The Greatest Works of J. M. Barrie: 90+ Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition)
was a young Scotchman, able, pure, of noble ambition, and a first medallist in metaphysics. Genius was written on his brow. He may have written it himself, but it was there.
He offered to take a pound a week less than any other secretary in London. Not a Cabinet Minister would have him. Lord Randolph Churchill would not speak to him. He had fifty-eight testimonials with him. They would neither read nor listen to them.
He could not fasten a quarrel on London, for it never recognised his existence. What a commentary on our vaunted political life!
Andrew tried the Press.
He sent one of the finest things that was ever written on the Ontology of Being to paper after paper, and it was never used. He threatened the "Times" with legal proceedings if it did not return the manuscript.
The "Standard" sent him somebody else's manuscript, and seemed to think it would do as well.
In a fortnight his enthusiasm had been bled to death.
His testimonials were his comfort and his curse. He would have committed suicide without them, but they kept him out of situations.
He had the fifty-eight by heart, and went over them to himself all day. He fell asleep with them, and they were there when he woke.
The moment he found himself in a great man's presence he began:
"From the Rev. Peter Mackay, D. D., author of 'The Disruption Divines,' Minister of Free St. King's, Dundee.—I have much pleasure in stating that I have known Mr. Andrew Gordon Cummings Riach for many years, and have been led to form a high opinion of his ability. In the summer of 18— Mr. Riach had entire charge of a class in my Sabbath school, when I had ample opportunity of testing his efficiency, unwearying patience, exceptional power of illustration and high Christian character," and so on.
Or he might begin at the beginning:
"Testimonials in favour of Andrew G. C. Riach, M.A. (Edin.), applicant for the post of Private Secretary to any one of her Majesty's Cabinet Ministers, 6 Candlish Street, Wheens, N. B.—I, Andrew G. C. Riach, beg to offer myself as a candidate for the post of private secretary, and submit the following testimonials in my favour for your consideration. I am twenty-five years of age, a Master of Arts of the University of Edinburgh, and a member of the Free Church of Scotland. At the University I succeeded in carrying a bursary of 14l. 10s. per annum, tenable for four years. I was first medallist in the class of Logic and Metaphysics, thirteenth prizeman in Mathematics, and had a certificate of merit in the class of Natural Philosophy, as will be seen from my testimonials."
However, he seldom got as far as this.
It was when alone that these testimonials were his truest solace. Had you met him in the Strand conning them over, you might have taken him for an actor. He had a yearning to stop strangers in the streets and try a testimonial's effect on them.
Every young man is not equally unfortunate.
Riach's appearance was against him.
There was a suggestion of latent strength about him that made strangers uncomfortable. Even the friends who thought they understood him liked him to go away.
Lord Rosebery made several jokes to him, and Andrew only looked at him in response. The general feeling was that he was sneering at you somewhere in his inside.
Let us do no one an injustice.
As it turned out, the Cabinet and Press were but being used in this case as the means to an end.
A grand work lay ready for Andrew's hand when he was fit to perform it, but he had to learn Naked Truth first. It was ordained that they should teach it him. Providence sometimes makes use of strange instruments.
Riach had two pounds with him when he came to London, and in a month they had almost gone.
Now and again he made an odd five shillings.
Do you know how men in his position live in London?
He could not afford the profession of not having any.
At one time he was a phrasemonger for politicians, especially for the Irish members, who were the only ones that paid.
Some of his phrases have become Parliamentary. Thus "Buckshot" was his. "Mend them—End them," "Grand Old Man," and "Legislation by Picnic" may all be traced to the struggling young man from Wheens.
He supplied the material for obituary notices.
When the newspaper placards announced the serious illness of a distinguished man, he made up characteristic anecdotes about his childhood, his reputation at school, his first love, and sent them as the reminiscences of a friend to the great London dailies. These were the only things of his they used. As often as not the invalid got better, and then Andrew went without a dinner.
Once he offered his services to a Conservative statesman; at another time he shot himself in the coat in Northumberland Street, Strand, to oblige an evening paper (five shillings).
He fainted in the pit of a theatre to the bribe of an emotional tragedian (a guinea).
He assaulted a young lady and her aunt with a view to robbery, in a quiet thoroughfare, by arrangement with a young gentleman, who rescued them and made him run (ten shillings).
It got into the papers that he had fled from the wax policeman at Tussaud's (half-a-crown).
More than once he sold his body in advance to the doctors, and was never able to buy it out.
It would be a labour, thankless as impossible, to recover now all the devices by which Andrew disgraced his manhood during these weeks rather than die. As well count the "drinks" an actor has in a day.
It is not our part to climb down into the depths after him. He re-appeared eventually, or this record would never have been written.
During this period of gloom, Clarrie wrote him frequently long and tender epistles.
More strictly, the minister wrote them, for he had the gift of beautiful sentiment in letters, which had been denied to her.
She copied them, however, and signed them, and they were a great consolation.
The love of a good girl is a priceless possession, or rather, in this case, of a good minister.
So long as you do not know which, it does not make much difference.
At times Andrew's reason may have been unhinged, less on account of his reverses than because no one spoke to him.
There were days and nights when he rushed all over London.
In the principal streets the stolid-faced Scotchman in a straw hat became a familiar figure.
Strange fancies held him. He stood for an hour at a time looking at his face in a shop-window.
The boot-blacks pointed at him and he disappeared down passages.
He shook his fist at the 'bus-conductors, who would not leave him alone.
In the yellow night policemen drew back scared, as he hurried past them on his way to nowhere.
In the day-time Oxford Street was his favourite thoroughfare. He was very irritable at this time, and could not leave his fellow wayfarers alone.
More than once he poked his walking-stick through the eyeglass of a brave young gentleman.
He would turn swiftly round to catch people looking at him.
When a small boy came in his way, he took him by the neck and planted him on the curb-stone.
If a man approached simpering, Andrew stopped and gazed at him. The smile went from the stranger's face; he blushed or looked fierce. When he turned round, Andrew still had his eye on him. Sometimes he came bouncing back.
"What are you so confoundedly happy about?" Andrew asked.
When he found a crowd gazing in at a "while you wait" shop-window, or entranced