sport” all over. I first knew her as Valerie Reece, of the Gaiety
Theatre, where she was noted as being the most high-spirited of an
extremely high-spirited lot. Her early days at Theobald Park were
remarkable for some sporting events of a novel and exciting kind.
Thus—or so the story went—her ladyship ordered a cargo of
monkeys from India, and had the unfortunate Simian immigrants let
loose in the park. As they fled gibbering from branch to branch, the
determined little sportswoman took pot-shots at them, and had good
fun while the supply held out.
Close by Temple Bar stood the old “Cock” Tavern. It was a snug,
smelly, inconvenient, homely, stuffy, and (I should imagine)
hopelessly insanitary old crib, much resorted to by barristers at
lunch-time, for the chops and steaks were excellent. The “Cock”
port was also reputed above reproach, but I never quite acquired
the port habit, and should not like to obtrude my opinion; but I “hae
ma doots.” The tavern will live for a while in Tennyson’s lines:

“O plump head-waiter at the Cock,

To which I most resort.
How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.
Go fetch a pint of port.”

And one notes here that Tennyson owns up to the barbarous custom
of drinking port at five o’clock in the afternoon! Well, the “Cock” has
gone by the board. A curious incident disturbed its declining days.
A carved rooster was the sign of the tavern, and stood over the
narrow entrance in Fleet Street. While the owner was under notice
to quit his building, the sign was stolen one night, and has never
been recovered from that day to this. Another “Cock” Tavern has
been opened on the opposite side of Fleet Street, and lower down.
This place also displays as its sign a carved rooster, which is believed
to be the original from over the way. But it is not the original bird.
That ancient fowl has become the property of the great American
people. The wonder to me is how they missed collaring Temple Bar!
The widening of Fleet Street by throwing back the building line of
the south side has naturally involved the removal of a good number
of landmarks; and even where the widening has not been carried
out, one observes, with certain pangs of regret, the disappearance
of some well-beloved feature. The banking-house of Hoare (“Mr.
W.,” as the squeamish lady called him) still stands, the carved wallet
in its forefront bearing witness to the “pride that apes humility.”
But Gosling’s, as I knew it, is gone. Gosling’s I have always
identified with Tellson’s in “A Tale of Two Cities.” “It was very small,
very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. . . . After bursting open a
door of idiotic obstinacity with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into
Tellson’s down two steps, and came to your senses in a miserable
little shop, with two little counters where the oldest of men made
your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it while they examined the
signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a
shower-bath of mud from Fleet Street.” The description exactly fits
Gosling’s before it got itself a new façade and became the mere
branch of a bigger bank. And the Dickens Fellowship should have
looked to it, and preserved for the nation this memorial of the
master.
Close by was a shop for the sale of mechanical toys, in the window
of which a steamer laboured heavily in a sou’-westerly gale, the
rolling waves kept in a state of agitation by clockwork, and the
whole effect being particularly real and naturalistic. The proprietor
of this scientific toy-shop was eventually attacked by the virus that
runs through Fleet Street. He became a newspaper proprietor, and a
successful one. His translation happened in this way: Young
Kenealy, son of the eminent but erratic counsel for the Claimant,
founded a paper called Modern Society. His pious object was to
rehabilitate his late father, and this could only be accomplished by
reopening the whole of the dreary Tichborne case, of which the
public was heartily sick. The paper did not pay, and it was
eventually acquired, as a property, by the owner of the clockwork
ocean. He, worthy man, had no axe to grind. He retained the
services of a pliant editor, and made the organ a vehicle for that sort
of gossip which goes down so well with suburban matrons. The
paper went up by leaps and bounds. The new proprietor gave
himself airs, dressed the part, exhibited himself in the Park, and in a
brief period had managed to shed all traces of the obsequious Fleet
Street tradesman. He crossed the bar years since—perhaps in his
mechanical steamer—but his paper persists to this day.
At the corner of Chancery Lane, and above the shop of Partridge and
Cooper, was a new restaurant called “The London.” The proprietor
was a sanguine man, but made the mistake of being a little before
his time. The Fleet Street men of his period preferred to lunch and
dine uncomfortably. The owner of “The London” did us too well,
and attended too scrupulously to the nicer amenities of the table.
We tried the establishment, and then returned to our husks.
Outside the new restaurant stood a burly commissionaire, with puffy
red cheeks and purple nose. When the restaurant closed its doors
for ever, the commissionaire remained, eager to perform the errands
of all and sundry. He was rather a picturesque old fellow, and was
for a long time one of the features of that end of the street. He
wore a red shako, which added greatly to the picturesqueness of his
appearance, and I should not be surprised to learn that in private life
he drank heavily.
The favourite luncheon haunts of the journalist in the consulate of
Plancus were the Cheshire Cheese in Wine Office Court, and the
refreshment bar of Spiers and Pond at Ludgate Hill Railway-Station.
At the latter place, between the hours of one and three, you were
pretty certain to meet a number of confrères. Christopher Pond, one
of the partners who ran the bar and restaurant at Ludgate Hill, was
to be seen here on most days of the week. He was a big, broad-
shouldered, hearty man, who made no secret of his desire to
conciliate the members of the London Press. Among those who
were daily worshippers at this shrine were Tom Hood, the Editor of
Fun; Henry Sampson, then one of Hood’s staff, but afterwards to
become famous as the founder of the Referee: “Bill” Brunton, the
artist; Charles Williams, the war-correspondent; and John Augustus
O’Shea, of the Standard. John Corlett used to drop in occasionally,
and John Ryder, who lived down the line, invariably called in on his
way to the theatre. Ryder was a fine raconteur, and he had the
largest and most varied assortment of amusing reminiscences of any
man I have ever met. Mr. Henry Labouchere used to tell a story of
“Jack” Ryder which was eminently characteristic of the actor. When
Labouchere produced “The Last Days of Pompeii” at the old Queen’s
Theatre in Long Acre, Ryder was his stage-manager, and, in his
desire to make the production as naturalistic as possible, he asked
Labouchere to obtain some real lions. Labouchere demurred; Ryder
pleaded.
“But,” objected Labouchere at last, “suppose the lions broke loose?”
“Well,” answered John cheerily, “they’d have to eat the band first.”
Another habitué of the Ludgate Hill resort was Louis Lewis. This
extraordinary little man was a brother of the late George Lewis. Like
his more illustrious relative, Louis also was a solicitor. One day
Brunton had been having his lunch at the table in the corner, and
before leaving the artist had made a drawing, on the tablecloth, of a
somewhat Rabelaisian character. Louis Lewis entered as Brunton
left, and took the seat which had been vacated by the artist. He at
once saw the drawing, which appealed to such sense of humour as
he possessed, and began to ogle it, laughing with a peculiar
subdued chuckle which was peculiarly his own. At that moment
Christopher Pond happened to come in. He noticed the mirth of
little Louis, and proceeded to ascertain the cause of it. When he
grasped the gross intention of the drawing, and as he conceived
Lewis to be the author of it, he became extremely indignant, ordered
his waiters to turn the innocent and protesting man off the premises,
and informed those trembling menials that if any of them ever
served the offender again it would mean instant dismissal. The
smirched cloth was then removed, and at the laundry all evidence
that could convict the real culprit was in due course destroyed. But
the incensed solicitor served a writ on Pond the very next day, and
the action was “settled out of court.”
There was a gentleman connected with the sporting Press in the
seventies called Barney Briant. No one knew exactly what it was he
wrote, or whether he wrote at all, but he had obtained an
undoubted reputation as a sporting writer of parts. His most salient
physical peculiarity consisted in the fact that his elbows seemed to
have become glued to his sides. If Barney shook hands with a man
—and he was for ever shaking hands—he moved his arm from the
elbow only, never from the shoulder. I observed on this peculiarity
to Reginald Shirley Brooks (assuredly one of the most amiable and
most talented of the men of his time), and his explanation was
illuminating.
“You see,” said Shirley, “Barney spends nearly the whole day in the
narrow passage in front of the Cheshire Cheese bar. To do this in
comfort, he has to keep his elbows well screwed in, to let the
customers pass to and from the dining-room. In the course of
generations the arms of his descendants will grow from the waist.”
The incident is recorded in this place as illustrating better than any
mere verbal description the exiguous nature of the main passages of
the Cheshire Cheese. The bar in the passage has been
disestablished this many a year. It was a sort of glass case with
barely room for two barmaids, a beer-engine, and some shelves of
bottles. Sala called it “the bird-cage,” and the name stuck to the
structure ever after. In recent years the Cheshire Cheese has
attracted a considerable clientele on a claim that it was the favourite
Fleet Street resort of Dr. Johnson. Mr. Seymour Lucas, the Royal
Academician, indeed, adopted the theory without any exhaustive
inquiry, and painted a picture in which the Great Bear is depicted
“taking his ease” in this inn. There are some things which we may
not know about the author of “Rasselas,” but among them, most
assuredly, cannot be numbered the houses of entertainment which
he frequented. Boswell followed old man Johnson about to all his
“pubs,” and the fact that there is no mention in Boswell’s “Life” of his
hero having visited the “Cheese” is evidence presumptive that he
never did visit it. In his time the tavern in Wine Office Court was the
nightly resort of the respectable tradesmen of Fleet Street who still
lived above their shops—the last sort of company upon which the
Doctor would think of intruding.
But if the Johnson legend must be dismissed as mythical, the chops,
steaks, beefsteak puddings, and stewed cheeses, were substantial
and indisputable. Godfrey Turner wrote in one of the Christmas
annuals, then in great favour, a description of a meal at the Cheshire
Cheese. The thing was wonderfully well done, and gave
considerable umbrage to the proprietor, and to some of the literary
gentlemen whom the writer introduced. The waiter in the room
downstairs was one Tom Brown, who used to drive up from his place
in the suburbs in a smart dogcart. William, who had no other name,
was a short red-haired man with (appropriately enough) mutton-
chop whiskers, very prominent teeth, a pink-and-white complexion,
and a perennial sheep-like smile. Diners gave him their orders with
minute particularity, assured that he would communicate their
wishes to the cook, which William never did. This is the sort of thing
that would happen:
First Customer: “A mutton chop very well done, please, waiter.”
William: “Well done, sir? Yessir.”
Second Customer: “Underdone chop, William.”
William: “Chop underdone, sir? Very good, sir.”
[Exit William.
William (heard without): “Cook, two muts down together, cook!”
On Saturday an enormous beefsteak pudding delightfully fortified
with larks, oysters, mushrooms, and other seasoning, was served.
This monster of the pudding tribe was put down to boil at one
o’clock in the morning, and was served with great ceremony at one
o’clock on the afternoon of the same day. Moore, the proprietor, cut
the savoury mountain up. Every seat was taken a quarter of an
hour before the dish made its appearance, and late-comers had to
turn disconsolate away. On one fateful morning—a cold, foggy day
in mid-winter—the usual congregation of pudding-worshippers had
gathered together, hungry, expectant, keen-set. At the stroke of one
the step of William was heard on the stair, and a pungent steam was
wafted to the waiting gourmets. Then all at once was heard a slip, a
groan, and, last of all, an awful crash. William, with the pudding in
his arms, had slipped on the top of the flight of stairs leading to the
hall, and the place was flooded with broken pudding-bowl and
dismembered pudding, now mixing itself ineffectually with the
sawdust of the floor. Mingled sighs and oaths arose on all sides.
The mischief was, alas! irreparable.
After this, William was pensioned off by Moore, but the devoted old
man could not be induced to quit the scene in which most of his life
had been passed. He was not permitted to resume his official
position as a waiter, but he turned up every morning at his usual
time, and remained on the premises until closing-time. They were
puzzled at first what to do with him. At last it was resolved to put
him into a leather apron, and let him pretend to be having a very
busy time in the cellar. From that cool and cobwebby grot he made
frequent emergences during meal-times to indulge the one pleasure
left him—that of a little familiar talk with an old customer. One day
William was missed and his old customers knew instinctively that he
was dead. The old fellow left considerable personality and some real
estate.
I have now tried to sketch, however indifferently, some of the
centres round which the Fleet Street maelstrom roared. Ceaselessly
for more than twenty years I whirled round and round in its
irresistible eddies. One never hoped, one never wished, for
deliverance from the seething circle. Once caught up in it, the daily
round was discovered to possess a fascination overwhelming,
imperious, inexorable. It was a career the most strenuous, at once,
and the most irresponsible. There was a sense of freedom, yet one
was a slave of the lamp; a feeling of power, yet one was the mere
mouthpiece of an organ. By the outsider one was alternately hated
and courted, and one went one’s way.
As free-lance, as a member of a “staff,” as special correspondent, as
leader-writer, book-reviewer, and dramatic critic, my experience has
been considerable, and I have generally found my work delightful;
but its greatest charm, after all, has been in the society of the
comrades whom I have met by the way. Good-fellowship, loyalty to
one another, a fine sense of chivalry, a constant readiness to help
the lame dog over the style, a stern ostracism of the unhappy wight
who evinced a congenital inability to play the game—these were the
characteristics of the men of my time. Sitting down in the afternoon
of my day to recall that pleasant past, I now, as I intimated in my
opening chapter, drop all pretence of sequent autobiography, and
proceed to present such groups and incidents, such characters and
scenes, such mots and anecdotes, as may appeal to those who live
in another time and pursue their calling under other conditions.
 CHAPTER V
SOCIETY JOURNALISM

“Sassiaty is Sassiaty: its lors ar irresistibl.”—Yellowplush Papers.

Society journalism had been founded just before I began to earn a

“living wage” in Fleet Street, but its development and popularity
were items of later history. The ball was set rolling by Mr. Thomas
Gibson Bowles—to become known in other times as the intractable
Conservative Member of Parliament, and the beloved “Tommy”
Bowles of the man in the street. The familiar sobriquet only got into
print after Bowles captured King’s Lynn in the Tory interest, but he
was called by that playful diminutive long before he entered the
House of Commons, although he himself was probably unaware, as
he would certainly resent, the fact. Pottinger Stephens bestowed
upon him the familiar name, and in Fleet Street and the Strand he
was always known to his Press contemporaries as “Tommy.”
That this gentleman should have turned Liberal in his old age, and
that he should have captured his ancient Conservative stronghold in
Lynn for the Rads, will not seem at all extraordinary to those who
are a little behind the scenes. Those who accomplish a great deal
for their party naturally expect that their party will do a little for
them, provided they possess the necessary qualifications. Tommy
certainly had the qualifications, and it is equally certain that he “put
in” a lot of good work for the Tories; but he was never a persona
grata with his leaders. The Conservatives are rather stupid on
matters of birth and parentage, and Bowles did not come up to their
standards. Having fought and lost two elections “on his own,” the
party sent him down to a forlorn hope at Lynn. To their surprise and
disgust he won the seat. For years he served the Tories loyally in
Parliament, but when there came a division of loaves and fishes,
Bowles was invariably left out of the reckoning. In the last
Parliament in which he sat on the Conservative benches, he fell foul
of his party, and personally attacked his hereditary leaders. From his
place he alluded to the Salisbury administration as “the Hôtel Cecil,”
and described the Front Bench as “a gallery of family portraits.”
Bowles acquired his knowledge of journalism and his respect for the
conventions of Society on the Morning Post. He had started life, I
believe, in Somerset House, which was just over the way, and he
became imbued with the notion—a very profitable notion, as it
turned out—that a paper chiefly devoted to the “hupper suckles,”
written in their interests, and employing what he used to call “the
passwords of Society,” should be a financial success. To what extent
(at that period) Bowles was in Society, or how he obtained a
knowledge of its passwords, or what those cryptic passwords were, I
have never been able to find out; but, as one astute editorial
admonition is “Know what you don’t know!” those same passwords
may have been part of a pleasant myth.
His paper was duly launched at the price of twopence, and under
the admirable title of Vanity Fair. But the paper, smartly and even
wittily written as it was, would have failed to reach the somewhat
inaccessible class for which its founder proposed to cater had it not
been for his discovery of Pellegrini, and the appearance in Vanity Fair
of that Italian artist’s inimitable cartoons. The price was raised to
sixpence, the paper hit those remote circles for which it had been
destined, “Tommy’s” career was assured, and Society journalism was
established in our midst.
A tremendous number of imitators have sprung up from time to time
—“they had their day, and ceased to be”—but there were only two
other publications that enjoyed permanent success; and those two,
with the first Society organ founded by Mr. Bowles, constituted, and
still constitute, what is understood as Society journalism. The
second paper in the trio was The World, founded by Edmund Yates;
and the third was Truth, established by Henry Labouchere. I was
fortunate enough to write for all three; for two of them I have
written voluminously.
Bowles used to aver that he had no staff. He wrote a great deal of
the paper himself, and his “Jehu Junior” articles, written to
accompany the cartoons, were models of what essays should be.
Light, epigrammatic, pungent, and excessively neat, they were the
one possible accompaniment to “Ape’s” caricatures. A sentence from
the “Jehu Junior” article always appeared beneath the picture. I can
recall a couple. Beneath the first picture of Disraeli was inscribed:
“He educated his party, and dished the Whigs to pass Reform, but to
have become what he is from what he was is the greatest reform of
all.” When Bishop Magee made his great speech in the House of
Lords in defence of the Irish Church, his likeness appeared in the
Vanity Fair gallery, and it had appended to it this extract from the
article by Bowles: “If eloquence could justify injustice, he would
have saved the Irish Church.” And the output of the able little editor
was always up to sample.
Although Bowles professed to conduct his paper without the aid of a
staff, he engaged regular contributors, which is pretty much the
same thing. These gentlemen were never consulted in a body.
“Collectivity” was never “pretty Fanny’s way,” as the Tory party, too
late, discovered. But individual members of the body of contributors
were occasionally summoned to meet their editor and proprietor at
his chambers. When I was first ushered into the august presence,
Bowles had rooms in Palace Chambers, at the corner of St. James’s
Street, over against the Palace itself. He had just commenced his
yachting career at that period, and adopted the mariner’s pose
ashore to the extent of receiving you in his bare feet—to give the
impression, I suppose, of rolling seas and a slippery deck.
But if one did not meet one’s confreres in the rooms of the editor,
we were bound to encounter in the outer world—perhaps at the
printer’s or elsewhere. The printer was Peter Rankin, of Drury Court
—a dour and adventurous Scot who, having conveyed a newspaper
by means of registration from its rightful owner, continued the
management of the property on his own account. He had not the
success which usually attends these Napoleonic sportsmen in the
Street of Adventure. He came to grief and death, and nobody
seemed to care. At his printing-offices I met for the first time
Willmott Dixon, then a contributor under the Bowles banner. Dixon
was at that time a fresh-coloured, stout, broad-shouldered man with
an indomitably sweet temper which indicated its permanence in a
dimple in the cheek.
Willmott Dixon had brought into Fleet Street with him much of the
ebullient spirit and readiness for practical fun for which he was noted
at Cambridge in his undergraduate days. Bon-vivant, raconteur, and
essentially good fellow, he was in general demand as a companion.
After the days of our Vanity, I was associated with Dixon on many
other papers, for he had the pen of a ready writer, and was in
considerable demand. Of all the men I have known, he was the
quickest producer of “copy,” and he seemed capable of coming up
with his tale of work under any and all conditions. His sporting
articles and stories under the nom de plume of “Thormanby” are
well known, and his accounts of the old prize-fights are the best ever
written. The amount of “copy” produced by Dixon would equal that
of any three ordinary journalists, taking a period of years in the
productive stage of each. But why should I speak of Willmott Dixon
in the past tense? He is now a hale young fellow of seventy, and
within the last few years he has published three successful novels
under his own name, one collection of sporting stories under his
nom de plume of “Thormanby,” and an autobiography entitled “The
Spice of Life.” This is the sort of veteran whom Mr. Philip Gibbs
should take down Fleet Street with him one fine day, with the idea of
presenting him to the young gentlemen who weep and have
hysterics when a newspaper happens to put up the shutters. Very
few, I imagine, of the invertebrate Press gang of the period will be
writing saleable novels at seventy!
Henry Pottinger Stephens, another of Vanity’s regular contributors, I
first met at the office of the publisher. We were both there on the
same errand, I believe, stalking an oof bird. Stephens had just
returned from Paris, where he had been acting as one of the
correspondents of the Times. He also was to be my associate in
other papers, my companion in other adventures. To these I may
recur in another chapter.
At what date it was I forget, but in the early eighties Bowles sold the
paper to Arthur Evans. The price was, I think, £20,000. With this
Bowles started the Lady, which, if not perhaps quite his own line of
country, promised a bigger income than would ever be obtainable
from his original venture. Under the new regime I continued to
contribute. The proprietor confined his attention to the City article.
The literary part of the paper was under Mr. Oliver Fry. From the
time of the founding of Vanity Fair until its purchase half a dozen
years ago by the Harmsworths—a period of, say, forty years—it had
but two editors. Thus, the traditions of the paper were regarded, its
tone and policy were continuous, and it retained in consequence its
old subscribers and its old advertisers. An editorial chair held in
forty years by two editors in succession marks a record. There were
several editors during the Harmsworth epoch. But the new
atmosphere did not seem to suit the old growth. It was sold again.
The cartoons have always been the mainstay and chief attraction of
Vanity Fair. When dear old Pellegrini died, Bowles had discovered an
accomplished successor in “Spy.” Over this name Mr. Leslie Ward
drew almost continuously for the paper for many years. Indeed, his
work has appeared there up to a comparatively recent date.
When Edmund Yates founded the World, a departure in Society
journalism was made. The new candidate for popular favour was to
depend on its writing alone for its success. Yates had no misgivings
about the propriety of engaging a staff. Bowles always held himself
aloof from, and socially superior to, the Fleet Street man. Yates had
been a Fleet Street man himself, and was unlikely to make that
mistake. He liked to meet his contributors socially. He was at one
with them. And they had an immense liking for their chief. For,
although Yates was as savage as a Mohawk when he “went for” his
enemies, he was devoted to his friends. Not infrequently, in the
journalistic world, you will come upon soft-hearted sayers of hard-
hearted things. Yates was a man of that sort. Warm in his
friendships, genial in his manner, sympathetic to the tyro, he was out
for scalps the moment he scented a hint of offence—it mattered not
whether the offence was intended for him or for one of his friends.
In the inception of his “Journal for Men and Women,” Yates had the
assistance of Henry Labouchere and Grenville Murray. And among
the principal writers engaged to support the new venture were
Bernard Becker, Henry Pearse, Dutton Cook, and Christie Murray. A.
M. Broadley did not join till later on, I think; though when he did join
he proved himself extremely useful in picking up those Society items
upon which the World depended very much in the effort to prove
acceptable to the “classes.”
Yates liked to have about him as staff officers men of goodly
presence, gentlemanly address. And he had a horror of anything
soiled or slovenly in the attire of his contributors. This latter
characteristic of the World’s editor accounted for the engagement of
lady journalists. It was, indeed, the paragraph of one of his women
contributors that involved him in the criminal libel suit brought by
Lord Lonsdale, resulting in the incarceration of Yates in Holloway—a
severe punishment in respect of a stupid little paragraph, and a
punishment the effects of which Yates carried with him to his dying
day. There was one of the contributors who scarcely came up to the
standard of physique which the editor regarded as desirable. This
was Mr. (now Sir) H. W. Lucy. Yates gave that gentleman his first
great chance of showing his paces as an independent descriptive
reporter of proceedings in the House of Commons. Lucy’s weekly
contribution was entitled “Under the Clock, by one of the Hands.”
The title was supplied by the chief.
Lucy was a smart little fellow of tremendous industry and always
conscious of his own ability to make his way in the world. His hair,
turning grey even in that far-off time, stood up like the quills of the
porcupine. He always gave you the impression of a man who had
suddenly waked up in a fright. And the expression that seemed his
normal one was that of a gentle surprise. He became, at another
stage in his successful career, associated with a little Irishman—Mr.
Harry Furniss—an artist for some time connected with Punch. It was
a very quaint sight to see the two little chaps pottering through an
art gallery in search of subjects for their merciless ridicule. Furniss,
red-headed and rotund of paunch, looking like a sort of duodecimo
edition of a City Alderman, whispered his jokes to his companion,
accompanying the witticisms with an engaging smile, Lucy accepting
them with his habitual look of gentle wonder.
Yates himself wrote the neatest, most scintillating, and most
readable paragraphs of any man who has ever essayed that
extraordinarily difficult art. But neither the appeal to Society, nor the
descriptive pictures of Parliament, nor the now sparkling and now
vitriolic paragraphs of the editor, brought on that happy event which
is known in the newspaper world as “turning the corner.” That is the
happy moment when the paper becomes increased in circulation,
and advertising returns to the point at which it pays. It is always the
unexpected that happens, and the contributions which raised the
World from the commercial Slough of Despond were a remarkable
series of articles on “West End Usurers,” attributed to Mr. Henry
Labouchere. As a matter of fact, however, the material was
collected by several persons, and I understood at the time that the
proofs were submitted to Sir George Lewis before they were passed
for the press.
Judging from the style in which some of them were written,
concerning men notoriously wealthy, their filtration through Ely Place
was an entirely necessary proceeding. When the victim was unlikely
to resent attack or attempt reprisals, the onset was at times very
warm indeed. Poor Hubert Jay Maurice was one of these latter. One
never knew what the dapper gentleman’s real name was—probably
Moses. He had been known as Mr. Jay and as Mr. Maurice. And he
ended his days as Mr. Didcot, a music-hall agent, having succeeded
in giving his only daughter in marriage to the cadet of a noble
house. The Didcot article appeared during Christmas week, and
ended with the pregnant sentence: “Indeed, this young man’s career
has been so shameless that at this festive season of the year we will
not ask our compositors to set it up in print.”
The success of the World once secured, the circulation went up by
leaps and bounds, and Mr. Labouchere, quick to appreciate the
effect of his own suggestion, and willing to secure for himself the
profits to be made by exhibiting and denouncing the evil that is in
the world, soon determined to run a paper of his own. This was
Truth, the third in the triad of publications that made good a claim to
the title of Society journals. Labouchere went to work very carefully
and systematically in founding the journal which will always be
associated with his name—a journal, it should be at once admitted,
which, while it did much in the way of airing personal dislikes, did
much more in ridding Society of pests and parasites, of swindlers
and charlatans, than any other journal of our time.
My friend Robert Williams was consulted concerning the founding of
the new paper. And from him I used to hear how matters were
progressing. From him, for example, I learned that Mr. Horace
Voules, of the Echo, had accepted the position of manager to the
new venture. Voules always reminded me of the description of
another Mr. Vholes as described in “Bleak House.” You recall the
passage, perhaps? “If you want common-sense, responsibility,
respectability, all united—Vholes is the man!” Williams was fond of
telling a story of the interview between Labouchere and Voules at
the time of the engagement. The story was ben trovato. But my
own subsequent acquaintance with Mr. Voules convinced me that
there was not any element of fact in it. The dialogue as reported by
“Bobbos” ran thus:
Labouchere: “I understand, Mr. Voules, that, in dealing with the
outside public, you are apt to be rather haughty in your manner?”
Voules: “Indeed!”
Labouchere: “Now, in your interviews with my little public, I desire
that you will tone yourself down a little toward their level.”
Voules (bridling, but dignified): “Mr. Labouchere, ’aughty I never
ham; but I ’ope I ’ave a proper pride.”
I can testify personally that, when I knew him, Horace Voules was
perfectly sound in the matter of his aspirates. To me, indeed, he
appeared to be over-solicitous about them.
No sooner had “Labby,” as he began to be called, got his venture
launched, than he opened an attack on the owners of the Daily
Telegraph in the most systematic, sustained, and unrelenting vein of
personal journalism. Mr. Labouchere’s memoirs, which are in hand,
may perhaps relate that old story. It is no business of mine to stir
up the puddle. Man of the world, politician, diplomatist, cool-headed
as Labouchere had always proved himself, he here undoubtedly
permitted himself to be betrayed into a series of libels on an old
friend, which were in no way creditable to him. His attacks
thereafter were legitimate crusades against the undetected jackals
who prey on the public. And the public is considerably in his debt in
respect of them. While as to his more piquant and personal libels, it
must be reluctantly admitted that their appearance and the
circumstances which resulted from them added considerably to the
jocundity of those Fleet Street days.
There were quite a number of stories current then as illustrating the
delightful insouciance of Labouchere. Here are four of them:
When he was in the diplomatic service, he was sent on a mission to
St. Petersburg. Before starting he had a dispute with the Foreign
Office about his expenses. F.O. had its idea of the scale; Labouchere
had his. But the Office refused to reconsider its decision.
Labouchere took his leave, crossed the Channel, and was, to all
appearance, lost. A week after the appointed time he had not
arrived at St. Petersburg. A representative of F.O. was sent out on
his trail. He was traced to Paris, and from thence to Vienna, where
he was run to earth. In reply to his discoverer, he coolly said:
“The Foreign Office refused to pay me my expenses, and I’m walking
to St. Petersburg.”
He was at one time Attaché at our Embassy in Washington. The
Minister was suddenly recalled to London, and Labouchere was left
in charge. On the morning following the departure of the
Ambassador, one of the members of the United States Government
called. “Minister in?” he inquired curtly of Labouchere. “Not in,”
replied Labby, lighting a cigarette. “Guess I’ll call again,” said the big
politician. “Ah, do!” said Labouchere sweetly. An hour afterwards
the same Great Man again put in an appearance. “Minister in yet?”
he inquired sharply. “Not yet,” answered Labouchere from behind
the paper which he was reading. “Can you give me any idea when
he will be back?” asked the important senator impatiently. “I haven’t
the remotest idea: he sailed for Europe yesterday,” was the soft
answer not altogether calculated to turn away wrath.
When he stood for Northampton, Labouchere’s colleague was
Charles Bradlaugh, who frankly avowed his atheism to the
shoemakers and other horny-handed artisans who were his
supporters. Now, Labouchere, who was an old campaigner, knew
that the Liberals of the constituency would not stand two atheists.
The moment his address was circulated, the Nonconformists took
fright, and, although religious topics were altogether absent from
the astute candidate’s pronunciamento, eager Dissent sniffed
heterodoxy in every line of it. Labouchere thereupon sat down and
wrote an autograph letter to every Nonconformist divine, on the
register and off it, asking each of them to meet him, and for the
purpose of discussing those topics which all good Liberals hold dear.
He hired the biggest room in his hotel. He had a line of chairs
drawn up in uncompromising rows along the two principal side-
walls. At the end of the room was a table with a tumbler and a
carafe of water. Lying promiscuously around were copies of the
Daily News and the Christian World. The invited ministers turned up
to a man. The candidate’s agent met them and conducted them,
with every demonstration of respect, to the seats allotted to them.
When Labouchere, waiting in an ante-chamber, was informed that
they were all come, he entered the room. He bowed right and left,
a sad smile on his lips, a black suit enveloping his person, and a
general air of Chadband emanating from all parts of him. He took
his place behind the table, poured out a tumbler of water, drank it
down with all the gusto of one who thoroughly enjoyed it, and
forthwith addressed his sad audience.
“My reverend friends,” he began, “I have invited you to meet me in
order that we may interchange views on those topics which are of
first-class importance to Liberals, and more especially to Liberals
attached to the great, influential Nonconforming bodies. But before
proceeding to the consideration of mere worldly matters, I shall ask
the Reverend Mr. So-and-So to engage in a few words of prayer,
beseeching the Lord’s blessing on our deliberations.”
That did the trick for him at Northampton.
“That gentleman an atheist!” said the Reverend Mr. So-and-So to a
friend as they left the hotel. “He’s the first political candidate I ever
knew to ask the Divine guidance in his campaign. He shall have my
vote and my—er—little influence.”
Those who know anything about the depth of Labouchere’s religious
feelings and the extent of his personal affection for Dissenters will
best appreciate the humour of the situation.
When Labouchere was member for Middlesex—that was long before
the Northampton days—the Lord Taunton who sat in the Upper
House was his uncle. A member of the House of Commons who had
mistaken the relationship addressed Labouchere one day on the
Lobby.
“Ah, Labouchere,” he said, “I’ve just been in the other House, and I
heard your father deliver a most admirable address.”
“I’m more than pleased to hear it,” said Labby; “for my father has
been dead these ten years, and until the present moment I never
knew where he had got to!”
Between Labouchere on Truth and Yates on the World there
commenced a species of “snacking” or sparring which promised from
time to time a rush into active and bitter hostilities. The paragraphs
of one paper bristled with allusions to the slips of “Edmund,” and the
other paper retorted racily on “Henry,” and we all looked out eagerly
for an outbreak of real hostility; but it never came. The doughty
champions both feared and respected each other, and they
expended any gall which they may have secreted during their
meditations on other victims. The papers still adhere pretty nearly
to the lines laid down by their founders, though lacking the personal
supervision of those distinguished editors. Yates died suddenly—
tragically—on leaving the stalls of a theatre, and Labouchere,
abandoning both the senate and the editorial seat, retired to
Florence, where he recently died. The memoirs of “Labby” should
be a stimulating and piquant collection.
The complete success of the three papers about which I have been
writing naturally provoked a considerable amount of the sincerest
form of flattery, and imitators sprang up like mushrooms, willing to
share the rewards apparently reserved for those who catered for
Society. These misguided adventurers discovered too late that even
a Society editor must have his aptitudes—his special qualifications.
Some of the new candidates for popular favour died the death.
Others of them—dumb witnesses to that hope that “springs eternal
in the human breast”—never in their lives arrived at paying-point,
yet exist to this day. They pass from proprietor to proprietor. No
one ever hears at what price they change hands. No one ever sees
a copy sold on a stall. There is no trace of their existence in the
clubs. Now and then one comes upon a back number in the coffee-
room of an hotel. They are the pathetic derelicts of the Press—the
pariahs of journalism. They persist by reason of their absolute
badness. Their persistence recalls the inference set forth in the lines
of Henry S. Leigh’s verses about Uncle John:

“If Uncle John goes living on,

How wicked Uncle John must be!”

It is amusing to note how proprietors, editors, and contributors, will

differ as to the motive power which has given the first substantial
rise in circulation. Voules always held—he has told me so a dozen
times—that the success of Truth was brought about by the fashion
articles of “Madge.” And Lucy of the World became possessed by
the belief that the popularity of the Yates venture was partly due to
the appearance therein of his articles from the gallery of the House
of Commons. He determined to establish a paper on the lines laid
down by Yates. And his leading article was to be his own series,
entitled “Under the Clock, by One of the Hands.”
Lucy selected Mayfair as the name of the venture on which he was
about to embark. There should be no mistake about his title to rank
as a Society journalist. In that matter he could ruffle it with the best
of them. He was, however, beset with difficulties from the
beginning. In the first place—to his immense surprise and disgust—
he found that Yates entirely declined to abandon his right in the
heading of the Parliamentary articles, which continued to appear,
from another “Hand,” until long after the death and burial of Lucy’s
bantling.
Lucy found certain members of the staff of Mayfair intractable; the
intractable aids declared that they found things impossible. And no
one was greatly surprised when the new purveyor of social wares
put the shutters up. Incidentally, Mr. Lucy’s paper was the means of
enriching that harvest of English literature which is garnered by
Mudie. It led to the publication of a couple of novels. In one of
these works Mr. Lucy drew a character which was instantly
recognized as a portrait of Mr. Christie Murray. Murray had been one
of the intractables on the strength of the Mayfair. Christie was not
only impatient of attack, but he was very well equipped for hitting
back, which in due course he proceeded to do. Anyone interested in
the literary amenities of the jocund days may find some diversion in
referring to Christie Murray’s “The Way of the World.” Such merry
jousts are inadmissible in these less strenuous times.
A much longer period of existence was granted to the St. Stephen’s
Review, founded by Mr. William Alison. In the editorial scheme, this
organ was to play Parliamentary measures—so to speak—in addition
to its piping for Society. Its political cartoons by Tom Merry did good
service on more than one electoral campaign. Alison was a member
of the Junior Carlton Club, so that it is needless to indicate the policy
for which his paper stood. Alison had chosen for his sub-editor one
of the strangest of the strange persons who crowd the journalistic
mart. His name was William Tasker. He wrote vapid verses and
slushy prose by the ream, over the name of “Edgar Lee.” But if his
literary output was of a middling sort, his lying was first-rate. He
had become so much the servant of the habit that he often believed
his own stories. Alison never contradicted him, and so the faculty
increased, and the facility acquired by the little professor became
quite marvellous. He was an extremely ill-dressed man, and grew
the mutton-chop face fungi for which Frank Richardson affects such
a distaste. He always wore a red tie, and it was always a soiled
one. A bland, propitiatory smile played about the corners of his
mouth. He would rush up to one in the Strand with this sort of
news: “I’ve just been to Downing Street, and Disraeli told me—this
is quite private, mind you—that he’ll go to the country in June.” The
reply might be: “Hang it all! I’ve just left the House of Commons.
Dizzy is on his feet, and has been for the last three-quarters of an
hour.” But that sort of facer never disturbed Tasker. He would shake
his head and smile a deprecatory smile, as he answered: “Optical
illusion, my dear fellow. I tell you I’ve just left him in Downing
Street. I mentioned your name to him, and he said: ‘Sound man
that; give him my regards.’ And I said I would, and so I have.” I
have heard him tell, with every detail, of his sprinting prowess. He
could not run fifty yards. And he would descant on his success on
the race-course, who did not know the meaning of a handicap. He
survived for some years the passing of the journal with which he
was associated. These he devoted to palmistry, astrology, and other
wizard sciences, the profession of which, to a scientist knowing how
to advertise—and where—may, even in these advanced days, yield a
living of sorts.
But the surpassing claim of the St. Stephen’s Review to the
respectful regard of posterity is the fact that it introduced Phil May to
the British public. A Bohemian of Bohemians was Phil May when he
was discovered, and a Bohemian of Bohemians he continued to the
end—the all too early end. When he began to contribute to Alison’s
paper, he was engaged in designing dresses for Alias the costumier.
Alias had some funny stories about the difficulty he experienced in
keeping Phil at his work. One day he arrived at the office having
come through a heavy shower of rain. His boots, coat, and hat,
were soaked. The humane little employer fussed about, induced
him to remove his boots and coat, and provided him with slippers
and a studio jacket. “I shall ’ave them dried,” he explained as he
hurried off. The dear little chap, however, locked them up, assured
that Phil May would not venture abroad without his boots and coat
and hat. The hour was eleven of the forenoon. The programme of
Alias was to hurry off, see his customers at one or two theatres, and
return about one o’clock and take Phil—who he hoped would then
have made several good designs—out to lunch. Passing Romano’s,
he thought he would turn in and take a liqueur of brandy. He
entered. There were shouts of laughter at the end of the bar. In
the midst of an admiring crowd of “the boys” stood Phil May, fully
attired in the costumier’s stock. He wore red Hessian boots to
beyond his knees. On his head was the shako of a gendarme, and
his slim figure was enveloped in a brigand cloak built for a big man.
Of course the designs of the dresses had not been touched.
“I came here to see if they had got my boots,” Phil explained to the
exasperated costumier. “Will you take anything?”
“I vill take You!” replied the little man, leading his designer into the
Strand, where they were followed to the shop by a delighted crowd
of urchins, who were divided in opinion as to whether the thin
gentleman in costume was “Awthur Roberts” or “’Enery Hirving.”
When Phil had “come into his own,” when he was the favourite artist
on Punch—favourite of the public, that is to say—he continued in the
Bohemian courses which he had acquired in the lean and struggling
years. At one time he was ordered horse exercise; and when he got
the horse, it was thought, by the authorities at home, that it would
be an excellent idea for Phil if he went into Fleet Street on horseback
when business took him that way. This, it was thought, would
insure his safe and early return to the domestic hearth. It answered
well—for a bit. But one afternoon Phil was riding home from Fleet
Street to his house in Kensington, and in passing through Leicester
Square, thought that he would drop in at the “Cosy Club,” a small
club then recently founded. He gave his horse in charge of an
urchin to hold for him. It was then four in the afternoon. At two
o’clock in the morning a police constable entered the club to inquire
whether one of the members had left a horse in charge of a boy
outside. The secretary remembered that May was the proud
possessor of a steed. But May had left the club at midnight. He had
forgotten all about his horse, and had driven home in a hansom.
Of the making of penny Society papers there was no end. But of
those papers themselves there was generally an early end, and of
these one may more conveniently treat in the chapter “De Mortuis.”
 CHAPTER VI
A GAY SCIENCE

To anyone born with a taste for the theatre, a flair for the public
demand in stage entertainment, and a desire for the society of
actors and actresses, the position of dramatic critic on a London
newspaper should be one of the most coveted berths on the ship.
The opportunity of heralding a good play or of “slating” a bad one
secures a true moment of satisfaction. Moreover, the occupation,
notwithstanding the late hours, hot theatres, and liability to corporal
punishment, involved, is one of the most healthy undertakings in the
gift of the Press. A continuous pursuit of this gay science insures
longevity. The dramatic critic is the most long-lived man in the
profession. Some of the dramatic critics whom I knew in the early
eighties and late seventies are still “hard at it,” I am pleased to hear.
I imagine that the dramatic critic never dies. Like the majority of the
plays upon which he passes judgment, he is translated or adapted.
John Oxenford, of the Times, was the doyen of the dramatic critics
of my day. It was John’s proudest boast that he never wrote a word
in the Thunderer that could do professional damage to an actor, or
take the bread out of the mouth of an actress. An amiable
sentiment, truly, but scarcely indicative of the critical attitude of a
writer conscientiously performing his duty to the public, his
employers—ay, and to the stage itself. Often after our Saturday
dinner at the Junior Garrick Club, an association which I joined some
time after my regular engagement as taster of new plays, I have
heard the venerable man make this boast in a post-prandial speech.
As the great majority of his hearers were actors, managers, and
dramatic authors, the sentiment was invariably received with
abundant applause.
Oxenford suffered for years from a chronic cough, which always
announced his arrival at a theatre, and usually punctuated the
performance throughout the night. Whether it was on account of
this distressing affliction, or because he represented the leading
journal, I do not know, but a box was always put at Mr. Oxenford’s
disposition on the first night of a new play. Two determined “dead-
heads” generally turned up sooner or later in the great man’s box.
These were the late Lord Alfred Paget and John Murphy of Somerset
House. The friendship between these three men, so different in
station and in intellectual capacity, was exposed in a theatrical organ
of the period, and in an article called “Dead-heads: Cornelius Nepos
O’Mulligan.” O’Mulligan was evidently intended for Murphy. He was
therein described as Oxenford’s toady, and his mission was indicated
as being that of a diplomatic mediator who would persuade
Oxenford to give a line of notice to some good-looking young
woman on the stage in whom his lordship happened to take a
passing interest. It was further suggested that Lord Alfred’s
solicitude for the ambitious artist whom he wished to befriend was
not altogether personal. Lord Alfred, it was said, was simply
interesting himself in furtherance of the wishes of a third party—a
Very Great Personage. That I do not believe. But what I do believe
is that Oxenford was innocent of sinister designs on the part of his
friends, and that when a kindly word appeared in the Times
regarding the performance of some third-rate actress, enacting a
fourth-rate part, the record testified to the possession of a kindly
disposition and a congenital incapacity for saying “No.”
Murphy and Lord Alfred were both members of the Junior Garrick
Club, and when the article to which I have alluded came out, Murphy
consulted me as to what course he should take. Murphy had the
baldest expanse of head I have ever seen—quite a continent it was.
And it was surrounded by a fringe of red hair. He was clean-shaven,
had a most bewitching squint, and a Cork accent of peculiar
enormity.
“It’s not for meself I keer,” said John to me, with tears in his voice,
“but Alfrid’s takin’ it to hear-r-r-t. He niver slep’ a wink since th’
attack on um come out. Now wh-h-at had we betther do?”
“I have no doubt that you and Lord Alfred will live it down,” I told
him.
“Sure it’s what I’m afther tellin’ Alfrid meself. ‘Take no notice of um
at all,’ says I. O’ny Alfrid wanted your opinion as well. He thinks
sich a lot of your common-sinse, bedad.”
“Lord Alfred doesn’t suppose, by any chance, that I wrote the
thing?” I asked.
“Alfrid would as soon think of suspectin’ Jan Axenford himself,” said
Murphy. But he hesitated before he said it; his squint became more
pronounced, and there was such a general air of confusion on his
beaming and rubicund countenance that I was convinced that both
the wily conspirators had attributed the essay to me, and that John
had simply been “told off” by his noble friend to lure me into an
admission.
Burlesque was still a leading card at the Gaiety, and one or two
other “burlesque houses,” as they were called, though opera-bouffe
was gradually superseding the old home-made article, with its pitiful
puns and sawdust buffooneries. And the chorus engaged for these
entertainments consisted of handsome girls possessing limbs
suitable for exhibition in pink or yellow or violet tights. Murphy and
Paget were constant visitors at these theatres. And his lordship
would frequently present to some shapely ornament of the chorus a
gold bangle as a token of his regards, and as an earnest of his
desire for her success in the profession she had adopted. Some
attempt on the part of a necessitous chorus girl to pawn one of his
lordship’s bangles led to the discovery that the ornaments were of
little value. And it eventually transpired that they had been
purchased by the gross from a Jew dealer in Houndsditch. His
lordship always posed among Bohemians as a poor man, and
managers, therefore, thought it nothing that he should accept free
admission to the playhouses. There was some searching of spirit
among them when the aristocratic dead-head’s will was proved. He
“cut up” for quite a lot of money. And when he died, John Murphy
soon followed—of a broken heart, they said, and having nothing
more to live for. So passed this par nobile fratum!
William Holland at one time “ran” the Surrey Theatre, with
pantomime in the winter, and melodrama during the remainder of
the year. I attended the Surrey during his occupancy, to notice a
new piece by poor Henry Pettitt. Oxenford had a box as usual. And
not only was his sneezing rather more distressing than usual, but he
was accompanied by a lady whose babble was incessant. This
acquaintance of the venerable critic was a person of no very exalted
rank in Society, and Holland became anxious lest the sternutation
and conversation in the box should interfere with the comfort of
those in its immediate vicinity. During the second entr’acte he
thought it well to pay his court to the eminent exponent of the
higher criticism. He knocked at the door of the box, was bidden to
enter, went in, and, greeting the occupants with his characteristic
effusion, inquired:
“And what do you think of the play, Mr. Oxenford?”
“The play?” said the old gentleman. “Oh, the play is rot! . . . What
do you think of it, my dear?”
“Rot?” exclaimed the lady friend thus addressed—“it’s muck!”
Only the word the fair creature employed was much coarser than
“muck,” and the anxious manager went away sorrowing. However,
an excellent notice of the melodrama subsequently appeared in the
leading journal. It may interest a new generation of those who
illustrate the gay science to learn that all the theatrical
representative of the Times received for his services was one
hundred pounds a year. At least, so Mr. Oxenford himself more than
once assured me.
When Mowbray Morris succeeded Oxenford as the representative of
the Thunderer, a very different spirit informed those columns of the
Times devoted to the stage. Morris came to the task impressed with
the idea that it was the business of a critic to criticize. “Have at
you!” was evidently his motto. And he laid about him right merrily,
not particular whom he might inconvenience by his shrewd thrusts;
for, indeed, he was no respecter of persons, and was suspected of
entertaining an invincible contempt for the personnel of the British
stage. When Morris was appointed, Henry Irving was in the first
flush of his triumph as manager of the Lyceum Theatre. And the
shrewd actor-manager had inaugurated the custom of giving a
reception to his friends on the first night of a new play.
The reception was held on the stage itself after the conclusion of the
performance. Very agreeable, and even memorable, functions they
were. The stage had been quickly transformed into a palatial hall,
made comfortable by a judicious arrangement of curtains and palms,
and—as at that advanced period of the night guests were usually in
need of sustenance—tables were laid out laden with cold viands in
profusion. And there was plenty to drink. Now, the attitude of
Morris towards the stage was that of a person who did not accept
the existence of the actor as a social fact, and he resented this
surely innocent effort on the part of Irving to gratify his friends. It
would all have been very well had the new critic kept his opinions on
this head to himself. Unfortunately, he gave them to the readers of
his journal. He attributed sinister motives to the founder of the
feast, and boldly averred that it was an attempt to influence the
Press with “chicken and champagne.” The phrase “chicken and
champagne” in this connection persisted for a long time—for a much
longer time than Mowbray Morris continued in his post. From the
beginning of his managerial career it had been Irving’s great aim to
consolidate friendly relations with the London and provincial
newspapers. And the fearless and unconventional satirist of
“chicken and champagne” gave the popular manager of the Lyceum
furiously to think.
May I here, in justice to the present policy of the Times in the
control of its dramatic columns, acknowledge the fact that the
gentleman who at present represents that journal at the theatres
more nearly approaches the ideal of what a dramatic critic ought to
be than any of the men who were my contemporaries, and that he is
head and shoulders above any of his own contemporaries? It is
pleasant to be able to say this of any department of a Press which
exhibits many of the symptoms of decadence. Mr. Walkley’s attitude
regarding stage affairs is nicely calculated. He is beautifully poised.
He never condescends to a contemptuous pose. On the other hand,
he is never inclined to accept the dramatic art too seriously. He
states his opinions with playfulness and not with brutality. He
exhibits a fine spirit of detachment. He never insults the professors
of the art. On the other hand, he declines to take those gentlemen
as seriously as they take themselves. Under all that he writes may
be discovered the social philosopher. His essays are scholarly
without pedantry, lively without vulgarity, piquant without mordacity,
and they always afford the most stimulating “reading.”
My mention above of Henry Pettitt reminds me of another writer of
melodrama whom we, of the jocund years, were sometimes called
upon to review. This was Paul Merrit. Paul was an enormously fat
man with the absolutely hairless face of a boy. He had a high
falsetto voice, and his blood-and-thunder dramas were crude, lurid,
penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured productions. He had a great
facility in plots and situations, and, in respect of these gifts and
graces, was called in by Sir Augustus Harris to collaborate in one or
two of the autumn melodramas at Drury Lane. Paul was the last
man in all Europe to whom would apply the term “literary.” Yet he
became a member of one or two literary clubs. On the day on which
the death of Thomas Carlyle was announced, some of us were
sitting in one of these institutions discussing the passing of the Sage
of Chelsea. To us entered Paul Merrit. He wore the drawn and
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