Memoirs of Sir Wemyss Reid 1842-1885 | Page 7

and yet
to many of us he seemed the perfect example of how a man should bear
himself in such a strait. I have heard young men speak of him as
old-fashioned, and, judged by some modern standards, his virtues were
indeed those of the antique world. He loved his profession for its own
sake, believed in its influence and dignity, hated
sensationalism--whether in politics or in newspapers--would rather that
any rival should gain any advantage over him than that he should

divulge a secret or betray the confidence of a friend. And so he came to
be the confidant and adviser of many eminent men who were attached
to him for his sterling qualities of head and heart, for his knowledge,
his integrity, his admirable common-sense. Of all his qualities none
was more attractive than the staunchness of his friendship. To those
whom he really liked, old or young, eminent or obscure, Wemyss Reid
was always the same, a champion who would brook no slight, and
whose help was readiest when times were worst. A literary man, he was
quite without literary jealousy, and never so happy as when giving a
hand-up to a new writer or a young journalist. All of us who knew him
are in his debt--neque ego desinam debere."
I will permit myself to make one other quotation, and only one. In
September, 1903, we lost our only sister. We three brothers had been at
her funeral in Scotland; it was the last time we were all together. I
lunched a day or two later with him at the Reform Club, and though,
like myself, he was naturally depressed, he spoke cheerfully, and there
was nothing to hint that he was more than tired. Three days later,
September 19th, he wrote me a long letter, which began with the words,
"Heaven knows, I do not want to add to your anxieties at the present
moment, but I think I ought to tell you what has happened to me." He
then went on to say that his friend Mr. Malcolm Morris had met him at
the Club on the same day that I was there, and, startled by his
appearance, had asked him a number of questions. Mr. Morris had been
abroad and had not seen him for some time, but he insisted on an
immediate visit to a specialist, and this was arranged for the following
Saturday, the day on which he wrote the letter from which I am citing.
He was told at that interview that his condition was most serious, even
critical--in fact, that he had not long to live. So he wrote, "I have
clearly to put my house in order, and to wait as calmly as possible for
what may happen. The thing has come upon me very suddenly in the
end, but I have had forebodings for some time past. You remember
what I said to you on my way to Kilmarnock last week? I want nobody
to worry about me personally. If my work is to come to an end soon, it
will at least have been a full day's work. I know I can count on your
brotherly love and sympathy."
Lady Reid and his children were at the moment from home. I went to
him at once; he was sitting alone in his house, and he received me with

a smile. He talked calmly and without a shadow of fear, and with no
hint of repining. He had gathered from the specialist that he had only a
few weeks at the most to live, and he told me that as he rode away in a
hansom from the house where he had received what he called his
sentence of death, he looked at the people in the street like a man in a
dream, and with a curious feeling of detachment from the affairs of the
world. But he rallied, and went about his work as usual, was as keenly
interested as ever in the politics of the hour, and gave to those who
knew how much he suffered an example of submission and fortitude
which is not common.
Naturally I saw much of him in his closing days, and in talk with me he
nearly always turned to the old sacred memories which we had in
common. When I was a mere youth and he at the beginning of his
career as a journalist, I remember his telling me never to forget that
blood was thicker than water. His letters to me during thirty years, and
many practical deeds as well, if I were to publish the one or to state the
other, would prove how constantly he himself bore that in mind. Others
can speak of his gift as a raconteur, his superb power of work, his