There are many people still alive who remember the name of George
Dawson. There used to be thousands who recognized it with veneration
and affection. He was my first chief, editor of the _Birmingham Morning
News_, and had been my idol for years. My red-letter nights were when
he came over to my native town of West Bromwich to lecture for the Young
Men's Christian Association there on Tennyson, 'Vanity Fair,' Oliver
Goldsmith, and kindred themes.

Every Sunday night it was my habit to tramp with a friend of mine, dead
long ago, into Birmingham to hear Dawson preach in the Church of the
Saviour. The trains ran awkwardly for us, and many scores of times poor
Ned and myself walked the five miles out and five miles home in rain and
snow and summer weather to listen to the helpful and inspiriting words
of the strongest and most helpful man I have ever known.

I am not sure at this time of day what I should think of George Dawson
if he still survived; but nothing can now diminish the affection and
reverence with which I bless his memory. I had been writing prose and
verse for the local journals for a year or two. I was proud and pleased
beyond expression to be allowed to write the political leaders for the
_Wednesday Advertiser_. I got no pay, and I dare say the editor was as
pleased to find an enthusiast who did his work for nothing as I was to
be allowed to do it. In practical journalism I had had no experience
whatever; but when Dawson was announced as the editor of the forthcoming
_Birmingham Morning News_ I wrote to him, asking to be allowed to
join the staff. I had already secured a single meeting with him a year
before, and he had spoken not unkindly of some juvenile verses which I
had dared to submit to his judgment

He proved to be as well acquainted with practical journalism as myself,
for in answer to my application he at once offered me the post of
sub-editor. Dr. Langford, who held actual command, set his veto on this
rather absurd appointment, and told me that if I wished to join the
journalistic guild at all I must begin at the beginning. I asked what
the beginning might be, and learned that the lowest grade in journalism
in the provinces is filled by the police-court reporter. The salary
offered was 25s. a week. The work began at eleven o'clock in the
morning and finished at about eleven o'clock at night. I have known many
sleepless nights since then; but the first entirely wakeful time I had
passed between t