I resented the insolence of society women whom I was sent to interview. Even now I remember with humiliation a certain Duchess who demanded that, in return for a ticket to her theatrical entertainment, I should submit my “copy” to her before sending it to the paper. Weakly, I agreed, for my annoyance was extreme when an insolent footman demanded my article and carried it on a silver salver, at some distance from his liveried body, lest he should be contaminated by so vile a thing, to Her Grace and her fair daughters in an adjoining room. I heard them reading it, and their mocking laughter.... I raged at the haughty arrogance of young government officials who treated me as “one of those damned fellows on the press.” I laughed bitterly and savagely at a certain Mayor of Bournemouth who revealed in one simple sentence (which he thought was kind) the attitude of public opinion toward the press which it despised--and feared.
“You know,” he told me in a moment of candor, “I always treat journalists as though they were gentlemen.”
For some time I disliked all mayors because of that confession, and a year or two later, when conditions were changing, I was able to take a joyous revenge from one of them, who was the Mayor of Limerick. He did not even treat journalists as though they were gentlemen. He treated them as though they were ruffians who ought to be thrust into the outer darkness.
King Edward was making a Royal Progress through Ireland--it was before the days of Sinn Fein--and, with a number of other correspondents, some of whom are now famous men, it was my duty to await and describe his arrival at Limerick and report his speech in answer to the address.
Seeing us standing in a group, the Mayor demanded to know why we dared to stand on the platform where the King was about to arrive, when strict orders had been given that none but the Mayor and Corporation, and the Guard of Honor, were permitted on that space. “Get outside the station!” shouted the Mayor of Limerick, “or I’ll put my police on to ye!”
Explanations were useless. Protests did not move the Mayor. To avoid an unpleasant scene, we retired outside the station, indignantly. But I was resolved to get on that platform and defeat the Mayor at all costs. I noticed the appearance of an officer in cocked hat, plumes, and full uniform, whom I knew to be General Pole-Carew, commanding the troops in Ireland, and in charge of the royal journey. I accosted him boldly, told him the painful situation of the correspondents who were there to describe the King’s tour and record his speeches. He was courteous and kind. Indeed, he did a wonderful and fearful thing. The Mayor and Corporation were already standing on a red carpet enclosed by brass railings, immediately opposite the halting place of the King’s train. General Pole-Carew gave the Mayor a tremendous dressing down which made him grow first purple and then pale, and ordered him, with his red-gowned satellites, to clear out of that space to the far end of the platform. General Pole-Carew then led the newspaper men to the red carpet enclosed by brass railings. It was to us that King Edward read out his reply to the address which was handed to him, while the Mayor and Corporation glowered sulkily.