ever stood in. Just as his long litigation with respect to his seat in
Parliament was drawing to a close, and as he believed to a _successful_
close, he had to defend himself against a charge which, if he were
proved guilty, would entail upon him the penalty of imprisonment. Of
course it would not have been such imprisonment as I was suffering, for
Queen's Bench prisoners are generally sent to the civil side of Holloway
Gaol. But _any_ imprisonment at such a moment gravely imperilled his
prospects of success in the mighty struggle with wealth, bigotry, and
political prejudice. A sense of this fact weighed heavily upon him, but
it did not impair his energy or intellectual alertness; indeed, he was
one of those rare men whose faculties are sharpened by danger.
I need not dwell upon the evidence of the prosecution. It was
most unsatisfactory, and failed to connect Mr. Bradlaugh with the
_Freethinker_. Sir Hardinge Giffard, therefore, almost entirely confined
himself to playing upon the prejudices of the jury.
Mr. Bradlaugh was perfection itself in examining and cross-examining,
and was soon on the windward side of the judge, but his address to the
jury was too boisterous. He _felt_ too much. His adversary was not
under this disadvantage, and Sir Hardinge Giffard's address to the
jury, considered merely as a tactical display, was better than Mr.
Bradlaugh's.
On the second day of the trial (it lasted for three days) there
occurred a curious episode. Just before the adjournment for luncheon Mr.
Bradlaugh intimated that when the Court re-assembled he would call his
co-defendants as witnesses. Lord Coleridge replied in a low, suggestive
tone, "Do you think it necessary?" Mr. Bradlaugh rose and for the first
time I saw him tremble. "My lord," he said, "you put upon me a
grave responsibility." "I put no responsibility upon you," said Lord
Coleridge, "it is for you to decide." And the stately judge glided away
in his robes of office.
If Mr. Bradlaugh put his co-defendants in the witness-box, one of two
things might happen. They might decline to give evidence, as every
answer would tend to criminate themselves; or they might exculpate Mr.
Bradlaugh and procure their own damnation.
I do not blame Lord Coleridge for looking at the matter in this way.
But I naturally looked at it in a different light Mr. Bradlaugh was
my general, and I was his lieutenant, and it was clearly my duty to
sacrifice myself. I could release him from danger with half a dozen
words, and why should I hesitate to say them or he to exact them? I
was already in prison, and another conviction could add little to my
misfortune, whereas he was still free, and his continued freedom was
just then absolutely indispensable to our common cause. For my part, I
had not a moment's hesitation. But Lord Coleridge's words sank into Mr.
Bradlaugh's mind, and after luncheon he announced that he would _not_
call his co-defendants. His lordship looked pleased, but how he frowned
when Sir Hardinge Giffard complained that _he_ was deprived of an
opportunity! Lord Coleridge did not say, but he _looked_--"Have you no
sense of decency?" Sir Hardinge Giffard, however, was thick-skinned. He
relied on Mr. Bradlaugh's sense of honor, and made it the basis of an
artificial grievance. He even pretended that Mr. Bradlaugh was _afraid_
to call his co-defendants. But he overreached himself by this hypocrisy,
and obliged Mr. Bradlaugh to put his co-defendants into the witness-box.
We were formally tendered as witnesses, Mr. Bradlaugh going no further,
and leaving Sir Hardinge Giffard to do as he would. Of course he was
obliged to interrogate us, or look foolish after his braggadocio, and
in doing so he ruined his own case by giving us the opportunity! of
declaring that Mr. Bradlaugh was never in any way connected with the
_Freethinker_.
Mr. Bradlaugh, of course, did not in any sense sacrifice me. It would
have been contemptible on my part to let him bear any responsibility for
my own deliberate action, in which he was not at all implicated, and
if I had not been tendered as a witness I should have tried to tender
myself.
After half an hour's deliberation the jury found Mr. Bradlaugh not
guilty. Standing up for the verdict, with pale set face, the grateful
little "not" fell upon his ear, and his rigidity relaxed. Tears started
to _my_ eyes, and I saw the tears in _his_ eyes as I squeezed his hand
in speechless congratulation.
My own trial followed Mr. Bradlaugh's, and I was not found guilty. Three
members of the jury held out against a verdict that would have disgraced
a free country; and as the prosecution despaired of obtaining a verdict
while Lord Coleridge presided at the trial, the Attorney-General was
asked to allow the abandonment of proceedings. This he granted, the case
was struck off the list, and I returned to my prison cell at Holloway.
Let me now go back to the crowning incident of that long struggle
between Charles Bradlaugh and the House of Commons. On May 10, 1881, the
House passed a resolution authorising the Sergeant-at-Arms to prevent
Mr. Bradlaugh from entering. On June 20, the jury gave a verdict in Mr.
Newdegate's favor for the £500 penalty and costs. A motion for a new
trial failed, and Mr. Bradlaugh appealed to the country. Enthusiastic
meetings were held in his behalf, and he prepared a fresh _coup_. It had
to be something striking, and it was. On the morning of August 3 Palace
Yard and Westminster Hall were thronged with his supporters. Every one
was armed with a petition, which he had a legal right to take to the
House of Commons. Mr. Bradlaugh himself drove up in a hansom cab, and
entered the precincts of the House by the private door. He made his way
to the door of the House itself and tried to enter by a sudden effort,
but he was seized by fourteen officials and stalwart policemen, picked
for the work, and thrust back through the private passage into Palace
Yard. Not expecting such indignity, he contested every inch of the
ground. Inspector Denning said he never thought that one man could
have offered such resistance. The small muscles of both his arms
were ruptured, and a subsequent attack of erysipelas put his life in
jeopardy.
When he was finally thrust on to the pavement in Palace Yard his coat
was torn and the rest of his garments were disarranged. His face was
livid with the intense exertion when I saw him a minute afterwards.
There he stood, a great mass of panting, valiant manhood, his features
set like granite, and his eyes fixed upon the doorway before him. He
seemed to see nothing but that doorway. I spoke to him, and he seemed
not to hear. I believe a mighty struggle was going on within him,
perhaps the greatest struggle of his life. He had suffered a frightful
indignity, he must have been tempted to avenge it, and he had but to
hold up his hand to bring around and behind him the myriads who stood
outside the railings. The action would have been impolitic, but what a
temptation he crushed down, and what an effort it necessitated. Never
was his heroic nature more sorely tried. He justified his mastery of
others by his mastery of himself. How small in comparison seemed the
mob of his enemies! I never admired him more than at that moment. He was
superb, sublime. They had wound their meshes about him, and the lion had
burst them. One swift, daring stroke had frustrated all their plans. He
who was to be quietly suppressed by resolutions of the House had cut
the knot of their policy asunder, made himself the hero of the hour, and
fixed the nation's eyes on his splendid audacity.
Reaction set in after that terrible struggle, and he accepted a chair
that was brought him. Several members passed as he sat there. One of
them was the coward, Frank Hugh O'Donnell. He had a lady on his arm,
and he passed with her between himself and Mr. Bradlaugh, so that
her dress trailed over the hero's feet. It was a wretched display of
insolence and cowardice. But the lady must be exonerated. She looked
annoyed, her cheeks reddened, and her eyelids fell. It is so hard for
a woman to resist the attraction of courage, and the coward by her side
must have suffered in her estimation.
There was a crowded meeting that evening at the Hall of Science,
at which I had the honor of speaking, Mr. Bradlaugh's greeting was
tremendous. Two days afterwards he was seriously ill.
During that great constitutional struggle I was present at many
"Bradlaugh" meetings, and I never witnessed such enthusiasm as he
excited. No man of my time had such a devoted following.
The last "Bradlaugh" demonstration I attended was on February 15, 1883,
in Trafalgar-square. Seventy or eighty thousand people were present.
There were four speakers, and three of them are dead, Joseph Arch being
the sole survivor. Mr. Adams, of Northampton, lived to see his old
friend take his seat and do good work in the House of Commons, became
himself Mayor of Northampton, and died universally respected by his
fellow-townsmen; William Sharman, a brave, true man, is buried at
Preston; and Charles Bradlaugh sleeps his long sleep at Woking.
For another twelve months I attended no public meetings except the
silent ones on the exercise ground of Holloway Gaol, But I saw Mr.
Bradlaugh at several demonstrations on various subjects after my
imprisonment, and I could perceive no abatement of his popularity. He
had his enemies and detractors, but the spontaneous outburst of feeling
at his death proved his hold on the popular heart.
I must now leap forward to that dreadful illness which left him a
broken man. Years before, in 1882, when we were roaming the Law Courts
together, he tapped his chest as he coughed, and seeing my anxious
expression he told me that he brought up a good deal of phlegm in the
morning, and that strangers who heard him clearing his chest would
fancy he was very ill. But he looked so well that I soon dismissed the
unpleasant fact, though it returned before his breakdown when I saw
he was obliged to cancel engagements. I heard in 1884, though not from
himself, that he had some heart trouble. But I was far from prepared for
the shattering illness that laid him low in October, 1889.
When I called to see him after his partial recovery I was shocked by his
appearance. He looked twenty years older, grey, and infirm. I sat down
half-dazed. Theoretically I knew he was mortal, but I did not realise it
as a fact until I saw him thin and pale from the valley of the shadow of
death. His mind was clear enough, however; and although everything about
him was pathetic he was quite self-collected.
One thing he said to me I shall never forget. There had been talk of his
wavering in his Freethought, and as he referred to this folly he spoke
in grave impressive tones. Pointing to the humble bed, he said, "When
I lay there and all was black the thing that troubled me least was the
convictions of my life."
Words and accents were alike solemn. The cold shadow of death seemed to
linger in the room. A moment or two later he said with a broken voice,
"The Freethought party is a party that I love."
The memory of that interview will always be a precious possession. I
treasure it with the sacred things of my life. I had seen and touched
the naked sincerity of a great soul.
When Mr. Bradlaugh returned from India I called on him, and found him
greatly improved by his voyage. I waited for him a few minutes in his
library, as he was at lunch, and the doctors attached great importance
to regularity in his meals. He came into the room with a most genial
smile. His air was fresh and buoyant, and he walked over to me quickly,
holding out his hand all the way. I took it heartily, and had a good
look at him, which satisfied and yet dissatisfied me. He was certainly
better, but I could not help feeling that his constitution was
irrecoverably broken. Never again could I hope to see the grand
Bradlaugh of the old fighting days. His mind was as brave and alert as
ever, but the body was too obviously disabled.
He showed me some of his Indian presents, of which he was justly proud,
and then we sat down to chat. He was full of his voyage and the kindness
he had experienced on every side. His reception in India had exceeded
his highest anticipations, and he was looking forward to work in the
House of Commons on behalf of our great Dependency.
Speaking of his financial prospects, he told me he had received offers
of work from several magazine editors. But he added, "one doesn't know
how long it will last; 'tis a precarious business." His face clouded for
a moment, and I saw he was more troubled than he cared to say.
One thing he told me which I had no right to repeat while he lived, but
I may repeat it without a breach of confidence now that he is dead.
During his brief stay in India he could have had plenty of money if
he had been less scrupulous. There was nothing very dishonourable in
accepting money from rich Hindoos, for he was poor and broken in health,
and he was fighting for their best interests. But he was too proud to
take it, and when wealthy natives were calling on him, he always took
the precaution to have an English friend in the room.
"No," he said to me, "I cannot do that. I'll live like the old
Bradlaugh, or I'll go under."
He lived like the old Bradlaugh, and he went under. He took to the
platform again to earn a livelihood, and it killed him, as his doctors
had foreseen. I implored him at the time not to resume the lecturing. He
was going to fulfil an old-standing engagement at Manchester in the
vast St. James's Hall, and I begged him to cancel it. He replied that he
could not afford to forfeit twenty pounds. "What is that to your life?"
I asked. He only smiled grimly. His mind was made up, and he was not to
be bent by advice.
On Sunday morning, February 16, 1890, Mr. Bradlaugh resigned his
presidency of the National Secular Society, which he had held for so
many years. The Hall of Science was packed with members, chiefly from
the London district, but many of them from the provinces.
The scene was infinitely pathetic. One sentiment reigned in every heart.
The Old Guard was taking leave of its General. Some of them had fought
around him for thirty years, and the farewell was a mutilation of their
very lives. Tears were streaming down strong faces; and they coursed
down the strongest face of all, the face of Charles Bradlaugh, and
plashed on the table before him. For a while he let them fall, and then
he controlled his grief and rose to speak. But the words would not come.
His frame shook with a great sob, and he sat down again. A second time
he rose and failed. But the third time his strong will prevailed, and he
began to speak in low, trembling tones.
Never was I so struck with his oratorical powers as on this occasion.
Without once lifting his voice above the note of conversation, he swayed
the meeting for a full half-hour, as easily and universally as the wind
billows a cornfield.
In resigning the presidency he thought it his duty to nominate a
successor, and his choice was ratified by the meeting. He handed me the
president's hammer after a solemn, impressive apostrophe, in which he
expressed his hope that he might thank me, after many years, for good,
loyal work as leader; and when I had acknowledged the lofty honor he
rose to vacate the chair. Naturally I declined to let him do anything of
the kind, and for a moment the two Presidents stood together in friendly
altercation. But for once he gave way, and Charles Bradlaugh filled the
chair to the last.
Resigning the Presidency did not mean retirement from the National
Secular Society. At his own suggestion Mr. Bradlaugh was elected a
life-member. He was thus a member of the Society up to the last moment
of his life. Nor was he an inactive one. I frequently had occasion to
consult him, and one of his last bits of work was the drawing up of a
long document for the Society on Secular Burials.
Months rolled by, and the evening came for the great debate on the Eight
flours Bill between Mr. Bradlaugh and Mr. Hyndman. St. James's Hall was
packed to suffocation. I sat on the platform near my old leader, and
I saw how the effort was telling on him. His opponents in the meeting
behaved with incredible brutality. Some of them laughed aloud when he
said, "Believe me, this has tried me more than I had thought." But now
the hero they laughed at is dead, and they _know_ that he spoke the
truth.
The last time I saw Mr. Bradlaugh in public was on Wednesday evening,
December 10, 1890, when he lectured at the Hall of Science on behalf
of the Forder Testimonial Fund. I believe that was the last lecture he
delivered there, if not the last lecture he delivered anywhere. He dealt
with the Evidences of Christianity, in reference to Archdeacon Watkins'
lectures on the Fourth Gospel, and assuredly he was as firmly sceptical
as ever. At the close of the lecture he spoke of his theological
position, and declared that he could not conceive of any such change of
mind as glib gossipers were asserting of him.
The weather was extremely foggy, and Mr. Bradlaugh was ill. He ought
not to have been there at all. After struggling painfully through the
lecture, he sat down and waited for discussion. A Christian opponent
rose, and Mr. Bradlaugh replied; but, being in the chair, I would not
allow a second speech, and I was glad to see him well wrapt-up, and once
more in the care of his devoted daughter.
*****
Having concluded my reminiscences of Charles Bradlaugh in relation to
the _events_ of his life, I shall wind up with a little personal talk of
a more general character.
I have already referred to Mr. Bradlaugh's extraordinary knowledge
of the law. This was strikingly illustrated after the so-called
Trafalgar-square riots. The Tories made a wanton aggression on the right
of public meeting in London, and found a ready instrument of tyranny
in Sir Charles Warren. No doubt there is much to be said against
promiscuous meetings in Trafalgar-square at all hours of the day and
night, but it was a high-handed act of brutality to prohibit _all_
meetings directly it was known that the London Radicals were convening
a Sunday demonstration on the Irish question. While the Radicals were
chafing under this insult they held several stormy meetings to discuss
their best policy, and at last a Committee was appointed to find out, if
possible, the legal rights, of the people and the Crown. I was a member
of that committee, and I am able to state that although we waited on
several eminent lawyers, it was only from Mr. Bradlaugh that we obtained
any light. The others talked vaguely about the right of public meeting,
and the primary and secondary uses of public thoroughfares, but Mr.
Bradlaugh gave us the _facts_ of the case. Trafalgar-square was Crown
property, its control was vested in the Commissioner of Works, and at
any moment it could be absolutely closed to the British public.
This had escaped the other lawyers, who did not find it in the Statutes
at Large, from which the Trafalgar-square Act, probably as being a
private one, had been excluded. Nor was it known to the Government when
Sir Charles Warren issued his first proclamation, As Chief Commissioner
of Police he had no authority-over the Square, and until he obtained
the order of its proper guardians, which he did a week later, his
proclamation was only a piece of waste paper, Mr. Bradlaugh saw this,
though he said nothing, when the demonstration committee called upon him
a few days before Bloody Sunday. He told them that he had an
engagement in the provinces on that day, but if they would postpone the
demonstration until the following Sunday he would himself lead it to
Trafalgar-square. His offer was not accepted, however; for the committee
resented the condition he stipulated, namely, that he should have
absolute control of the arrangements. They thought he was taking too
much upon himself. They did not reflect that if he who takes power
without responsibility is a despot, he who takes responsibility without
power is a fool. It was their action, and not his, that lost the battle.
Mr. Bradlaugh made no public parade of his brave offer. It was not his
way. But it is due to his memory that it should be put on record, so
that posterity may know the extent of his generous courage.
There can be no doubt, I think, that Mr. Bradlaugh was less popular with
the working-classes in London after he took peaceable possession of his
seat in Parliament. The London masses love a fighter, and while he was
battling for his seat he was, in my opinion, the most popular figure in
the metropolis. The Radical workmen never tired of his demonstrations.
He could bring fifty or a hundred thousand of them together at a few
days' notice. And the other speakers were, for the most part, only
padding to fill up the time. It was "Bradlaugh" the multitude came for.
They waited to hear him speak, they applauded him to the skies, and when
he had done they dispersed. And on such occasions he was magnificent. No
one can conceive the power of the man who never saw him at one of
these demonstrations. He stood like a Pharos, and the light of his face
kindled the crests of the living waves around him.
But he was out of sympathy with the Socialist movement, which began to
spread just as he took his seat; and being assiduous in Parliament,
he was drawn more and more from "the Clubs," where his libellers
and detractors wagged their tongues to some purpose. His strong
individualism, as well as his practical good sense, made him bitterly
hostile to the mildest proposals for putting the people's industrial
interests into the hands of Government departments. And being a man of
most positive quality, it was natural that he should excite the hatred
of the more fanatical Socialists; a sentiment which, I cannot help
thinking, he exasperated by his apparent denial of the generosity of
their aims. There are men in the Socialist camp (and I say it without
being a Socialist) who are neither "poets" nor "fools"--though it is
no disgrace to be the former; men who have studied with severity
and sincerity, who have made sacrifices for conviction, and who were
sometimes hurt by his antipathy. But, on the other hand, he was bitterly
goaded by Socialist adversaries, who denied his honesty, and held him up
to undeserved scorn as the hireling of "the classes"--a charge which the
more sensitive among them must now repent, for his death has revealed
his poverty.
Mr. Bradlaugh was naturally irritable, but the irritability was only on
the surface. The waves were easily raised, but there was plenty of quiet
sea beneath. Though giants are often phlegmatic, his big frame embedded
highly-strung nerves. When he was put out he could storm, and he was
misunderstood by those who took the mood for the man. Had they seen him
in the melting mood they would have learnt that Charles Bradlaugh was a
more composite personality than they imagined.
During the last year or two of his life he underwent a wonderful
softening. A beautiful Indian-summer light rested upon him. He was like
a granite rock, which the sweet grass has overgrown, and from whose
crevices peep lovely wild flowers.
*****
As President of the National Secular Society he did a great work. I do
not think he had a pronounced faculty for organisation. But he was a
firm, sagacious leader, with the personal magnetism to attract devotion.
That he was never overbearing I will not affirm. But it is easy to
organise sheep. One good dog will do it. Mr. Bradlaugh had to hold
together a different species, with leaping legs, butting horns, and a
less gregarious tendency.
He was a splendid chairman to push through a mass of business, but he
shone less on ordinary occasions. An ideal chairman, when not promoting
his own schemes, should be like a midwife; he should aim at a quick
delivery and a safe birth. Mr. Bradlaugh did not always observe this
rule. But every man has the defects of his qualities, and even the sun
must be taken with its spots.