1. An Outspoken Publisher

Abstract

The Standard, London’s sole surviving evening newspaper, first appeared at two o’clock on the afternoon of Monday, 21 May 1827, in the reign of George IV, during a heatwave. It was launched by Charles Baldwin, already owner of the successful thrice-weekly St. James’s Chronicle, with the backing of the Tory Party, in opposition to Catholic emancipation.

Dennis Griffiths

2. The Chronicle is Launched

Abstract

The introduction of the stamp tax by Parliament did not have the desired effect of permanently reducing the sales of the newspapers, as trade was increasing and with it the size and power of the commercial classes. Despite this punitive measure, by 1750 the combined circulations had trebled.¹ One immediate effect, however, was a decline in the sales of daily newspapers and those of an essay-type nature. The death of The Spectator had marked the end of an era, as few people were now prepared to purchase this style of publication: the future belonged to the thrice-weeklies, such as The Post-Man (which were intended mainly for country distribution) and, above all, the weekly newspapers.

Dennis Griffiths

3. A Phalanx of First-Class Wits

Abstract

During these years of great change in the reporting of Parliament in the press, newspapers still endeavoured to provide a service describing the latest social affairs and nowhere was this more apparent than in the coffee-houses — especially those in the Covent Garden area. The centre for the proprietors of The St. James’s Chronicle was the Bedford. As George Colman and Bonnell Thornton remarked: ‘This coffeehouse is every night crowded with men of parts. Almost every one you meet is a polite scholar and a wit; jokes and bon mots are echoed from box to box; every branch of literature is critically examined, and the merit of every production of the theatres weighed and determined.’ It was here that the phalanx of first-class wits provided many of the exclusive stories for the Chronicle.

Dennis Griffiths

4. Plant Here The Standard

Abstract

At 2 p.m. on Monday, 21 May 1827, the hopes of Arbuthnott, Wellington and Peel were realised, when the first edition of the new daily, The Standard, appeared. Charles Baldwin, however, had no intention of exposing his successful thrice-weekly, The St. James’s Chronicle, as he revealed in his own words:

I was not willing to risk the continuance of my old and valued journal; I preferred the heavier risk of establishing at my own expense and hazard, a Daily Evening Paper to be conducted on the same principles and by the same editor. I also engaged the assistance of Dr Maggin and other celebrated writers.

The choice of a name then claimed our attention. The object was to make a stand against the inroad of principle; contrary to our Constitution in Church and State; a very appropriate motto was chosen by Dr Giffard, ‘Signifer, statue signum. Hic optime manebimus’ (Plant here the Standard. Here we shall best remain) and on the 21st May, 1827, The Standard was hauled as a rallying point, and was speedily followed by the raising of Standards in the Provincial and Colonial Conservative Press. Even Foreign newspapers have adopted the name.¹

Dennis Griffiths

5. Bright, Broken Maginn

Abstract

During the formative years of The Standard, two writers more than any others stood out: Dr William Maginn and Alaric Alexander Watts. ‘Bright, broken Maginn’ is immortalised by Thackeray as the Captain Shandon of Pendennis; and, at the end of the nineteenth century, there was a messenger named Jensen who could remember as a small boy daily bringing Maginn’s articles from Fleet Prison to the paper’s offices in Shoe Lane.

Dennis Griffiths

6. Enter Edward Baldwin

Abstract

For the new proprietor of The Standard, Edward Baldwin, it was a time to further expand the business, and his first task upon his father’s retirement was to develop The Morning Herald, which he had recently purchased from the Thwaites family. Ever since the eighteenth century, when the Revd Henry Bate (he later changed his surname to Dudley) had been editor, the paper had led a lively existence: in 1786 William Pitt, the Prime Minister, had sued The Herald for libel, the paper having charged him with gambling with public funds. Pitt demanded £10,000 damages, but the jury awarded only £150.¹ Despite the notoriety from the libel suit, the circulation did not exceed 1,200 copies — to a large extent it was the revenue from its advertisements which enabled the paper to exist precariously until 1820.

Dennis Griffiths

7. A Change of Ownership

Abstract

The war in the Crimea dragged on for nearly another eighteen months, bringing with it the horrors of Scutari and news of the appalling lack of medical attention — until the arrival of Florence Nightingale — all dutifully reported in the London papers. Day after day The Standard printed long lists of the troops who had died, many from cholera, dysentery and associated diseases. Thanks to Delane, and Russell’s hard-hitting despatches describing the misery and the chaos, the circulation of The Times continued to soar, and by the preliminary peace in February 1856, it was selling more than 40,000 copies daily.

Dennis Griffiths

8. Captain Hamber Departs

Abstract

The great change in the fortunes of The Standard’s finance through the extra circulation from its coverage of the American Civil War, and increased advertising meant that, at long last in 1863, the debts outstanding to the Conservative Party (in lieu of which it had held the mortgage on the paper’s premises — three Queen Anne houses in Shoe Lane) could now be paid off. Apart from the strong involvement with Disraeli, the party whips had been in the habit of sending an almost daily quota of leader paragraphs to follow the main article; but on the day the mortgage was redeemed it was reported:

Mr A — sent his usual communique, with the customary hint to place it after the leaders. The editor, however, was then a free man, and he was determined to assert his freedom, so he packed the pars in an envelope and returned them with the accompanying note:

‘Dear A — I will see you hanged first!’¹

Dennis Griffiths

9. Mudford Takes Over

Abstract

Following the differences with his son, and Gorst’s dismissal, James Johnstone now decided that The Standard needed an experienced newspaperman as editor. He first looked to W. D. Williams, the chief reporter, but, upon discovering that Williams was a Catholic, dismissed him. After trying several others without success, he wrote to Mr Mould, who headed the paper’s parliamentary staff of twelve journalists, and offered him the post. Mould, an unambitious person of middle age, felt unwilling to take on the responsibility, and eventually suggested W. H. Mudford, whom Johnstone duly appointed as editor in 1874.¹

Dennis Griffiths

10. The New Journalism

Abstract

The Standard was now a power in the land; everywhere it was regarded as being the oracle of the propertied and the mercantile classes. It was the exponent of solid Conservative respectability, and was said to represent the thoughts of the ‘villa resident’ order of Englishmen. Mudford’s touch was sure, and he was constantly being supplied with Cabinet information, much to the chagrin of the Daily News, the official Liberal paper.

Dennis Griffiths

11. The Greatest Hustler

Abstract

On 1 January 1900, Byron Curtis,¹ a tall, spare man, with a striking moustache, became editor of The Standard. Curtis was born near Worcester on 10 August 1843 and, after being educated privately, he eventually joined the staff of The Echo as assistant editor and Parliamentary summary writer in 1869. Six years later he was appointed acting editor, and as such on 4 October 1875 brought out The Echo as the first London halfpenny morning paper. It was not profitable, though, and the last issue was published on 31 May 1876. Curtis’s work on The Echo, however, had won Mudford’s approval, and the editor invited Curtis to join The Standard as a leader writer in 1877. By 1900, with 23 years’ experience as chief assistant editor, Curtis was in an enviable position.

Dennis Griffiths

12. Dalziel in Charge

Abstract

Within days of losing his battle for The Times, Pearson, on 18 March 1908, was operated on for glaucoma. Since childhood, he had suffered with his eyesight, and had invariably worn glasses. There was little doubt that the long hours of travelling while he had been building up his publishing empire — reading constantly in poorly-lit railway carriages — had now taken their toll. Unfortunately, following the operation, he was never again able to see well enough to read or write. His doctors advised him to rest completely for six months, and he went to Frensham Place, his country home. There, neither his large aviary nor golf could excite him, and walking was to become his chief pleasure, often up to twenty miles a day.¹ Towards the end of the year, he had recovered enough to enable him to travel up to Shoe Lane each morning to supervise his newspapers and to attend board meetings. However, within three months, the strain was to prove too much, and Pearson realised that there was no hope of his sight improving.

Dennis Griffiths

13. The Man from Manchester

Abstract

Edward Hulton Junior was born in Hulme, Lancashire, on 3 March 1869, the son of a former bill setter on the Manchester Guardian, and Mary, a woman of severe and puritanical ideals. The story of Edward Senior, or Ned as he was known, is one of the great romances of newspaper lore. He was born in 1838 in Clock Alley, Manchester, the son of James Hulton, a self-employed tinplate worker, who owned a small foundry in the Ancoats area. When Ned was aged only 12, James Hulton’s foundry burned down and the father left, penniless, for America, never to return. Now responsible for his mother and five sisters, young Ned sold newspapers on the streets for 2s 6d per week, telling her that one day he would fill her apron with gold sovereigns. It was even said that if customers did not pay their bills, then Ned would dance in clogs outside their homes until the debts were honoured.¹

Dennis Griffiths

14. Empire Crusader

Abstract

In 1923, Sir Edward Hulton — he had been created a baronet two years earlier for services during the war — was considering selling his newspapers. He had been dogged by ill-health for more than twenty years, and all his life had been ‘tormented by the Victorian, Puritan urge to get up early and work hard, and always be doing something “useful”. He was a conscientious worker to an almost pathetic degree, being ... too suspicious to delegate’.¹ It now seemed that this desire for always working and constant action had finally proved to be too much. Many years later, Hannen Swaffer wrote of meeting him at Ascot and offering congratulations on his improved appearance: ‘You are wrong,’ replied Hulton, ‘I am dying and I am the most miserable man on earth.’²

Dennis Griffiths

15. The General Strike

Abstract

While Beaverbrook had been busy expanding his newspaper empire, he was still deeply involved in the political scene. But after having been one of Lloyd George’s main supporters in 1916–18, helping him to win the general election, a certain coolness had developed between the two men. Under Beaverbrook’s direction, the Express had conducted several campaigns against the government: taxation of war fortunes by means of a special once-only levy; Winston Churchill’s intervention against the Bolshevik government in Russia; embargo on Canadian cattle; and criticism of Lloyd George’s policy in encouraging the Greeks in their war against the Turkish nationalists under Mustapha Kemal. However, defeat of the Greeks at Smyrna meant that Kemal was intent on carrying the war across the Dardanelles and into the European territories assigned to Greece at the recent Treaty of Sèvres (1920). In London, the government feared that the Allied occupation forces guarding Constantinople would be attacked; so, despite hesitancy from the French and the Italians, Lloyd George and Churchill ordered reinforcements of the British detachment in Chanak, the area on the Asiatic shore of the Dardanelles.

Dennis Griffiths

16. Celebrating 100 Years

Abstract

For Beaverbrook, the 1920s were not only a period when he was to meet continuing success with his newspapers, it was also to be a time of great personal loss. Throughout those years he behaved like a playboy with a purpose: ‘The powerful, the promising, the storytellers, the witty and the beautiful were welcome at his table: he did not suffer the foolish or the plain. He became a figure in the social scene, flitting between Deauville and Monte Carlo with his guests. He became a racehorse owner, acquired a yacht, and multiplied his millions by entry into the film industry.’

Dennis Griffiths

17. The Abdication Crisis

Abstract

The departure of Nicolson meant that the ‘Londoner’s Diary’ was once more under the direction of Bruce Lockhart, and two years later he noted on 2 September 1933:

My birthday — forty-six today and still feebler in character and self-control. Fleet Street is no place for me. With very few exceptions I loathe and despise everyone connected with it, and the exceptions are failures. Most of the successful ones have trampled over their mothers or their best pal’s body to lift themselves up. They are dead to decency.¹

The ‘Diary’, however, was not proving a success, and on 14 September Nicolson was invited to lunch by Mike Wardell, who asked him if he would return to the Evening Standard to edit ‘Londoner’s Diary’, with complete control of the staff. Nicolson listed a number of conditions² before rejoining, to all of which Wardell agreed.

Dennis Griffiths

18. Munich and Appeasement

Abstract

Throughout the 1930s Beaverbrook was to rely heavily upon two management figures: Mike Wardell, chairman of the Evening Standard, and E. J. Robertson, the managing director of the Daily Express. The Captain, as Mike Wardell was always known, was a man of high social connections, including, as noted, a close friendship with King Edward VIII. After a distinguished war record, Wardell had entered Beaverbrook’s social circle and employment in 1926, and for the ensuing decade was to share many of his business trips and pleasures abroad. Another member of this circle was Viscount Castlerosse, a one-time director of the Evening Standard, and a famous Sunday Express columnist.

Dennis Griffiths

19. On the Brink

Abstract

To be an editor of a Fleet Street newspaper in the days immediately after Munich was, indeed, a heady experience: J. L. Garvin, after thirty years, still laboured at the Observer, Arthur Christiansen, of the Daily Express exhibited nightly his typographic pyrotechnics, while remembering ‘the little man in the backstreets of Derby’;¹ and Francis Williams, on the Daily Herald, was steadfastly proclaiming the policies of the Labour Party. But the newest and brightest of the editors was Frank Owen, who had first attracted Beaverbrook’s attention as the youngest Liberal MP in the 1929–31 Parliament.² And after losing his Herefordshire seat, Owen became Beaverbrook’s ghost writer for most articles on economic policy.

Dennis Griffiths

20. The Standard at War

Abstract

With war having been declared, one of Chamberlain’s initial moves was to invite Winston Churchill into the Cabinet to serve as First Lord of the Admiralty. But for Beaverbrook there was to be no place; instead, he was sent to the United States to find out what President Roosevelt thought about the war. One of Beaverbrook’s last acts before leaving was to inform Robertson of the need for American support. On 19 September, Robertson replied: ‘A written instruction has been given to Christiansen, Gordon [editor Sunday Express] and Frank Owen, making it clear that Mr Kennedy [the American Ambassador] is not to be criticised in the columns of our papers, but that he is to receive favourable comment. Also that this applied to all Americans.’¹

Dennis Griffiths

21. Peace in Shoe Lane

Abstract

Despite a proposal by Winston Churchill to continue the National Government until Japan had been defeated, the Labour Party would agree only until the autumn. On 23 May 1945, therefore, Churchill ended the Coalition. With so many voters overseas, this third ‘khaki’ election of the century was to be a long-drawn-out affair. On 31 May, Beaverbrook was pleased to hear from Lord Woolton that ‘the mixture we want is Churchill the war-winner, Churchill the British bulldog bred in international conference, and Churchill, the leader of a government with a programme of social reform.’¹ In the run-up to the election, from 16 June to 5 July, Beaverbrook was to ensure that his papers were 100 per cent in support of the Conservatives; it has been calculated that one-fifth of the space alloted to election coverage — or 241 column inches in the Daily Express — was lavished upon Churchill’s campaign tours.

Dennis Griffiths

22. Death of Beaverbrook

Abstract

The new editor after Herbert Gunn left was Percy Elland. Aged 41, he came from the North-East, where his family owned a chain of stores. His first job in journalism was as a reporter in Doncaster before joining the Manchester Evening News, and from there he progressed to the Daily Express, Manchester, where he rose from sub-editor to northern editor.¹ Called by Beaverbrook to Shoe Lane to take editorial charge, one of Elland’s first priorities was to consider the Standard’s coverage of the forthcoming general election. Elland was fortunate in having the newly-promoted Charles Wintour as political editor and William Alison as the paper’s political correspondent, a position he had held with distinction for almost thirty years.

Dennis Griffiths

23. Decline and Fall

Abstract

For the new proprietor, John William Maxwell Aitken, known for most of his life as ‘Young Max’, it had been a long wait. Aged 54, when he took over, he had served an extensive apprenticeship within the company, starting as a Linotype operator during vacations from Cambridge University in the 1930s. For this work, the London Society of Compositors had even presented him with a membership card.¹ His management roles had included spells of running the Glasgow operation, the Evening Standard and the Daily Express before becoming chairman of Beaverbrook Newspapers Ltd in 1955. His father, though, remained head of the Beaverbrook Foundation, which controlled the majority of the voting stock, while a long-serving executive, Tom Blackburn (later knighted), became executive chairman of the company.

Dennis Griffiths

24. Harmsworth Victorious

Abstract

Described as ‘the most unlikely newspaper publisher of the century’,¹ Victor Matthews was aged 58 when he became the new chairman of Beaverbrook Newspapers. Born in London, he had begun work as an office boy and during the Second World War had served in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. On demobilisation, he became a trainee with Trollope and Colls, the City of London builders, and rose to become contracts manager. During the next thirty years, he was to play a prominent part in the building and contract world, and with Nigel Broackes (later Sir Nigel) developed Trafalgar House into an international force, with interests in civil engineering, the Ritz Hotel and the Cunard shipping line, including the Queen Elizabeth II.²

Dennis Griffiths

Springer Professional

Plant Here The Standard

About this book

Table of Contents

Frontmatter

1. An Outspoken Publisher

2. The Chronicle is Launched

3. A Phalanx of First-Class Wits

4. Plant Here The Standard

5. Bright, Broken Maginn

6. Enter Edward Baldwin

7. A Change of Ownership

8. Captain Hamber Departs

9. Mudford Takes Over

10. The New Journalism

11. The Greatest Hustler

12. Dalziel in Charge

13. The Man from Manchester

14. Empire Crusader

15. The General Strike

16. Celebrating 100 Years

17. The Abdication Crisis

18. Munich and Appeasement

19. On the Brink

20. The Standard at War

21. Peace in Shoe Lane

22. Death of Beaverbrook

23. Decline and Fall

24. Harmsworth Victorious

Backmatter