TO THE GREEKS FOOLISHNESS
NEITHER Mrs. Coleman nor her husband thought it anything worse than a
feverish cold, and he went to his work. It was a club night, the night
on which the final arrangements for the march were to be made, and he did
not like to be away. His wife was to lie in bed; but a woman in the
house offered to wait upon her and bring what little food she wanted. It
was settled at the club that the Major should accompany the expedition
and Zachariah and Caillaud having drawn lots, the lot fell upon Caillaud.
A last attempt was made to dissuade the majority from the undertaking;
but it had been made before, not only by our three friends, but by other
Lancashire societies, and had failed. The only effect its renewal had
now was a disagreeable and groundless insinuation which was unendurable.
On his return from the meeting Zachariah was alarmed. His wife was in
great pain, and had taken next to nothing all day. Late as it was, he
went for a doctor, who would give no opinion as to the nature of the
disease then, but merely ordered her some kind of sedative mixture, which
happily gave her a little sleep. Zachariah was a working man and a poor
man. Occasionally it does happen that a working man and a poor man has
nerves, and never does his poverty appear so hateful to him as when he
has sickness in his house.
The mere discomforts of poverty are bad enough—the hunger and cold of
it—but worse than all is the impossibility of being decently ill, or
decently dying, or of paying any attention to those who take it into
their heads to be ill or to die. A man tolerably well off can at least
get his wife some help when she is laid up, and when she is near her end
can remain with her to take her last kiss and blessing. Not so the
bricklayer’s labourer. If his wife is in bed, he must depend upon
charity for medicine and attendance. And although he knows he will never
see her again, he is forced away to the job on which he is employed; for
if he does not go he will lose it, and must apply to the parish for a
funeral. Happily the poor are not slow to help one another. The present
writer has known women who have to toil hard all day long, sit up night
after night with their neighbours, and watch them with the most tender
care. Zachariah found it so in his case. A fellow-lodger, the mother of
half-a-dozen children, a woman against whom the Colemans had conceived a
prejudice, and whom they had avoided, came forward and modestly asked
Zachariah if she might “look after” Mrs. Coleman while he was away. He
thought for a moment of sundry harsh things which he had said about her,
and then a well-known parable came into his mind about a certain
Samaritan, and he could have hugged her with joy at her offer.
Mrs. Carter was one of those healthy, somewhat red-faced, gay creatures
whom nothing represses. She was never melancholy with those who were
suffering; not because she had no sympathy for she was profoundly
sympathetic—but because she was subduable. Her pulse was quick, and her
heart so sound that her blood, rich and strong—blood with never a taint
in it—renewed every moment every fibre of her brain. Her very presence
to those who were desponding was a magnetic charm and she could put to
flight legions of hypochondriacal fancies with a cheery word. Critics
said she ruled her husband; but what husband would not rejoice in being
so ruled? He came home weary and he did not want to rule. He wanted to
be directed, and he gladly saw the reins in the hands of his “missus,” of
whom he was justly proud. She conducted all the conversation; she spent
his money, and even bought him his own clothes; and although she said a
sharp thing or two now and then, she never really quarrelled with him.
The eldest of her six children was only twelve years old, and she was not
over methodical, so that her apartments were rather confused and
disorderly. She was not, however, dirty, and would not tolerate dirt
even in her boys, to whom, by the way, she administered very short and
sharp corrections sometimes. If they came to the table with grimy paws,
the first intimation they had that their mother noticed it was a rap on
the knuckles with the handle of a knife which sent the bread and butter
flying out of their fingers. She read no books, and, what was odd in
those days, did not go to chapel or church; but she had her “opinions,”
as she called them, upon everything which was stirring in the world, and
never was behindhand in the news. She was really happier when she found
that she had to look after Mrs. Coleman. She bustled about, taking
directions from the doctor—not without some scepticism, for she had
notions of her own on the subject of disease—and going up and down stairs
continually to see how her patient was getting on. It was curious that
although she was a heavy woman she was so active. She was always on her
legs from morning to night, and never seemed fatigued. Indeed, when she
sat still she was rather uncomfortable; and this was her weak point, for
her restlessness interfered with sewing and mending, which she
abominated.
The time for the march was close at hand. The Habeas Corpus Act had
meanwhile been suspended and every reformer had to walk very warily.
Ogden, in whose office it will be remembered that Zachariah was engaged,
had issued a handbill informing all the inhabitants of Manchester and its
neighbourhood that on the 10th March a meeting would be held near St.
Peter’s Church of those persons who had determined to carry their
petitions to London. Zachariah, going to his shop, as usual, on the
morning of the 10th—a Monday—was astonished to find that Ogden was
arrested and in prison.
We must, however, for a time, follow the fortunes of Caillaud and the
Major on that day. They were both astir at five o’clock, and joined one
another at the club. All the members were to assemble there at seven.
Never was the Major more despondent. As for organisation, there was
none, and every proposal he had made had been thwarted. He saw well
enough, as a soldier, that ten times the enthusiasm at his command would
never carry a hundred men to London in that cold weather, and that if
twenty thousand started, the number would be the difficulty. The
Yeomanry cavalry were under orders to oppose them, and what could an
undisciplined mob do against a semi-military force? The end of it would
be the prompt dispersion of the pilgrims and the discredit of the cause.
Nevertheless, both he and Caillaud had determined not to desert it. The
absence of all preparations on the part of these poor Blanketeers was, in
truth, very touching, as it showed the innocent confidence which they had
in the justice of their contention. Their avowed object was to present a
petition personally to the Prince Regent, that they might “undeceive”
him; as if such a thing were possible, or, being possible, would be of
the slightest service. The whole country would rise and help them; their
journey would be a triumphal procession; they were not a hostile army;
the women would come to the doors and offer them bread and milk; they
would reach London; Lord Liverpool would resign; and they would come back
to Manchester with banners flying, having saved their country. At nine
o’clock the club was in St. Peter’s fields, and a kind of platform had
been erected, from which an address was to be given. Caillaud and the
Major were down below. Both of them were aghast at what they saw.
Thousands of men were present with whom they were unacquainted, who had
been attracted by Ogden’s proclamation; some with coats; others without
coats; some with sticks; some with petitions; but most of them with
blankets, which they had rolled up like knapsacks. The Major’s heart
sank within him. What on earth could he do? Nothing except accompany
them and try to prevent collision with the troops. The magistrates were
distracted by no doubts whatever. They read the Riot Act, although there
was no riot, nor the semblance of one, and forthwith surrounded the
platform and carried off everyone on it to prison. The crowd was then
chased by the soldiers and special constables, till all power of
combination was at an end. About three hundred however, were collected,
and found their way to Ardwick Green. They had been joined by others on
the route, and the Major informally reviewed his men. Never, surely, was
there such a regiment! never, surely, did any regiment go on such an
errand! Ragged many of them; ignorant all, fanatical, penniless, they
determined, in spite of all arguments, to proceed. He pointed out that
if they could be so easily scattered when they were thousands strong,
every one of them would be cut down or captured before they were twenty
miles on the road. He was answered as before with contempt and
suspicions of cowardice. A Methodist, half-starved, grey-haired, with
black rings round his eyes and a yellow face, harangued them.
“My friends,” he said, “we have been told to go back; that we are too few
to accomplish the task to which we have set ourselves. What said the
Lord unto Gideon, Judges vii.: ‘The people that are with thee are too
many for me to give the Midianites into their hands lest Israel vaunt
themselves against me, saying, Mine own hand hath saved me. Now
therefore go to, proclaim in the ears of the people, saying, Whosoever is
fearful and afraid, let him return and depart early from Gilead.’ Well,
twenty-two thousand went back and at last Gideon had only the three
hundred who lapped the water. By those three hundred Israel was saved
from the Midianites. Our thousands have left us; but we shall triumph.
It may be the Lord’s will that more should depart. It may be that there
are yet too many. I say, then, in the words of Gideon, ‘Whosoever is
fearful and afraid, let him return.’ Is there anybody?” (Loud shouts
answered “None.”) “The Lord is with us,” continued the speaker—“the
sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” Every one shouted again.
Respectable Manchester was frightened when the Blanketeers met, and
laughed them to scorn when they were dispersed. No wonder at the
laughter. What could be more absurd? And yet, when we call to mind the
THING then on the throne; the THING that gave £180 for an evening coat,
and incurred enormous debts, while his people were perishing; the THING
that drank and lied and whored; the THING that never did nor said nor
thought anything that was not utterly brutish and contemptible—when we
think that the THING was a monarch, Heaven-ordained, so it was said, on
which side does the absurdity really lie? Of a truth, not only is the
wisdom of this world foolishness, as it ever was, but that which to this
world is foolishness is adjudged wisdom by the Eternal Arbiter. The
Blanketeers shivering on Ardwick Green, the weavers who afterwards
drilled on the Lancashire moors, and were hung according to law, or
killed at Peterloo, are less ridiculous than those who hung or sabred
them, less ridiculous than the Crimean war and numberless dignified
events in human history, the united achievements of the sovereigns and
ministries of Europe.
The route of the three hundred was towards Stockport; but when they
reached the bridge they found it occupied by the Yeomanry and a troop of
the Life Guards. To attempt to force a passage was impossible; but
numbers threw themselves into the river, and so crossed. The soldiers
then withdrew into Stockport town, and the bridge was left open to the
main body. When they got into the street on the other side the soldiers
and police dashed at them, and arrested everybody whom they could catch.
The Major was foremost in the crowd, endeavouring to preserve some sort
of discipline, and one of the Yeomanry, suspecting him to be a leader,
rode up to him, and, leaning from his horse, collared him. He was
unarmed; but he was a powerful man, and wrenched himself free. The
soldier drew his sword, and although Caillaud was close by, and attempted
to parry the blow with a stick, the Major lay a dead man on the ground.
The next moment, however, the soldier himself was dead—dead from a
pistol-shot fired by Caillaud, who was instantly seized, handed over to a
guard, and marched off with a score of others to Manchester jail. A
remnant only of the Blanketeers escaped from Stockport, and a smaller
remnant got to Macclesfield. There there was no shelter for them, and
many of them lay in the streets all night. When the morning dawned only
twenty went on into Staffordshire, and these shortly afterwards
separated, and wandered back to Manchester. The sword of Gideon was,
alas! not the sword of the Lord, and aching hearts in that bitter March
weather felt that there was something worse than the cold to be borne at
they struggled homewards. Others, amongst whom was our Methodist orator,
were not discouraged. It is a poor religion which makes no provision for
disaster, and even for apparently final failure. The test of faith is
its power under defeat, and these silly God-fearing souls argued to
themselves that their Master’s time was not their time; that perhaps they
were being punished for their sins, and that when it pleased Him they
would triumph. Essentially right they were, right in every particular,
excepting, perhaps, that it was not for their own sins that this sore
visitation came upon them. Visitation for sin it was certainly, but a
visitation for the sins of others—such is the way of Providence, and has
been ever since the world began, much to the amazement of many reflective
persons. Thou hast laid on Him the iniquity of us all, and Jesus is
crucified rather than the Scribes and Pharisees! Yet could we really
wish it otherwise? Would it have been better in the end that Caiaphas
and the elders should have been nailed upon Calvary, and Jesus die at a
good old age, crowned with honour? It was not yet God’s time in 1817,
but God’s time was helped forward, as it generally is, by this
anticipation of it. It is a commonplace that a premature outbreak puts
back the hands of the clock and is a blunder. Nine times out of ten this
is untrue, and a revolt instantaneously quenched in blood is not merely
the precursor, but the direct progenitor of success.
We will spend no time over the death of Major Maitland. The tragic
interest, as one of our greatest masters has said, lies not with the
corpse but with the mourners, and we turn back to Zachariah. Ogden’s
office was shut. On the night after the breakdown at Stockport a note in
pencil was left at Zachariah’s house, in Pauline’s handwriting. It was
very short:—“Fly for your life—they will have you to-night—P.”
Fly for his life! But how could he fly, with his wife in bed and with no
work before him? Would it not be base to leave her? Then it occurred to
him that if he were taken and imprisoned, he would be altogether
incapable of helping her. He determined to speak to Mrs. Carter. He
showed her the note, and she was troubled with no hesitation of any kind.
“My good man,” she said, “you be off this minute. That’s what you’ve got
to do. Never mind your wife; I’ll see after her. Expense? Lord, Mr.
Coleman what’s that? She don’t eat much. Besides, we’ll settle all
about that afterwards.”
Zachariah hesitated.
“Now don’t stand shilly-shallying and a-thinking and a-thinking,—that
never did anybody any good. I can’t a-bear a man as thinks and thinks
when there’s anything to be done as plain as the nose in his face.
Where’s your bag?”
Mrs. Carter was out of the room in an instant, and in ten minutes came
back with a change of clothes.
“Now, let us know where you are; but don’t send your letters here. You
write to my sister; there’s her address. You needn’t go up there; your
wife’s asleep. I’ll bid her good-bye for you. Take my advice—get out of
this county somewhere, and get out of Manchester to-night.”
“I must go upstairs to get some money,” and Zachariah stole into his
bedroom to take half a little hoard which was in a desk there. His wife,
as Mrs. Carter had said, was asleep. He went to her bedside and looked
at her. She was pale and worn. Lying there unconscious, all the defects
which had separated him from her vanished. In sleep and death the divine
element of which we are compounded reappears, and we cease to hate or
criticise; we can only weep or pray. He looked and looked again. The
hours of first love and courtship passed before him; he remembered what
she was to him then, and he thought that perhaps the fault, after all,
might have been on his side, and that he had perhaps not tried to
understand her. He thought of her loneliness—taken away by him into a
land of strangers—and now he was about to desert her; he thought, too,
that she also was one of God’s children just as much as he was; perhaps
more so. The tears filled his eyes, although he was a hard, strong man
not used to tears, and something rose in his throat and almost choked
him. He was about to embrace her; but he dared not disturb her. He
knelt down at the foot of the bed, and in an agony besought his God to
have mercy on him. “God have mercy on me! God have mercy on her!” That
was all he could say—nothing else, although he had been used to praying
habitually. His face was upon her feet, as she lay stretched out there,
and he softly uncovered one of them, so gently that she could not
perceive it. Spotlessly white it was, and once upon a time she was so
attractive to him because she was so exquisitely scrupulous! He bent his
lips over it, kissed it—she stirred, but did not wake; a great cry almost
broke from him, but he stifled it and rose. There was a knock at the
door, and he started. It was Mrs. Carter.
“Come,” she said as he went out, “you have been here long enough. Poor
dear man!—there, there—of course it’s hard to bear—poor dear man!”—and
the good creature put her hand affectionately on his shoulder.
“I don’t know how it is,” she continued, wiping her eyes with her apron,
“I can’t a-bear to see a man cry. It always upsets me. My husband ain’t
done it above once or twice in his life, and, Lord, I’d sooner a cried
myself all night long. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, good-bye; God bless
you! It will all come right.”
In another minute Zachariah was out of doors. It was dark, and getting
late. The cold air revived him but he could not for some time come to
any determination as to what he ought to do next. He was not well
acquainted with the country round Manchester, and he could not decide to
what point of the compass it would be safest to bend his steps. At last
he remembered that at any rate he must escape from the town boundaries,
and get a night’s lodging somewhere outside them. With the morning some
light would possibly dawn upon him.
Pauline’s warning was well-timed, for the constables made a descent upon
Caillaud’s lodgings as soon as they got him into jail, and thence
proceeded to Coleman’s. They insisted on a search, and Mrs. Carter gave
them a bit of her mind, for they went into every room of the house, and
even into Mrs. Coleman’s bedroom.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Nadin,” she said, turning towards the
notorious chief constable, “if God A’mighty had to settle who was to be
hung in Manchester, it wouldn’t be any of them poor Blanketeers.
Wouldn’t you like to strip the clothes off the bed? That would be just
in your line.”
“Hold your damned tongue!” quoth Mr. Nadin; but, nevertheless, seeing his
men grinning and a little ashamed of themselves, he ordered them back.
Meanwhile Zachariah pursued his way north-westward unchallenged, and at
last came to a roadside inn, which he thought looked safe. He walked in,
and found half a dozen decent-looking men sitting round a fire and
smoking. One of them was a parson, and another was one of the parish
overseers. It was about half-past ten, and they were not merry, but a
trifle boozy and stupid. Zachariah called for a pint of beer and some
bread and cheese, and asked if he could have a bed. The man who served
him didn’t know; but would go and see. Presently the overseer was
beckoned out of the room, and the man came back again and informed
Zachariah that there was no bed for him, and that he had better make
haste with his supper, as the house would close at eleven. In a minute
or two the door opened again, and a poor, emaciated weaver entered and
asked the overseer for some help. His wife, he said, was down with the
fever; he had no work; he had had no victuals all day, and he and his
family were starving. He was evidently known to the company.
“Ah,” said the overseer, “no work, and the fever and starving; that’s
what they always say. I’ll bet a sovereign you’ve been after them
Blanketeers.”
“It’s a judgment on you,” observed the parson. “You and your like go
setting class against class; you never come near the church, and then you
wonder God Almighty punishes you.”
“You can come on your knees to us when it suits you, and you’d burn my
rick to-morrow,” said a third.
“There’s a lot of fever amongst ’em down my way,” said another, whose
voice was rather thick, “and a damned lot of expense they are, too, for
physic and funerals. It’s my belief that they catch it out of spite.”
“Aren’t you going to give me nothing?” said the man. “There isn’t a
mouthful of food in the place, and the wife may be dead before the
morning.”
“Well, what do you say, parson?” said the overseer.
“I say we’ve got quite enough to do to help those who deserve help,” he
replied, “and that it’s flying in the face of Providence to interfere
with its judgment.” With that he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
took a great gulp of his brandy-and-water.
There was an echo of assent.
“God have mercy on me!” said the man, as he sat down on the form by the
table. Zachariah touched him gently, and pushed the plate and jug to
him. He looked at Zachariah, and without saying a word, devoured it
greedily. He just had time to finish, for the landlord, entering the
room, roughly ordered them to turn out. Out they went accordingly.
“The Lord in heaven curse them!” exclaimed Zachariah’s companion when
they were in the road. “I could have ripped ’em up, every one of ’em.
My wife is in bed with her wits a-wandering, and there a’nt a lump of
coal, nor a crumb of bread, nor a farthing in the house.”
“Hush, my friend, cursing is of no use.”
“Ah! it’s all very well to talk; you’ve got money maybe.”
“Not much. I too have no work, no lodging, and I’m driven away from
home. Here’s half of what’s left.”
“What a sinner I am!” said the other. “You wouldn’t think it, to hear me
go on as I did, but I am a Methodist. The last two or three days,
though, I’ve been like a raving madman. That’s the worst of it.
Starvation has brought the devil into me. I’m not a-going to take all
that though, master; I’ll take some of it; and if ever I prayed to the
Throne of Grace in my life, I’ll pray for you. Who are you? Where are
you going?”
Zachariah felt that he could safely trust him, and told him what had
happened.
“I haven’t got a bit of straw myself on which to put you; but you come
along with me.”
They walked together for about half a mile, till they came to a barn.
There was a haystack close by, and they dragged some of the dry hay into
it.
“You’d better be away from these parts afore it’s light, and, if you take
my advice, Liverpool is the best place for you.”
He was right. Liverpool was a large town, and, what was of more
consequence, it was not so revolutionary as Manchester, and the search
there for the suspected was not so strict. The road was explained, so
far as Zachariah’s friend knew it, and they parted.
Zachariah slept but little, and at four o’clock, with a bright moon, he
started. He met with no particular adventure, and in the evening found
himself once more in a wilderness of strange streets, with no outlook,
face to face with the Red Sea. Happy is the man who, if he is to have an
experience of this kind, is trained to it when young, and is not suddenly
brought to it after a life of security. Zachariah, although he was
desponding, could now say he had been in the same straits before, and had
survived. That is the consolation of all consolations to us. We have
actually touched and handled the skeleton, and after all we have not been
struck dead. {132}
“O socii, neque enim ignari sumus ante malorum,
O passi graviora, dabit Deus his quoque finem.
Vos et Scyllæam rabiem penitusque sonantes
Accestis scopulos; vos et Cyclopia saxa
Experti. Revocate animos, moestumque timorem
Mittite; forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.”
He wandered down to the water and saw a ship cleared for some port across
the Atlantic. A longing seized him to go with her. Over the sea,—he
thought there he would be at rest. So we all think, and as we watch the
vessels dropping below the horizon in the sunset cloud, we imagine them
bound with a happy crew to islands of the blest, the truth being that the
cloud is a storm, and the destined port is as commonplace and full of
misery as the one they have left. Zachariah, however, did not suffer
himself to dream. He went diligently and systematically to work; but
this time all his efforts were fruitless. He called on every
printing-office he could find, and there was not one which wanted a hand,
or saw any prospect of wanting one. He thought of trying the river-side;
but he stood no chance there, as he had never been accustomed to carry
heavy weights. His money was running short, and at last, when evening
came on the third day, and he was faint with fatigue, his heart sank. He
was ill, too, and sickness began to cloud his brain. As the power of
internal resistance diminishes, the circumstance of the external world
presses on us like the air upon an exhausted glass ball, and finally
crushes us. It saddened him, too, to think, as it has saddened thousands
before him, that the fight which he fought, and the death which, perhaps,
was in front of him, were so mean. Ophelia dies; Juliet dies, and we
fancy that their fate, although terrible, is more enviable than that of a
pauper who drops undramatically on London stones. He came to his lodging
at the close of the third day, wet, tired, hungry, and with a headache.
There was nobody to suggest anything to him or offer him anything. He
went to bed, and a thousand images, uncontrolled, rushed backwards and
forwards before him. He became excited, so that he could not rest, and
after walking about his room till nearly daylight, turned into bed again.
When morning had fairly arrived he tried to rise, but he was beaten. He
lay still till about eleven, and then the woman who kept the
lodging-house appeared and asked him if he was going to stay all day
where he was. He told her he was very bad; but she went away without a
word, and he saw nothing more of her. Towards night he became worse and
finally delirious.