Were I persuaded, as many are, that each person is a subject of
Providential care, I might count myself as one of the well-favoured. I
should do so, did it not demand unseemly egotism to believe the Supreme
Master of all the worlds of the Universe gave a portion of His eternal
time to personally guide my unimportant footsteps, or snatch me from
harm, which might befall me on doing my duty, or when I inadvertently,
negligently, or ignorantly put myself in the way of disaster. Whatever
may be the explanation, I have oft been saved in jeopardy.
The first specific deliverance occurred when I was a young man, in the
Baskeville Mill, Birmingham. Working at a button lathe, the kerchief
round my neck was caught by the "chock," and I saw myself drawn swiftly
to it. To avert being strangled, I held back my neck with what force I
could. All would have been in vain had not a friendly Irishman, who was
grinding spectacle glasses in an adjoining room, come to my assistance,
by which I escaped decapitation without benefit of the clergy, or the
merciful swiftness of the guillotine.
In days when the cheap train ran very early in the morning, I set out
before daylight from Exeter, where I had been lecturing. At the station
at which the train stopped for an hour or two, as was the custom in days
before the repeal of the tax on third-class passengers, we were in
what Omar Khayyam called the "false dawn of morning." The train did
not properly draw up to the platform, and when I stepped out I had a
considerable fall, which sprained my ankle and went near breaking my
neck.
On my arrival in Boston, 1879, I was invited by a newspaper friend, whom
I had brought with me into the city, to join a party of pressmen who
were to assemble next morning at Parker House, to report upon the test
ascent of a new elevator. It happened that Mr. Wendell Phillips visited
me early at Adam's House, before I was up. He sat familiarly on the
bedrail, and proposed to drive me round the city and show me the
historic glories of Boston, which being proud to accept, I sent an
apology for my absence to the elevator party at Parker House. That
morning the elevator broke down, and out of five pressmen who went into
it only four were rescued--more or less in a state of pulp. One was
killed. But for Mr. Phillips's fortunate visit I should have been among
them.
In Kansas City, in the same year (1879), I was taken by my transatlantic
friend, Mr. James Charlton, to see a sugar bakery, concerning which I
was curious. The day was hot enough to singe the beard of Satan, and
I was glad to retreat into the bakery, which, however, I found still
hotter, and I left, intending to return at a cooler hour next morning.
At the time I was to arrive I heard that the whole building had fallen
in. Some were killed and many injured. This was the City of Kansas, of
which the mayor once said: "He wished the people would let some one die
a natural death, that a stranger might know how healthy the city was.
Accidents, duels, and shootings prevented cases of longevity occurring."
Another occasion when misadventure took place, when we--my daughter,
Mrs. Marsh, and I--were crossing the Tesuque Valley, below Santa Fe,
the party occupied three carriages; road, there was none, and the
horses knew it, and when they came to a difficulty--either a ravine
or hill--the driver would give the horses the rein, when they spread
themselves out with good sagacity, and descended or ascended with
success. One pair of horses broke the spring of their carriage, making
matters unpleasant to the occupants; another pair broke the shaft,
which, cutting them, made them mad, and they ran away. The carriage in
which I was remained sound, and I had the pleasure for once of watching
the misfortunes of my friends.
The river was low, the sand was soft, and the distance through the
Tesuque River was considerable, and we calculated that no horses were
mad enough to continue their efforts to run through it, and we were
rewarded by seeing them alter their minds in the midst of it, and
continue their journey in a sensible manner.
Returning from Guelph, which lies below Hamilton, in the Niagara corner
of Canada, where we had been to see the famous Agricultural College, we
were one night on the railway in what the Scotch call the "gloaming." My
daughter remarked that the scenery outside the carriage was more fixed
than she had before observed it, and upon inquiry it appeared that we
were fixed too--for the train had parted in the middle, and the movable
portion had gone peacefully on its way to Hamilton. We were left forming
an excellent obstruction to any other train which might come down the
line. Fortunately, the guard could see the last station we had left,
two miles from us, and see also the train following us arrive there. We
hoped that the stationmaster would have some knowledge of our being upon
the line, and stop the advancing train; but when we saw it leave the
station on its way to us we were all ordered to leave the carriages,
which was no easy thing, as the banks right and left of us were
steep, and the ditch at the base was deep. However, our friends, Mr.
Littlehales and Mr. Smith, being strong of arm and active on a hill,
very soon drew us up to a point where we could observe a collision with
more satisfaction than when in the carriages. Fortunately, the man who
bore the only lamp left us, and who was sent on to intercept the train,
succeeded in doing it. Ultimately we arrived at Hamilton only two hours
late. When we were all safely at home, one lady, who accompanied us,
fainted--which showed admirable judgment to postpone that necessary
operation until it was no longer an inconvenience. One lady fainted in
the midst of the trouble, which only increased it. The excitement made
fainting sooner or later justifiable, although an impediment, but I was
glad to observe my daughter did not think it necessary to faint at any
time.
As we were leaving the sleepy Falls of Montmorency in the carriage,
we looked out to see whether the Frenchman had got sight of us, fully
expecting he would take a chaise and come after us to collect some other
impost which we had evaded paying. The sun was in great force, and I was
reposing in its delicious rays, thinking how delightful it was to
ride into Quebec on such a day, when in an instant of time we were all
dispersed about the road. In a field hard by, where a great load of
lumber as high as a house was piled, a boy who was extracting a log set
the upper logs rolling. This frightened the horses. They were two black
steeds of high spirit, and therefore very mad when alarmed. Had they run
on in their uncontrollable state, they would, if they escaped vehicles
on the way, have arrived at a narrow bridge where unknown mischief must
have occurred. The driver, who was a strongly built Irishman, about
sixty, with good judgment and intrepidity, instantly threw the horses
on to the fence, which they broke, got into the ditch, and seriously cut
their knees. I leaped out into the ditch with a view to help my daughter
out of the carriage; but she, nimbler than I, intending to render me the
same service, arrived at the ditch, and assisted me out, merely asking
"whether four quietly disposed persons being distributed over the
Dominion at a minute's notice was a mode of travelling in Canada?"
Mrs. Hall, who was riding with us, also escaped unhurt Her husband
deliberately remained some time to see what the horses were going to do,
but finding them frantic, he also abandoned the carriage.
Later, in England, being Ashton way, I paid a visit to my friend the
Rev. Joseph Rayner Stephens, whose voice, in early Chartist times, was
the most eloquent in the two counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire.
He fought the "New Poor Law" and the "Long Timers" in the Ten Hours'
agitation. His views were changed in many respects, but that did not
alter my regard for his Chartist services--and there remained his varied
affluence of language, his fitly chosen terms, his humorous statement,
his exactness of expression and strong coherence, in which the sequence
of his reasoning never disappeared through the crevice of a sentence.
All this made his conversation always charming and instructive.
After lecturing in the Temperance Hall and the "evening was far spent,"
a cab was procured to take me to Mr. Stephens's at the "Hollins." A
friend, Mr. Scott, in perfect wanton courtesy, having no presentiment
in his mind, would accompany me. When we arrived at Stalybridge (where
there is a real bridge), the cabman, instead of driving over it, drove
against it. I thought, perhaps, this was the way with Ashton cabmen;
but my friend came to a different conclusion. He said the cabman had not
taken the "pledge" that afternoon. I was told Ashton cabmen needed to
take it often. The driver, resenting our remonstrance, drove wildly down
a narrow, ugly, deserted street, which he found at hand. It was all the
same to me, who did not know one street from the other. My friend, who
knew there was no outlet save into the river, called out violently to
cabby to stop. The only effect was that he drove more furiously.
Mr. Scott leaped out and seized the horse, and prevented my being
overthrown. Before us were the remains of an old building, with the
cellars all open, in one of which we should soon have descended. Cabby
would have killed his horse, and probably himself, which no doubt would
have been an advantage to Ashton.
As the place was deserted I should have been found next morning curled
up and inarticulate. We paid our dangerous driver his full fare to that
spot, and advised him to put himself in communication with a temperance
society. He abused us as "not being gentlemen" for stopping his cab in
that unhandsome way.
The next morning I went to the scene of the previous night's adventure.
Had Mr. Henley, the loud, coarse-tongued member for Oxfordshire at that
time, seen the place, he would have said we were making an "ugly rush"
for the river. Not that we should ever have reached the river, for we
should certainly have broken our necks in the brick vaults our driver
was whipping his horse into.
As I needed another cab on my arrival at Euston, I selected a
quiet-looking white horse, and a Good Templar-looking cabman, first
asking the superintendent what he thought of him. "O, he's all right,"
was the answer, and things went pleasantly until we arrived at a narrow,
winding street. I was thinking of my friend, Mr. Stephens, and of the
concert which at that hour he had daily in his bedroom, when I
was suddenly jerked off my seat and found the white horse on the
foot-pavement. I stepped out and adjured the cabman, "By the carpet-bag
of St Peter" (no more suitable adjuration presented itself on the
occasion), to tell me what he was at. I said,
"Are you from Ashton?" "Nothing the matter, sir. All right Jump in. Only
my horse shied at the costermonger's carrot-cart there. She's a capital
horse, only she's apt to shy." I answered, "Yes; and unless I change my
mode of travelling by cabs, I shall become shy myself."
Late one night, after the close of the Festive Co-operative Meeting
in Huddersfield, a cab was fetched for me from the fair--it being fair
time. The messenger knew it was a bad night for the whip, as he might
be "touched in the head" by the festivities, so he said to cabby: "Now,
though it is fair night, you must do the fair thing by this fare. He
does not mind spreading principles, but he objects to being spread
himself." Cabby came with alacrity. He thought he had to take some
"boozing cuss" about the fair, with an occasional pull up at the "Spread
Eagle." When he found me issuing from a temperance hotel, bound for
Fernbrook, he did not conceal his disappointment by tongue or whip, and
jerked his horse like a Bashi-Bazouk when a Montenegrin is after him.
I cared nothing, as I had made up my mind not to say another word about
cabs if they broke my neck. I knew we had a stout hill before us, which
would bring things quiet The next day the hotel people, who saw the
cabman's rage, said they thought there was mischief in store for me.
They knew nothing of Ashton ways, and their apprehensions were original.
After a pleasant sojourn in Brighton, where the November sun is bright,
and the fogs are thin, grey and graceful, softening the glare of the
white coast, tempering it to the sensitive sight, I returned to London
one cold, frosty day, when snow and ice made the streets slippery. I had
chosen a cabman whose solid, honest face was assuring, and being lumpy
and large himself I thought he would keep his "four-wheeler" steady by
his own weight. Being himself lame and rheumatic, he appeared one who
would prefer quiet driving for his own sake. We went on steadily until
we reached Pall Mall, when he turned sharply up Suffolk Street. Looking
out, I called to my friend on the box, saying, "This is not Essex
Street" "Beg your pardon, sir, I thought you said Suffolk Street," and
began to turn his horse round. In that street the ground rises, and the
carriage-way is convex and narrow, it required skill to turn the cab,
and the cabman was wanting therein. He said his rein had caught, and
when he thought he was pulling the horse round, the horse had taken a
different view of his intention, and imagined he was backing him, and,
giving me the benefit of the doubt, did back, and overturned the cab,
and me too. Not liking collisions of late, I had, on leaving Brighton,
wrapped myself in a railway cloak, that it might act as a sort of buffer
in case of bumping--yet not expecting I should require it so soon.
Seeing what the horse was at, and taking what survey I could of the
situation, I found I was being driven against the window of the house in
which Cobden died. I have my own taste as to the mode in which I should
like to be killed. To be run over by a butcher's cart, or smashed by a
coal train or brewer's van is not my choice; but being killed in Pall
Mall is more eligible, yet not satisfactory.
As I had long lived in Pall Mall, I knew the habits of the place.
There is a gradation of killing in the streets of London, well-known
to West-end cabmen. As they enter Trafalgar Square, they run over the
passenger without ceremony. At Waterloo Place, where gentlemen wander
about, they merely knock you down, but as they enter Club-land, which
begins at Pall Mall West, where Judges and Cabinet Ministers and members
of Parliament abound, they merely run at you; so I knew I was on the
spot where death is never inflicted. Therefore I took hold of the strap
on the opposite side of the cab to that on which I saw I should fall.
For better being able to look after my portmanteau, I had it with me,
and, fortunately had placed it on the side on which I fell. Placing
myself against it when the crash came, and the glass broke, I was saved
from my face being cut by it. My hat was crushed, and head bruised. It
was impossible to open the door, which was then above me, and had the
horse taken to kicking, as is the manner of these animals when in doubt,
it would have fared ill with me. Possibly the horse was a member of the
Peace Society, and showed no belligerent tendency; more likely he was
tired, and glad of the opportunity of resting himself. The street, which
seemed empty, was quickly filled, as though people sprang out of the
ground. Two Micawbers who were looking out for anything which "turned
up," or turned over, came and forced open the cab-door at the top, and
dragged me up, somewhat dazed, my hat off, my grey hair dishevelled,
my blue spectacles rather awry on my face--I was sensible of a
newly-contrived, music-hall appearance as my shoulders peered above the
cab. A spirit merchant near kindly invited me into his house, where some
cold brandy and water given to me seemed more agreeable and refreshing
than it ever did before or since. The cab had been pulled together
somehow. My rheumatic friend on the box had been picked up not much the
worse--possibly the fall had done his rheumatism good. I thought it a
pity the poor fellow should lose his fare as well as his windows, and so
continued my journey with him.
On one occasion, after an enchanted evening in the suburbs of
Kensington, a fog came on. The driver of the voiture drove into an
enclosure of stables, and went round and round. Noticing there was a
recurring recess, I kept the door open until we arrived at it again, and
leapt into it as we passed again. When the driver, who was bewildered,
came round a third time, I surprised him by shouts, and advised him to
let his horse take us out by the way he came in. There was no house, or
light, or person to be seen, and there was the prospect of a night in
the cold, tempered by contingent accident.
Having engaged to be surety for the son of a Hindoo judge, who was about
to enter as a student in the Inns of Court, a new adventure befel me. I
had accepted from his father the appointment of guardian of his son. My
ward was a young man of many virtues, save that of punctuality. As he
did not appear by appointment, I set out in search of him. Crossing
Trafalgar Square I found myself suddenly confronted by two horses'
heads. An omnibus had come down upon me. It flashed through my mind
that, as I had often said, I was in more danger of being killed in
the streets of London than in any foreign city or on the sea; and I
concluded the occasion had come. I knew no more until I found myself
lying on my back in the mud after rain, but, seeing an aperture
between the two wheels, I made an attempt to crawl through. A crowd of
spectators had gathered round and voices shouted to me to remain where I
was until the wheels were drawn from me. Lying down in the mud again was
new to me. There was nothing over me but the omnibus, and as I had never
seen the bottom of one before, I examined it.
It happened that a surgeon of the Humane Society was among the
spectators, who assisted in raising me up, and took me to the society's
rooms close by, where I was bathed and vaseline applied to my bruises.
My overcoat was torn and spoiled, but I was not much hurt. The hoof
of one horse had made black part of one arm. It appears I had fallen
between them, and had it not been for their intelligent discrimination I
might have been killed. I sent two bags of the fattest feeding cake
the Co-operative Agricultural Association could supply, as a present to
those two horses. I had no other means of showing my gratitude to them.
I was not so grateful to the Humane Society's surgeon, who sent me in
a bill for two guineas for attendance upon me, and threatened me with
legal proceedings if I did not pay it. As he accompanied me to the
National Liberal Club, whence I had set out, I sent him one guinea for
that courtesy, and heard no more of him, and did not want to.
One evening, after leaving a Co-operative Board Meeting in Leman Street,
Whitechapel, I incautiously stepped into the roadway to hail a cab, when
a lurry came round a corner behind me and knocked me into the mud, which
was very prevalent that day. Some bystanders picked me up, and one,
good-naturedly, lent me a handkerchief with which to clear my face and
head, both being blackened and bleeding. The policeman who took charge
of me asked me where I wanted to be taken. I answered that I was on my
way to Fleet Street to an assembly of the Institute of Journalists to
meet M. Zola, then on a visit to us. "I think, sir," said the reflective
policeman, "we had better take you to the London Hospital," and another
policeman accompanied me in a passing tram, which went by the hospital
door. After some dreary waiting in the accident ward it was found that
I had no rib or bone broken, but my nose and forehead were bound up with
grim-looking plasters, and when I arrived at the hotel, four miles
away, where I was residing, and entered the commercial room, I had the
appearance of a prize-fighter, who had had a bad time of it in the ring.
Knowing the second day of an accident was usually the worst, I took an
early train home while I could move. My ribs, though not broken, were
all painful, and I remember squealing for a fortnight on being taken out
of bed. After my last adventure the Accident Insurance Company (though I
had never troubled them but once) refused to accept any further premium
from me, which I had paid twenty or thirty years, and left me to deal
with further providential escapes from my own resources.
Thinking I was safe in Brighton near my own home, I was walking up the
Marine Parade, one quiet Sunday morning, when a gentleman on a bicycle
rushed down a bye street and knocked me down with a bound. Seeing two
ladies crossing the street I concluded matters were safe. The rider told
me that he had seen the ladies and had arranged to clear them, but as I
stepped forward he could not clear me, so gave me the preference. As I
had always been in favour of the rights of women, I said he did rightly,
though the result was not to my mind. He had the courtesy to accompany
me to my door, apologising for what he had done, but left me to pay the
bill of the physician, who was called in to examine me. When I recovered
my proper senses I found he had not left his card. Though I advertised
for him, he made no reappearance.
Another serene Sunday morning I was crossing the Old Steine with a
son-in-law; nothing was to be seen in motion save a small dog-cart,
which had passed before we stepped into the road. Soon we found
ourselves both thrown to the ground with violence. A huge dog, as
large as the "Hound of the Baskervilles" described by Conan Doyle, had
loitered behind and suddenly discovered his master had driven ahead, and
he, like a Leming rat, made straight for his master, quite regardless of
our being in his way.
In these and other adventures or _mis_-adventures, I need not say I
was never killed, though the escapes were narrow. To say they were
providential escapes would be to come under the rebuke of Archbishop
Whately, who, when a curate reported himself as providentially saved
from the terrible wreck of the _Amazon_, asked: "I to understand that
all less fortunate passengers were providentially drowned?" The belief
that the Deity is capricious or partial in His mercies is a form of
holy egotism which better deserves indictment than many errors of speech
which have been so visited. I have no theory of my many exemptions from
fatal consequences. All I can say is that, had I been a saint, I could
not have been more fortunate.