COLCHESTER ELECTION.
Among our first and best helpers in our own town was my cousin, Charles
Birrell, a Baptist minister, who had a church in Liverpool. There
existed a strong friendship between him and my husband. Mr. Birrell was
a gifted man, of a dignified presence, and a beautiful countenance; he
was refined and cultivated, and was eloquent in speech. He was elected
in 1871 to be President of the Baptist Union, in which he pleaded our
cause. He had been ill, but came to our meeting at Liverpool. Early in
1870 I find in my book of scanty records—written at the time for my own
use alone—the following:—
Thank God, all doubt is gone! I can never forget Charles Birrell’s
prophetic words at our meeting yesterday concerning the future of
this work. He rose from his sick bed to speak them, and stood there,
a witness for God, pale and ill, but with a holy joy in his whole
countenance, seeing God rather than the people around him, and sending
us forth to our work with confidence. Then my husband’s benediction!
The words of those two—their prayers, their counsels—must never be
forgotten. God sent them to us to dispel all lingering doubts or
hesitation—kind, pure-hearted, unworldly men, messengers of hope and
assurance! And now it is revolt and rebellion, a consecrated rebellion
against those in authority who have established this “accursed thing”
among us. We are rebels for God’s holy laws. “What have I to do with
peace” any more? It is now war to the knife. In a battle of flesh and
blood mercy may intervene and life may be spared; but principles know
not the name of mercy. In the broad light of day, and under a thousand
eyes, we now take up our position. We declare on whose side we fight;
we make no compromise; and we are ready to meet all the powers of earth
and hell combined.
She addressed many meetings this year besides those mentioned in
the last chapter, travelling for the purpose over 3700 miles before
the middle of June; and when the North of England Council held its
meetings in that month she expressed a wish to resign the Presidency
of that body, in order to reserve her strength and energies for her
new work (her resignation however did not take effect, as stated on
a previous page, until three years later). Her wish to resign is
explained in the following speech.
I proposed at our meeting yesterday to resign the office of President
of this Council, as soon as it may be convenient to the Council to
allow me to do so. It is not because I am not deeply interested in
the cause which this Council represents. I may say I am more deeply
interested in it than ever, for I see in the education of women one of
the most ready and necessary means of freeing poorer women from the
awful slavery of which I have seen so much lately. Nor do I undervalue
the higher culture of the individual as a means towards the attainment
of the highest personal happiness. The strangely providential guidance
of all our schemes has lately been deeply impressed on my mind. We
started our educational schemes, I believe, in an honest and humble
spirit, and they appeared to us the readiest path towards aiding our
fellow-women—the distressed, the needy, and the wasted; and I believe
our labour has not been in vain. But in this, as in all our work on
earth, we needed further enlightening and teaching. Looking back on
my own experience of the past year, it appears to me as if God in His
goodness had said to me, “I approve your motive and your work; but you
are trying to lay on the topstone while there is an earthquake shaking
your foundations. You must first descend to the lowest depths before
you can safely build up.” And then He showed us a plague spot. He
showed us a deadly poison working through the wholesale, systematic,
and now legalised, degradation of women. He showed us the ready
elements for a speedy overthrow of society, which the educated would
not be able to stem. Not that our work in the cause of education has
in any sense been a failure—far from it; but we need a still larger
infusion into these noble schemes for educating the masses of the
spirit of self-sacrifice, even of martyrdom. We need to have our hearts
still more deeply penetrated with pity, and to be more resolutely bent
on making all our practical efforts tend to the revival of justice,
and of a pure and equal moral standard and equal laws. While therefore
I continue to regard the cause of education as a most sacred cause, I
come to the present meeting with a sad heart; and I only propose to
relinquish the office I now hold because I feel that God has called me
to a more painful one. All members have not the same office; all are
not called to descend to the depths of woe, and to cast in their lot
among wretched slave-gangs, in order to help the slaves to carry the
weight of their chains, if not to break them away. This work, I think,
is mine; but there is other work not less holy, which aims not less
directly at a future emancipation. But while I feel all the greater
dependence on, and deeper gratitude, to you my fellow-workers in this
Council and others, for the work you are doing, and for the work you
will do, in the cause of humanity, I am obliged to confess to you
that, for my own part, I fear I may not in future be able to give the
needful time to this work, nor to bring to it the vigour and spirit
which it demands and deserves. I wish to leave this work in abler and
freer hands. It has my deepest sympathy. It points perhaps to the most
important of all the means by which we hope, against hope, to undo the
heavy burdens, and let the oppressed go free, and inaugurate a purer
and sounder national life. To keep pace however with this portion of
the great work, one requires to have the head and heart tolerably free,
and that cannot be the case with one who is called to deal with the
most miserable, to walk side by side, hand in hand, with the outcast,
the victim of our social sins, whose name one scarcely dares to name in
refined society. I have great hope, I am full of hope for the education
cause, and for the anti-slavery cause, in which we are engaged.
Nevertheless one’s very soul grows faint before the facts of 1870,
and though that faintness of soul may complete one’s fitness to be a
fellow-sufferer with the slave, it does not increase one’s fitness for
a work which requires intellectual energy.
* * * * *
The National Association, which was daily increasing in vitality and
in boldness of operation, effectually prevented the further extension
of the system we opposed, and by means of successful contests at
by-elections—pre-eminently that of Colchester in October-November,
1870, where the Government candidate, Sir Henry Storks, was defeated
on this one question by over 400 votes—forced the Government to
look seriously into the matter. I give some prominence to this
hotly-contested election at Colchester, as it proved to be somewhat
of a turning-point in the history of our crusade. A public meeting
had been arranged for in the theatre. I was with our friends previous
to this meeting in a room in a hotel. Already we heard signs of the
mob gathering to oppose us. The dangerous portion of this mob was
headed and led on by a band of keepers of houses of prostitution in
Colchester, who had sworn that we should be defeated and driven from
the town. On this occasion the gentlemen who were preparing to go to
the meeting left with me all their valuables, watches, &c. I remained
alone during the evening. The mob were by this time collected in
force in the streets. Their deep-throated yells and oaths, and the
horrible words spoken by them, sounded sadly in my ears. I felt more
than anything pity for these misguided people. It must be observed
that these were not of the class of honest working people, but chiefly
a number of hired roughs and persons directly interested in the
maintenance of the vilest of human institutions. The master of the
hotel came in, and said in a whisper, “I must turn down the lights; and
will you, madam, consent to go to an attic which I have, a little apart
from the house, and remain there until the mob is quieter, in order
that I may tell them truly that you are not in the house?” I consented
to this for his sake. His words were emphasised at the moment by the
crashing in of the window near which I sat, and the noise of heavy
stones hurled along the floor, the blows from which I managed to evade.
Our friends returned in about an hour, very pitiful objects, covered
with mud, flour, and other more unpleasant things, their clothes torn,
but their courage not in the least diminished. Mr. James Stuart, who
had come purposely during the intervals of his duties at Cambridge to
lend his aid in the conflict, had been roughly handled. Chairs and
benches had been flung at him and Dr. Baxter Langley; and a good deal
of lint and bandages was quickly in requisition; but the wounds were
not severe.
I should have prefaced my recollections of this election conflict
by saying that on our first arrival in Colchester we went, as was
our wont, straight to the house of a Quaker family. Mrs. Marriage,
a well-known member of the Society of Friends, received us with the
utmost cordiality and self-possession. At her suggestion we began our
campaign with a series of devotional meetings, gathering together
chiefly women in groups, to ask of God that the approaching events
might be over-ruled for good, and might open the eyes of our Government
to the vital nature of the cause for which we were incurring so much
obloquy. Among the women who helped us most bravely were Mrs. King and
Mrs. Hampson; there were also many others.
I may be excused, perhaps, for mentioning an amusing incident of the
election. I was walking down a by-street one evening after we had held
several meetings with wives of electors, when I met an immense workman,
a stalwart man, trudging along to his home after work hours. By his
side trotted his wife, a fragile woman, but with a fierce determination
on her small thin face; and I heard her say, “Now you know all about
it; if you vote for that man Storks, Tom, _I’ll kill ye_!” Tom
seemed to think that there was some danger of her threat being put
in execution. This incident did not represent exactly the kind of
influence which we had entreated the working women to use with their
husbands who had votes, but I confess it cheered me not a little.
To her sons.
COLCHESTER, _Nov., 1870_.
I have tried several hotels; each one rejects me after another. At
last I came to a respectable Tory hotel, not giving my name. I had
gone to bed very tired, and was dropping asleep, when I heard some
excitement in the street, and a rap at my door. It was the master
of the hotel. He said, “I am sorry, madam, I have a very unpleasant
announcement to make.”“Say on,” I replied. He said, “I find you
are Mrs. Josephine Butler, and the mob outside have found out that
you are here, and have threatened to set fire to the house unless I
send you out at once.” I said, “I will go immediately. But how is
it that you get rid of me when you know that though I am a Liberal
I am practically working into the hands of Colonel Learmont, the
Conservative candidate?” He replied, “I would most gladly keep you,
madam; undoubtedly your cause is a good one, but there is a party
so much incensed against you that my house is not safe while you
are in it.” He saw that I was very tired, and I think his heart was
touched. He said, “I will get you quietly out under another name, and
will find some little lodging for you.” I packed up my things, and
he sent a servant with me down a little by-street to a small private
house of a working-man and his wife. Next day I went to the C—— Inn,
the head-quarters of our party. It was filled with gentlemen, in an
atmosphere of stormy canvassing. The master of the inn whispered to
me, “Do not let your friends call you by your name in the streets.” A
hurried consultation was held as to whether our party should attempt
to hold other public meetings or not. It seemed uncertain whether we
should get a hearing, and it was doubtful, if I personally would be
allowed by the mob to reach the hall where we had planned to hold a
women’s meeting. Some of the older men said, “Do not attempt it, Mrs.
Butler; it is a grave risk.” For a moment a cowardly feeling came over
me as I thought of you all at home; then it suddenly came to me that
now was just the time to trust in God, and claim His loving care;
and I want to tell you, my darlings, how He helped me, and what the
message was which He sent to me at that moment. I should like you
never to forget it, for it is in such times of trial that we feel Him
to be in the midst of us—a living Presence—and that we prove the truth
of His promises. As I prayed to Him in my heart, these words came
pouring into my soul as if spoken by some heavenly voice: “I will say
of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him will I
trust. Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and
from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with His feathers,
and under His wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield
and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for
the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in
darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand
shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it
shall not come nigh thee. Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my
refuge, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall
any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For He shall give His angels charge
over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.” (Psalm xci.) Are they not
beautiful words? I felt no more fear, and strong in the strength of
these words I went out into the dark street with our friends.
The London Committee had commissioned the two Mr. Mallesons to come
down to help us. I like them much, they are so quiet and firm. Someone
had also sent us from London twenty-four strong men of the sandwich
class as a body-guard. I did not care much about this “arm of flesh.”
It was thought better that these men should not keep together or be
seen, so they were posted about in the crowd near the door of the
hall. Apparently they were yelling with the regulationist party, but
ready to come forward for us at a given signal. The two Mr. Mallesons
managed cleverly, just as we arrived, to mislead the crowd into
fancying that one of themselves was Dr. Langley, thus directing all
their violence of language and gestures against themselves. Meanwhile
Mrs. Hampson and I slipped into the hall in the guise of some of the
humbler women going to the meeting. I had no bonnet or gloves, only
an old shawl over my head, and looked quite a poor woman. We passed
safely through crowded lines of scoundrel faces and clenched fists,
and were unrecognised. It was a solemn meeting. The women listened
most attentively while we spoke to them. Every now and then a movement
of horror went through the room when the threats and groans outside
became very bad. At the close of the meeting some friend said to me
in a low voice, “Your best plan is to go quietly out by a back window
which is not high from the ground, while the mob is waiting for you
at the front.” The Mallesons and two friendly constables managed
admirably. They made the mob believe I was always coming, though I
never came. Mrs. Hampson and I then walked off at a deliberate pace
from the back of the hall, down a narrow, quiet, star-lit street.
About thirty or forty kind, sympathising women followed us, but had
the tact to disperse quickly, leaving us alone. Neither of us knew the
town, and we emerged again upon a main street, where the angry cries
of the mob seemed again very near. I could not walk any further,
being very tired, and asked Mrs. Hampson to leave me, and try to find
a cab. She pushed me into a dark, unused warehouse, filled with empty
soda-water bottles and broken glass, and closed the gates of it. I
stood there in the darkness and alone, hearing some of the violent men
tramping past, never guessing that I was so near. Presently one of
the gates opened slightly, and I could just see in the dim light the
poorly-clad, slight figure of a forlorn woman of the city. She pushed
her way in, and said in a low voice, “Are you the lady the mob are
after? Oh, what a shame to treat a lady so! I was not at the meeting,
but I heard of you, and have been watching you.” The kindness of this
poor miserable woman cheered me, and was a striking contrast to the
conduct of the roughs. Mrs. Hampson returned saying, “There is not a
cab to be seen in the streets.” So we walked on again. We took refuge
at last in a cheerfully lighted grocer’s shop, where a very kind,
stout grocer, whose name we knew—a Methodist—welcomed us, and seemed
ready to give his life for me. He installed me amongst his bacon, soap
and candles, having sent for a cab; and rubbing his hands, he said,
“Well, this is a capital thing; here you are, safe and sound!” We
overheard women going past in groups, who had been at the meeting, and
their conversation was mostly of the following description: “Ah, she’s
right; depend upon it, she’s right. Well, what a thing! Well, to be
sure! I’m sure I ’ll vote for her whenever I have a vote!” I have now
got to my lodgings in the working-man’s house, which are very small,
but clean. I hope to be with you on Saturday. What a blessed Sunday it
will be in my quiet home.
My husband had personal friends in the Government, and on most
questions he sympathised with their policy; it was the more painful
therefore to have to maintain a prominent position personally in the
perpetual attack and protest on this question. He was often reminded
by cautious friends of the very distant prospect of any possible
retirement from school work which he must now contemplate, so far as
that retirement (or promotion of any kind) depended on the goodwill
of those then in power. He perfectly understood this from the first,
and his experience for many years from this time was that of an ever
receding prospect in that direction. He continued to speak and write
for the just cause whenever opportunity presented itself, patiently
wearing his harness as a laborious schoolmaster for twelve long years
after this date. Though it was a trial to him to be at variance in any
way with personal friends or public men whom he regarded with esteem,
yet it was not possible for him to set motives of policy or his own
private interests above fidelity to a cause and a principle which he
considered vital.
In March, 1871, I was called to give evidence before the Royal
Commission which had been appointed. I was not fully aware until
recently, when looking over his letters, how his tender solicitude for
me had followed me in all my endeavours, in every varying circumstance.
His duties at the Liverpool College forbade him accompanying me to
London on this occasion; and even if this had not been the case, he
would not have been allowed to remain with me during the examination in
the House of Lords. He had, unknown to me, written to the Chairman of
the Commission, Mr. Massey, commending me to his kindly consideration.
For it was a formidable ordeal, being, as I was, the only woman
present before a large and august assembly of peers, bishops, members
of Parliament, representatives of the military and naval services,
doctors, and others; my questioners being in a large majority hostile,
and the subject serious and difficult. On the morning before I
was called I received a number of letters, addresses of sympathy,
and notices of united prayer for my support from associations of
working-men in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Newcastle, Leeds, Birmingham, and
many other towns.
Several of these letters from working-men were published under the
title of _Vox Populi_.
To her husband.
_March, 1871._
It is over. It was even a severer ordeal than I expected. It was
distressing to me, owing to the hard, harsh view which some of these
men take of poor women, and of the lives of the poor generally. They
had in their hands and on the table everything I have ever written on
the subject, and reports of all my addresses, marked and turned down;
and some of the Commissioners had carefully selected bits which they
thought would damage me in examination. Frederick Maurice was not
present, I am sorry to say; but Mr. Rylands, Mr. Mundella, and above
all Sir Walter James, I felt, were my friends. The rest were certainly
not so. To compare a very small person with a great one, I felt rather
like Paul before Nero, very weak and lonely. But there was One who
stood by me. I almost felt as if I heard Christ’s voice bidding me not
to fear. I handed to the Chairman a large packet of the letters and
resolutions from working-men. He said, “We may as well see them; for
no doubt that class takes some little interest in the question.” I
should think so! Let them wait till election times, and they will see!
One of the Commissioners asked, “Are these _bonâ-fide_ working-men?” I
replied, “Yes, and well-known men. There is more virtue in the country
than you gentlemen in high life imagine.” He then asked, “If these
laws were put in operation in the north, do you believe they would be
forcibly resisted?” I replied, “I do.”
To her husband.
_March, 1871._
I shall be so glad to get back to you, and to breathe fresher air. I
am sure your prayers have been heard in regard to my evidence before
the Commission. I don’t think I did justice to the Commissioners in
my first letter to you. I was so tired and depressed and dissatisfied
with myself after the long ordeal, that I saw it all through rather
a dark medium. But now I am full of thankfulness to God. I think I
may quote to you what Mr. Rylands said to-day to Mr. Duncan McLaren
and others: “I am not accustomed to religious phraseology, but I
cannot give you any idea of the effect produced except by saying that
the influence of the Spirit of God was there. Mrs. Butler’s words
and manner were not what the Commission expected; and now some of
them begin to take a new view of what they have hitherto called the
‘religious prejudice.’” He added that Lord Hardwicke came to speak
to him afterwards, and that he seemed moved, and said, “If this is
a specimen of the strength of conviction in the country on moral
questions, we must reconsider our ways.” I tell you all this, dear
husband, that we may learn more and more to wait upon God, who hears
prayer. I spent yesterday with dear Fanny in her rooms. Home to-morrow.