Book 6 Chapter 1
“Another week,” exclaimed a gentleman in Downing Street on the 5th
of August, 1842, “and we shall be prorogued. You can surely keep the
country quiet for another week.”
“I cannot answer for the public peace for another four-and-twenty
hours,” replied his companion.
“This business at Manchester must be stopped at once; you have a good
force there?”
“Manchester is nothing; these are movements merely to distract. The
serious work is not now to be apprehended in the cotton towns. The state
of Staffordshire and Warwickshire is infinitely more menacing. Cheshire
and Yorkshire alarm me. The accounts from Scotland are as bad as can be.
And though I think the sufferings of ‘39 will keep Birmingham and the
Welch collieries in check, we cannot venture to move any of our force
from those districts.”
“You must summon a council for four o’clock. I have some deputations to
receive which I will throw over; but to Windsor I must go. Nothing has
yet occurred to render any notice of the state of the country necessary
in the speech from the Throne.”
“Not yet,” said his companion; “but what will to-morrow bring forth?”
“After all it is only a turn-out. I cannot recast her Majesty’s speech
and bring in rebellion and closed mills, instead of loyalty and a good
harvest.”
“It would be a bore. Well, we will see to-morrow;” and the colleague
left the room.
“And now for these deputations,” said the gentleman in Downing Street,
“of all things in the world I dislike a deputation. I do not care how
much I labour in the Closet or the house; that’s real work; the machine
is advanced. But receiving a deputation is like sham marching: an
immense dust and no progress. To listen to their views! As if I did
not know what their views were before they stated them! And to put on
a countenance of respectful candour while they are developing their
exploded or their impracticable systems. Were it not that at a practised
crisis, I permit them to see conviction slowly stealing over my
conscience, I believe the fellows would never stop. I cannot really
receive these deputations. I must leave them to Hoaxem,” and the
gentleman in Downing Street rang his bell.
“Well, Mr Hoaxem,” resumed the gentleman in Downing Street as that
faithful functionary entered, “there are some deputations I understand,
to-day. You must receive them, as I am going to Windsor. What are they?”
“There are only two, sir, of moment. The rest I could easily manage.”
“And these two?”
“In the first place, there is our friend Colonel Bosky, the members for
the county of Calfshire, and a deputation of tenant farmers.”
“Pah!”
“These must be attended to. The members have made a strong
representation to me that they really cannot any longer vote with
government unless the Treasury assists them in satisfying their
constituents.”
“And what do they want?”
“Statement of grievances; high taxes and low prices; mild expostulations
and gentle hints that they have been thrown over by their friends;
Polish corn, Holstein cattle, and British income tax.”
“Well you know what to say,” said the gentleman in Downing Street. “Tell
them generally that they are quite mistaken; prove to them particularly
that my only object has been to render protection more protective, by
making it practical and divesting it of the surplusage of odium; that
no foreign corn can come in at fifty-five shillings; that there are not
enough cattle in all Holstein to supply the parish of Pancras daily
with beef-steaks; and that as for the income tax, they will be amply
compensated for it by their diminished cost of living through the agency
of that very tariff of which they are so superficially complaining.”
“Their diminished cost of living!” said Mr Hoaxem a little confused.
“Would not that assurance, I humbly suggest, clash a little with my
previous demonstration that we had arranged that no reduction of prices
should take place?”
“Not at all; your previous demonstration is of course true, but at the
same time you must impress upon them the necessity of general views to
form an opinion of particular instances. As for example a gentleman of
five thousand pounds per annum pays to the income tax, which by the bye
always call property tax, one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Well,
I have materially reduced the duties on eight hundred articles. The
consumption of each of those articles by an establishment of five
thousand pounds per annum cannot be less than one pound per article. The
reduction of price cannot be less than a moiety; therefore a saving
of four hundred per annum; which placed against the deduction of the
property tax leaves a clear increase of income of two hundred and fifty
pounds per annum; by which you see that a property tax in fact increases
income.”
“I see,” said Mr Hoaxem with an admiring glance. “And what am I to say
to the deputation of the manufacturers of Mowbray complaining of the
great depression of trade, and the total want of remunerating profits?”
“You must say exactly the reverse,” said the gentleman in Downing
Street. “Show them how much I have done to promote the revival of trade.
First of all in making provisions cheaper; cutting off at one blow half
the protection on corn, as for example at this moment under the old
law the duty on foreign wheat would have been twenty-seven shillings
a quarter; under the new law it is thirteen. To be sure no wheat could
come in at either price, but that does not alter the principle. Then
as to live cattle, show how I have entirely opened the trade with the
continent in live cattle. Enlarge upon this, the subject is speculative
and admits of expensive estimates. If there be any dissenters on the
deputation who having freed the negroes have no subject left for their
foreign sympathies, hint at the tortures of the bullfight and the
immense consideration to humanity that instead of being speared at
Seville, the Andalusian Toro will probably in future be cut up at
Smithfield. This cheapness of provisions will permit them to compete
with the foreigner in all neutral markets, in time beat them in their
own. It is a complete compensation too for the property tax, which
impress upon them is a great experiment and entirely for their
interests. Ring the changes on great measures and great experiments till
it is time to go down and make a house. Your official duties of course
must not be interfered with. They will take the hint. I have no doubt
you will get through the business very well, Mr Hoaxem, particularly
if you be ‘frank and explicit;’ that is the right line to take when you
wish to conceal your own mind and to confuse the minds of others. Good
morning!”
Book 6 Chapter 2
Two days after this conversation in Downing Street, a special messenger
arrived at Marney Abbey from the Lord Lieutenant of the county, the Duke
of Fitz-Aquitaine. Immediately after reading the despatch of which he
was the bearer, there was a great bustle in the house; Lady Marney was
sent for to her husband’s library and there enjoined immediately to
write various letters which were to prevent certain expected visitors
from arriving; Captain Grouse was in and out the same library every five
minutes, receiving orders and counter orders, and finally mounting his
horse was flying about the neighbourhood with messages and commands.
All this stir signified that the Marney regiment of Yeomanry were to be
called out directly.
Lord Marney who had succeeded in obtaining a place in the Household and
was consequently devoted to the institutions of the country, was full of
determination to uphold them; but at the same time with characteristic
prudence was equally resolved that the property principally protected
should be his own, and that the order of his own district should chiefly
engage his solicitude.
“I do not know what the Duke means by marching into the disturbed
districts,” said Lord Marney to Captain Grouse. “These are disturbed
districts. There have been three fires in one week, and I want to know
what disturbance can be worse than that? In my opinion this is a mere
anti-corn-law riot to frighten the government; and suppose they do stop
the mills--what then? I wish they were all stopped, and then one might
live like a gentleman again?”
Egremont, between whom and his brother a sort of bad-tempered good
understanding had of late years to a certain degree flourished, in spite
of Lord Marney remaining childless, which made him hate Egremont with
double distilled virulence, and chiefly by the affectionate manoeuvres
of their mother, but whose annual visits to Marney had generally been
limited to the yeomanry week, arrived from London the same day as the
letter of the Lord Lieutenant, as he had learnt that his brother’s
regiment, in which he commanded a troop, as well as the other yeomanry
corps in the North of England, must immediately take the field.
Five years had elapsed since the commencement of our history, and they
had brought apparently much change to the character of the brother of
Lord Marney. He had become, especially during the last two or three
years, silent and reserved; he rarely entered society; even the company
of those who were once his intimates had ceased to attract him; he was
really a melancholy man. The change in his demeanour was observed
by all; his mother and his sister-in-law were the only persons who
endeavoured to penetrate its cause, and sighed over the failure of their
sagacity. Quit the world and the world forgets you; and Egremont would
have soon been a name no longer mentioned in those brilliant saloons
which he once adorned, had not occasionally a sensation, produced by an
effective speech in the House of Commons, recalled his name to his old
associates, who then remembered the pleasant hours passed in his society
and wondered why he never went anywhere now.
“I suppose he finds society a bore,” said Lord Eugene de Vere; “I am
sure I do; but then what is a fellow to do? I am not in Parliament
like Egremont. I believe, after all, that’s the thing; for I have tried
everything else and everything else is a bore.”
“I think one should marry like Alfred Mountchesney,” said Lord Milford.
“But what is the use of marrying if you do not marry a rich woman--and
the heiresses of the present age will not marry. What can be more
unnatural! It alone ought to produce a revolution. Why, Alfred is the
only fellow who has made a coup; and then he has not got it down.”
“She behaved in a most unprincipled manner to me--that Fitz-Warene,”
said Lord Milford, “always took my bouquets and once made me write some
verses.”
“By Jove!” said Lord Eugene, “I should like to see them. What a bore it
must have been to write verses.”
“I only copied them out of Mina Blake’s album: but I sent them in my own
handwriting.”
Baffled sympathy was the cause of Egremont’s gloom. It is the secret
spring of most melancholy. He loved and loved in vain. The conviction
that his passion, though hopeless, was not looked upon with disfavour,
only made him the more wretched, for the disappointment is more acute
in proportion as the chance is better. He had never seen Sybil since
the morning he quitted her in Smith’s Square, immediately before her
departure for the North. The trial of Gerard had taken place at the
assizes of that year: he had been found guilty and sentenced to eighteen
months imprisonment in York Castle; the interference of Egremont both
in the House of Commons and with the government saved him from the
felon confinement with which he was at first threatened, and from which
assuredly state prisoners should be exempt. During this effort some
correspondence had taken place between Egremont and Sybil, which
he would willingly have encouraged and maintained; but it ceased
nevertheless with its subject. Sybil, through the influential
interference of Ursula Trafford, lived at the convent at York during the
imprisonment of her father, and visited him daily.
The anxiety to take the veil which had once characterised Sybil had
certainly waned. Perhaps her experience of life had impressed her with
the importance of fulfilling vital duties. Her father, though he
had never opposed her wish, had never encouraged it; and he had now
increased and interesting claims on her devotion. He had endured great
trials, and had fallen on adverse fortunes. Sybil would look at him,
and though his noble frame was still erect and his countenance still
displayed that mixture of frankness and decision which had distinguished
it of yore, she could not conceal from herself that there were ravages
which time could not have produced. A year and a half of imprisonment
had shaken to its centre a frame born for action, and shrinking at all
times from the resources of sedentary life. The disappointment of
high hopes had jarred and tangled even the sweetness of his noble
disposition. He needed solicitude and solace: and Sybil resolved that if
vigilance and sympathy could soothe an existence that would otherwise be
embittered, these guardian angels should at least hover over the life of
her father.
When the term of his imprisonment had ceased, Gerard had returned with
his daughter to Mowbray. Had he deigned to accept the offers of his
friends, he need not have been anxious as to his future. A public
subscription for his service had been collected: Morley, who was well
to do in the world, for the circulation of the Mowbray Phalanx daily
increased with the increasing sufferings of the people, offered his
friend to share his house and purse: Hatton was munificent; there was
no limit either to his offers or his proffered services. But all were
declined; Gerard would live by labour. The post he had occupied at Mr
Trafford’s was not vacant even if that gentleman had thought fit again
to receive him; but his reputation as a first-rate artizan soon obtained
him good employment, though on this occasion in the town of Mowbray,
which for the sake of his daughter he regretted. He had no pleasant home
now for Sybil, but he had the prospect of one, and until he obtained
possession of it, Sybil sought a refuge, which had been offered to her
from the first, with her kindest and dearest friend; so that at this
period of our history, she was again an inmate of the convent at
Mowbray, whither her father and Morley had attended her the eve of the
day she had first visited the ruins of Marney Abbey.
Book 6 Chapter 3
“I have seen a many things in my time Mrs Trotman,” said Chaffing Jack
as he took the pipe from his mouth in the silent bar room of the Cat and
Fiddle; “but I never see any like this. I think I ought to know Mowbray
if any one does, for man and boy I have breathed this air for a matter
of half a century. I sucked it in when it tasted of primroses, and this
tavern was a cottage covered with honeysuckle in the middle of green
fields, where the lads came and drank milk from the cow with their
lasses; and I have inhaled what they call the noxious atmosphere, when
a hundred chimneys have been smoking like one; and always found myself
pretty well. Nothing like business to give one an appetite. But when
shall I feel peckish again, Mrs Trotman?”
“The longest lane has a turning they say, Mr Trotman.”
“Never knew anything like this before,” replied her husband, “and I
have seen bad times: but I always used to say, ‘Mark my words friends,
Mowbray will rally.’ My words carried weight, Mrs Trotman, in
this quarter, as they naturally should, coming from a man of my
experience,--especially when I gave tick. Every man I chalked up was
of the same opinion as the landlord of the Cat and Fiddle, and always
thought that Mowbray would rally. That’s the killing feature of these
times, Mrs Trotman, there’s no rallying in the place.”
“I begin to think it’s the machines,” said Mrs Trotman.
“Nonsense,” said Mr Trotman; “it’s the corn laws. The town of Mowbray
ought to clothe the world with our resources. Why Shuffle and Screw can
turn out forty mile of calico per day; but where’s the returns? That’s
the point. As the American gentleman said who left his bill unpaid,
‘Take my breadstuffs and I’ll give you a cheque at sight on the
Pennsylvanian Bank.’”
“It’s very true,” said Mrs Trotman. “Who’s there?”
“Nothing in my way?” said a woman with a basket of black cherries with a
pair of tin scales thrown upon their top.
“Ah! Mrs Carey,” said Chaffing Jack, “is that you?”
“My mortal self, Mr Trotman, tho’ I be sure I feel more like a ghost
than flesh and blood.”
“You may well say that Mrs Carey; you and I have known Mowbray as long I
should think as any in this quarter--”
“And never see such times as these Mr Trotman, nor the like of such. But
I always thought it would come to this; everything turned topsy-turvy
as it were, the children getting all the wages, and decent folk turned
adrift to pick up a living as they could. It’s something of a judgment
in my mind, Mr Trotman.”
“It’s the trade leaving the county, widow, and no mistake.”
“And how shall we bring it back again?” said the widow; “the police
ought to interfere.”
“We must have cheap bread,” said Mr Trotman.
“So they tell me,” said the widow; “but whether bread be cheap or dear
don’t much signify, if we have nothing to buy it with. You don’t want
anything in my way, neighbour? It’s not very tempting I fear,” said the
good widow, in a rather mournful tone: “but a little fresh fruit cools
the mouth in this sultry time, and at any rate it takes me into the
world. It seems like business, tho’ very hard to turn a penny by; but
one’s neighbours are very kind, and a little chat about the dreadful
times always puts me in spirits.”
“Well, we will take a pound for the sake of trade, widow,” said Mrs
Trotman.
“And here’s a glass of gin and water, widow,” said Mr Trotman, “and when
Mowbray rallies you shall come and pay for it.”
“Thank you both very kindly,” said the widow, “a good neighbour as our
minister says, is the pool of Bethesda; and as you say, Mowbray will
rally.”
“I never said so,” exclaimed Chaffing Jack interrupting her. “Don’t go
about for to say that I said Mowbray would rally. My words have some
weight in this quarter widow; Mowbray rally! Why should it rally?
Where’s the elements?”
“Where indeed?” said Devilsdust as he entered the Cat and Fiddle with
Dandy Mick, “there is not the spirit of a louse in Mowbray.”
“That’s a true bill,” said Mick.
“Is there another white-livered town in the whole realm where the
operatives are all working half-time, and thanking the Capitalists
for keeping the mills going, and only starving them by inches?” said
Devilsdust in a tone of scorn.
“That’s your time of day,” said Mick.
“Very glad to see you, gentlemen,” said Mr Trotman, “pray be seated.
There’s a little baccy left yet in Mowbray, and a glass of twist at your
service.”
“Nothing exciseable for me,” said Devilsdust.
“Well it ayn’t exactly the right ticket, Mrs Trotman, I believe,” said
Mick, bowing gallantly to the lady; “but ‘pon my soul I am so thirsty,
that I’ll take Chaffing Jack at his word;” and so saying Mick and
Devilsdust ensconced themselves in the bar, while good-hearted Mrs
Carey, sipped her glass of gin and water, which she frequently protested
was a pool of Bethesda.
“Well Jack,” said Devilsdust, “I suppose you have heard the news?”
“If it be anything that has happened at Mowbray, especially in this
quarter, I should think I had. Times must be very bad indeed that some
one does not drop in to tell me anything that has happened and to ask my
advice.”
“It’s nothing to do with Mowbray.”
“Thank you kindly, Mrs Trotman,” said Mick, “and here’s your very good
health.”
“Then I am in the dark,” said Chaffing Jack, replying to the previous
observation of Devilsdust, “for I never see a newspaper now except a
week old, and that lent by a friend, I who used to take my Sun regular,
to say nothing of the Dispatch, and Bell’s Life. Times is changed, Mr
Radley.”
“You speak like a book, Mr Trotman,” said Mick, “and here’s your very
good health. But as for newspapers, I’m all in the dark myself, for the
Literary and Scientific is shut up, and no subscribers left, except the
honorary ones, and not a journal to be had except the Moral World and
that’s gratis.”
“As bad as the Temple,” said Chaffing Jack, “it’s all up with the
institutions of the country. And what then is the news?”
“Labour is triumphant in Lancashire,” said Devilsdust with bitter
solemnity.
“The deuce it is,” said Chaffing Jack. “What, have they raised wages?”
“No,” said Devilsdust, “but they have stopped the mills.”
“That won’t mend matters much,” said Jack with a puff.
“Won’t it?”
“The working classes will have less to spend than ever.”
“And what will the Capitalists have to spend?” said Devilsdust. “Worse
and worse,” said Mr Trotman, “you will never get institutions like the
Temple re-opened on this system.”
“Don’t you be afraid Jack,” said Mick, tossing off his tumbler; “if we
only get our rights, won’t we have a blowout!”
“We must have a struggle,” said Devilsdust, “and teach the Capitalists
on whom they depend, so that in future they are not to have the lion’s
share, and then all will be right.”
“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work,” said Mick; “that’s your time
of day.”
“It began at Staleybridge,” said Devilsdust, “and they have stopped them
all; and now they have marched into Manchester ten thousand strong. They
pelted the police--”
“And cheered the red-coats like blazes,” said Mick.
“The soldiers will fraternise,” said Devilsdust.
“Do what?” said Mrs Trotman.
“Stick their bayonets into the Capitalists who have hired them to cut
the throats of the working classes,” said Devilsdust.
“The Queen is with us,” said Mick. “It’s well known she sets her face
against gals working in mills like blazes.”
“Well this is news,” said Mrs Carey. “I always thought some good would
come of having a woman on the throne;” and repeating her thanks
and pinning on her shawl, the widow retired, eager to circulate the
intelligence.
“And now that we are alone,” said Devilsdust, “the question is what are
we to do here; and we came to consult you, Jack, as you know Mowbray
better than any living man. This thing will spread. It won’t stop short.
I have had a bird too singing something in my ear these two days past.
If they do not stop it in Lancashire, and I defy them, there will be a
general rising.”
“I have seen a many things in my time,” said Mr Trotman; “some risings
and some strikes, and as stiff turn-outs as may be. But to my fancy
there is nothing like a strike in prosperous times; there’s more
money sent under those circumstances than you can well suppose, young
gentlemen. It’s as good as Mowbray Staty any day.”
“But now to the point,” said Devilsdust. “The people are regularly sold;
they want a leader.”
“Why there’s Gerard,” said Chaffing Jack; “never been a better man in my
time. And Warner--the greatest man the Handlooms ever turned out.”
“Ay, ay,” said Devilsdust; “but they have each of them had a year and a
half, and that cools blood.”
“Besides,” said Mick, “they are too old; and Stephen Morley has got
round them, preaching moral force and all that sort of gammon.”
“I never heard that moral force won the battle of Waterloo,” said
Devilsdust. “I wish the Capitalists would try moral force a little, and
see whether it would keep the thing going. If the Capitalists will give
up their red-coats, I would be a moral force man to-morrow.”
“And the new police,” said Mick. “A pretty go when a fellow in a blue
coat fetches you the Devil’s own con on your head and you get moral
force for a plaister.”
“Why, that’s all very well,” said Chaffing Jack: “but I am against
violence--at least much. I don’t object to a moderate riot provided it
is not in my quarter of the town.”
“Well that’s not the ticket now,” said Mick. “We don’t want no violence;
all we want is to stop all the mills and hands in the kingdom, and have
a regular national holiday for six weeks at least.”
“I have seen a many things in my time,” said Chaffing Jack solemnly,
“but I have always observed that if the people had worked generally for
half time for a week they would stand anything.”
“That’s a true bill,” said Mick.
“Their spirit is broken,” said Chaffing Jack, “or else they never would
have let the Temple have been shut up.”
“And think of our Institute without a single subscriber!” said Mick.
“The gals is the only thing what has any spirit left. Julia told me just
now she would go to the cannon’s mouth for the Five Points any summer
day.”
“You think the spirit can’t be raised, Chaffing Jack,” said Devilsdust
very seriously. “You ought to be a judge.”
“If I don’t know Mowbray who does? Trust my word, the house won’t draw.”
“Then it is U-P,” said Mick.
“Hush!” said Devilsdust. “But suppose it spreads?”
“It won’t spread,” said Chaffing Jack. “I’ve seen a deal of these
things. I fancy from what you say it’s a cotton squall. It will pass,
Sir. Let me see the miners out and then I will talk to you.”
“Stranger things than that have happened,” said Devilsdust. “Then things
get serious,” said Chaffing Jack. “Them miners is very stubborn, and
when they gets excited ayn’t it a bear at play, that’s all?”
“Well,” said Devilsdust, “what you say is well worth attention; but all
the same I feel we are on the eve of a regular crisis.”
“No, by jingo!” said Mick, and tossing his cap into the air he snapped
his fingers with delight at the anticipated amusement.
Book 6 Chapter 4
“I don’t think I can stand this much longer,” said Mr Mountchesney, the
son-in-law of Lord de Mowbray, to his wife, as he stood before the empty
fire-place with his back to the mantelpiece and his hands thrust into
the pockets of his coat. “This living in the country in August bores me
to extinction. I think we will go to Baden, Joan.”
“But papa is so anxious, dearest Alfred, that we should remain here at
present and see the neighbours a little.”
“I might be induced to remain here to please your father, but as for
your neighbours I have seen quite enough of them. They are not a sort
of people that I ever met before, or that I wish to meet again. I do not
know what to say to them, nor can I annex an idea to what they say to
me. Heigho! certainly the country in August is a thing of which no one
who has not tried it has the most remote conception.”
“But you always used to say you doted on the country, Alfred,” said Lady
Joan in a tone of tender reproach.
“So I do; I never was happier than when I was at Melton, and even
enjoyed the country in August when I was on the Moors.”
“But I cannot well go to Melton,” said Lady Joan.
“I don’t see why you can’t. Mrs Shelldrake goes with her husband to
Melton, and so does Lady Di with Barham; and a very pleasant life it
is.”
“Well, at any rate we cannot go to Melton now,” said Lady Joan
mortified; “and it is impossible for me to go to the Moors.”
“No, but I could go,” said Mr Mountchesney, “and leave you here. I might
have gone with Eugene de Vere and Milford and Fitz-heron. They wanted
me very much. What a capital party it would have been, and what capital
sport we should have had! And I need not have been away for more than
a month or perhaps six weeks, and I could have written to you every day
and all that sort of thing.”
Lady Joan sighed and affected to recur to the opened volume which during
this conversation she had held in her hand.
“I wonder where Maud is,” said Mr Mountchesney; “I shall want her to
ride with me to-day. She is a capital horsewoman, and always amuses me.
As you cannot ride now, Joan, I wish you would let Maud have Sunbeam.”
“As you please.”
“Well I am going to the stables and will tell them. Who is this?” Mr
Mountchesney exclaimed, and then walked to the window that looking over
the park showed at a distance the advance of a very showy equipage.
Lady Joan looked up.
“Come here, Joan, and tell me who this is,” and Lady Joan was at his
side in a moment.
“It is the livery of the Bardolfs,” said Lady Joan.
“I always call them Firebrace; I cannot get out of it,” said Mr
Mountchesney. “Well, I am glad it is they; I thought it might be an
irruption of barbarians. Lady Bardolf will bring us some news.”
Lord and Lady Bardolf were not alone; they were accompanied by a
gentleman who had been staying on a visit at Firebrace, and who, being
acquainted with Lord de Mowbray, had paid his respects to the castle in
his way to London. This gentleman was the individual who had elevated
them to the peerage--Mr Hatton. A considerable intimacy had sprung
up between him and his successful clients. Firebrace was an old place
rebuilt in the times of the Tudors, but with something of its more
ancient portions remaining, and with a storehouse of muniments that had
escaped the civil wars. Hatton revelled in them, and in pursuing his
researches, had already made discoveries which might perhaps place the
coronet of the earldom of Lovel on the brow of the former champion
of the baronetage, who now however never mentioned the Order. Lord de
Mowbray was well content to see Mr Hatton, a gentleman in whom he did
not repose the less confidence, because his advice given him three years
ago, respecting the writ of right and the claim upon his estate had
proved so discreet and correct. Acting on that advice Lord de Mowbray
had instructed his lawyers to appear to the action without entering into
any unnecessary explanation of the merits of his case. He counted on the
accuracy of Mr Hatton’s judgment, that the claim would not be pursued;
and he was right; after some fencing and preliminary manoeuvring, the
claim had not been pursued. Lord de Mowbray therefore, always
gracious, was disposed to accord a very distinguished reception to his
confidential counsellor. He pressed very much his guests to remain with
him some days, and though that was not practicable, Mr Hatton promised
that he would not leave the neighbourhood without paying another visit
to the castle.
“And you continue quiet here?” said Mr Hatton to Lord de Mowbray.
“And I am told we shall keep so,” said Lord de Mowbray. “The mills are
mostly at work, and the men take the reduced wages in a good spirit. The
fact is our agitators in this neighbourhood suffered pretty smartly in
‘39, and the Chartists have lost their influence.
“I am sorry for poor Lady St Julians,” said Lady Bardolf to Lady de
Mowbray. “It must be such a disappointment, and she has had so many; but
I understand there is nobody to blame but herself. If she had only left
the Prince alone, but she would not be quiet!”
“And where are the Deloraines?”
“They are at Munich; with which they are delighted. And Lady Deloraine
writes me that Mr Egremont has promised to join them there. If he do,
they mean to winter at Rome.”
“Somebody said he was going to be married,” said Lady de Mowbray.
“His mother wishes him to marry,” said Lady Bardolf; “but I have heard
nothing.”
Mr Mountchesney came in and greeted the Bardolfs with some warmth. “How
delightful in the country in August to meet somebody that you have seen
in London in June!” he exclaimed. “Now, dear Lady Bardolf do tell me
something, for you can conceive nothing so triste as we are here. We
never get a letter. Joan only corresponds with philosophers and Maud
with clergymen; and none of my friends ever write to me.”
“Perhaps you never write to them?”
“Well, I never have been a letter writer; because really I never wanted
to write or to be written to. I always knew what was going on because I
was on the spot; I was doing the things that people were writing letters
about--but now not being in the world any longer, doing nothing, living
in the country--and the country in August--I should like to receive
letters every day, but I do not know who to fix upon as a correspondent.
Eugene de Vere will not write, Milford cannot; and as for Fitz-heron he
is so very selfish, he always wants his letters answered.”
“That is very unreasonable,” said Lady Bardolf.
“Besides what can they tell me at this moment? They have gone to the
Moors and are enjoying themselves. They asked me to go with them, but I
could not go, because you see I could not leave Joan; though why I could
not leave her, I really cannot understand, because Egerton has got some
moors this year, and he leaves Lady Augusta with her father.”
Lady Maud entered the room in her bonnet, returning from an airing. She
was all animation--charmed to see everybody; she had been to Mowbray to
hear some singing at the Roman Catholic chapel in that town; a service
had been performed and a collection made for the suffering workpeople of
the place. She had been apprised of it for some days, was told that she
would hear the most beautiful voice that she had ever listened to, but
it had far exceeded her expectations. A female voice it seemed; no
tones could be conceived more tender and yet more thrilling: in short
seraphic.
Mr Mountchesney blamed her for not taking him. He liked music, singing,
especially female singing; when there was so little to amuse him, he was
surprised that Lady Maud had not been careful that he should have
been present. His sister-in-law reminded him that she had particularly
requested him to drive her over to Mowbray, and he had declined the
honour as a bore.
“Yes,” said Mr Mountchesney, “but I thought Joan was going with you, and
that you would be shopping.”
“It was a good thing our House was adjourned before these disturbances
in Lancashire,” said Lord Bardolf to Lord de Mowbray.
“The best thing we can all do is to be on our estates I believe,” said
Lord de Mowbray.
“My neighbour Marney is in a great state of excitement,” said Lord
Bardolf; “all his yeomanry out.”
“But he is quiet at Marney?”
“In a way; but these fires puzzle us. Marney will not believe that the
condition of the labourer has anything to do with them; and he certainly
is a very acute man. But still I don’t know what to say to it. The
poor-law is very unpopular in my parish. Marney will have it, that the
incendiaries are all strangers hired by the anti-Corn-law League.”
“Ah! here is Lady Joan,” exclaimed Lady Bardolf, as the wife of Mr
Mountchesney entered the room; “My dearest Lady Joan!”
“Why Joan,” said Mr Mountchesney, “Maud has been to Mowbray, and heard
the most delicious singing. Why did we not go?”
“I did mention it to you, Alfred.”
“I remember you said something about going to Mowbray, and that you
wanted to go to several places. But there is nothing I hate so much as
shopping. It bores me more than anything. And you are so peculiarly long
when you are shopping. But singing, and beautiful singing in a Catholic
chapel by a woman; perhaps a beautiful woman, that is quite a different
thing, and I should have been amused, which nobody seems ever to think
of here. I do not know how you find it, Lady Bardolf, but the country
to me in August is a something;”--and not finishing his sentence, Mr
Mountchesney gave a look of inexpressible despair.
“And you did not see this singer?” said Mr Hatton, sidling up to Lady
Maud, and speaking in a subdued tone.
“I did not, but they tell me she is most beautiful; something
extraordinary; I tried to see her, but it was impossible.”
“Is she a professional singer?”
“I should imagine not; a daughter of one of the Mowbray people I
believe.”
“Let us have her over to the Castle, Lady de Mowbray,” said Mr
Mountchesney.
“If you like,” replied Lady de Mowbray, with a languid smile.
“Well at last I have got something to do,” said Mr Mountchesney. “I will
ride over to Mowbray, find out the beautiful singer, and bring her to
the Castle.”
Book 6 Chapter 5
The beam of the declining sun, softened by the stained panes of a small
gothic window, suffused the chamber of the Lady Superior of the convent
of Mowbray. The vaulted room, of very moderate dimensions, was furnished
with great simplicity and opened into a small oratory. On a table were
several volumes, an ebon cross was fixed in a niche, and leaning in a
high-backed chair, sate Ursula Trafford. Her pale and refined complexion
that in her youth had been distinguished for its lustre, became her
spiritual office; and indeed her whole countenance, the delicate brow,
the serene glance, the small aquiline nose, and the well-shaped mouth,
firm and yet benignant, betokened the celestial soul that habited that
gracious frame.
The Lady Superior was not alone; on a low seat by her side, holding
her hand, and looking up into her face with a glance of reverential
sympathy, was a maiden over whose head five summers have revolved since
first her girlhood broke upon our sight amid the ruins of Marney Abbey,
five summers that have realized the matchless promise of her charms, and
while they have added something to her stature have robbed it of nothing
of its grace, and have rather steadied the blaze of her beauty than
diminished its radiance.
“Yes, I mourn over them,” said Sybil, “the deep convictions that made
me look forward to the cloister as my home. Is it that the world has
assoiled my soul? Yet I have not tasted of worldly joys; all that I
have known of it has been suffering and tears. They will return, these
visions of my sacred youth, dear friend, tell me that they will return!”
“I too have had visions in my youth, Sybil, and not of the cloister, yet
am I here.”
“And what should I infer?” said Sybil enquiringly.
“That my visions were of the world, and brought me to the cloister, and
that yours were of the cloister and have brought you to the world.”
“My heart is sad,” said Sybil, “and the sad should seek the shade.”
“It is troubled, my child, rather than sorrowful.”
Sybil shook her head.
“Yes, my child,” said Ursula, “the world has taught you that there are
affections which the cloister can neither satisfy nor supply. Ah! Sybil,
I too have loved.”
The blood rose to the cheek of Sybil, and then returned as quickly to
the heart; her trembling hand pressed that of Ursula as she sighed and
murmured, “No, no, no.”
“Yes, it is his spirit that hovers over your life, Sybil; and in vain
you would forget what haunts your heart. One not less gifted than him;
as good, as gentle, as gracious; once too breathed in my ear the accents
of joy. He was, like myself, the child of an old house, and Nature had
invested him with every quality that can dazzle and can charm. But his
heart was as pure, and his soul as lofty, as his intellect and frame
were bright,--” and Ursula paused.
Sybil pressed the hand of Ursula to her lips and whispered, “Speak on.”
“The dreams of by-gone days,” continued Ursula in a voice of emotion,
“the wild sorrows than I can recall, and yet feel that I was wisely
chastened. He was stricken in his virtuous pride, the day before he was
to have led me to that altar where alone I found the consolation that
never fails. And thus closed some years of human love, my Sybil,” said
Ursula, bending forward and embracing her. “The world for a season
crossed their fair current, and a power greater than the world forbade
their banns; but they are hallowed; memory is my sympathy; it is soft
and free, and when he came here to enquire after you, his presence and
agitated heart recalled the past.”
“It is too wild a thought,” said Sybil, “ruin to him, ruin to all. No,
we are severed by a fate as uncontrollable as severed you dear friend;
ours is a living death.”
“The morrow is unforeseen,” said Ursula. “Happy indeed would it be for
me, my Sybil, that your innocence should be enshrined within these holy
walls, and that the pupil of my best years, and the friend of my serene
life, should be my successor in this house. But I feel a deep persuasion
that the hour has not arrived for you to take the step that never can be
recalled.”
So saying, Ursula embraced and dismissed Sybil; for the conversation,
the last passages of which we have given, had Occurred when Sybil
according to her wont on Saturday afternoon had come to request the
permission of the Lady Superior to visit her father.
It was in a tolerably spacious and not discomfortable chamber, the first
floor over the printing-office of the Mowbray Phalanx, that Gerard had
found a temporary home. He had not long returned from his factory,
and pacing the chamber with a disturbed step, he awaited the expected
arrival of his daughter.
She came; the faithful step, the well-known knock; the father and the
daughter embraced; he pressed to his heart the child who had clung to
him through so many trials, and who had softened so many sorrows, who
had been the visiting angel in his cell, and whose devotion had led
captivity captive.
Their meetings, though regular, were now comparatively rare. The
sacred day united them, and sometimes for a short period the previous
afternoon, but otherwise the cheerful hearth and welcome home were no
longer for Gerard. And would the future bring them to him? And what was
to be the future of his child? His mind vacillated between the convent
of which she now seldom spoke, and which with him was never a cherished
idea, and those dreams of restored and splendid fortunes which his
sanguine temperament still whispered him, in spite of hope so long
deferred and expectations so often baulked, might yet be realized. And
sometimes between these opposing visions, there rose a third and more
practical, though less picturesque result, the idea of her marriage. And
with whom? It was impossible that one so rarely gifted and educated with
so much daintiness, could ever make a wife of the people. Hatton offered
wealth, but Sybil had never seemed to comprehend his hopes, and Gerard
felt that their ill-assorted ages was a great barrier. There was of
all the men of his own order but one, who from his years, his great
qualities, his sympathy, and the nature of his toil and means, seemed
not unfitted to be the husband of his daughter; and often had Gerard
mused over the possibility of these intimate ties with Morley. Sybil
had been, as it were, bred up under his eye; an affection had always
subsisted between them, and he knew well that in former days Sybil had
appreciated and admired the great talents and acquirements of their
friend. At one period he almost suspected that Morley was attached to
her. And yet, from causes which he had never attempted to penetrate,
probably from a combination of unintentional circumstances, Sybil and
Morley had for the last two or three years been thrown little together,
and their intimacy had entirely died away. To Gerard it seemed that
Morley had ever proved his faithful friend: Morley had originally
dissuaded him with energy against that course which had led to his
discomfiture and punishment; when arrested, his former colleague was his
bail, was his companion and adviser during his trial; had endeavoured to
alleviate his imprisonment; and on his release had offered to share his
means with Gerard, and when these were refused, he at least supplied
Gerard with a roof. And yet with all this, that abandonment of heart and
brain, and deep sympathy with every domestic thought that characterized
old days, was somehow or other wanting. There was on the part of Morley
still devotion, but there was reserve.
“You are troubled, my father,” said Sybil, as Gerard continued to pace
the chamber.
“Only a little restless. I am thinking what a mistake it was to have
moved in ‘39.”
Sybil sighed.
“Ah! you were right, Sybil,” continued Gerard; “affairs were not ripe.
We should have waited three years.”
“Three years!” exclaimed Sybil, starting; “are affairs riper now?”
“The whole of Lancashire is in revolt,” said Gerard. “There is not a
sufficient force to keep them in check. If the miners and colliers rise,
and I have cause to believe that it is more than probable they will move
before many days are past,--the game is up.”
“You terrify me,” said Sybil.
“On the Contrary,” said Gerard, smiling, “the news is good enough; I’ll
not say too good to be true, for I had it from one of the old delegates
who is over here to see what can be done in our north country.”
“Yes,” said Sybil inquiringly, and leading on her father.
“He came to the works; we had some talk. There are to be no leaders this
time, at least no visible ones. The people will do it themselves. All
the children of Labour are to rise on the same day, and to toil no more,
till they have their rights. No violence, no bloodshed, but toil halts,
and then our oppressors will learn the great economical truth as well as
moral lesson, that when Toil plays Wealth ceases.”
“When Toil ceases the People suffer,” said Sybil. “That is the only
truth that we have learnt, and it is a bitter one.”
“Can we be free without suffering,” said Gerard. “Is the greatest of
human blessings to be obtained as a matter of course; to be plucked like
fruit, or seized like a running stream? No, no: we must suffer, but
we are wiser than of yore,--we will not conspire. Conspiracies are for
aristocrats, not for nations.”
“Alas, alas! I see nothing but woe,” said Sybil. “I cannot believe that
after all that has passed, the people here will move: I cannot believe
that after all that has passed, all that you, that we, have endured,
that you, my father, will counsel them to move.”
“I counsel nothing,” said Gerard. “It must be a great national instinct
that does it: but if all England, if Wales, if Scotland won’t work, is
Mowbray to have a monopoly?”
“Ah! that’s a bitter jest,” said Sybil. “England, Wales, Scotland will
be forced to work as they were forced before. How can they subsist
without labour? And if they could, there is an organised power that will
subdue them.”
“The Benefit Societies, the Sick and Burial Clubs, have money in the
banks that would maintain the whole working classes, with aid in kind
that will come, for six weeks, and that will do the business. And as for
force, why there are not five soldiers to each town in the kingdom. It’s
a glittering bugbear this fear of the military; simultaneous strikes
would baffle all the armies in Europe.”
“I’ll go back and pray that all this is wild talk,” said Sybil
earnestly. “After all that has passed, were it only for your child, you
should not speak, much less think, this, my father. What havoc to our
hearts and homes has been all this madness! It has separated us; it has
destroyed our happy home; it has done more than this--” and here she
wept.
“Nay, nay, my child,” said Gerard, coming up and soothing her; “one
cannot weigh one’s words before those we love. I can’t hear of the
people moving with coldness--that’s out of nature; but I promise you
I’ll not stimulate the lads here. I am told they are little inclined to
stir. You found me in a moment of what I must call I suppose elation;
but I hear they beat the red-coats and police at Staley Bridge, and that
pricked my blood a bit. I have been ridden down before this when I was a
lad, Sybil, by Yeomanry hoofs. You must allow a little for my feelings.”
She extended her lips to the proffered embrace of her father. He blessed
her and pressed her to his heart, and soothed her apprehensions with
many words of softness. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Gerard. And there came in Mr Hatton.
They had not met since Gerard’s release from York Castle. There Hatton
had visited him, had exercised his influence to remedy his grievances,
and had more than once offered him the means of maintenance on receiving
his freedom. There were moments of despondency when Gerard had almost
wished that the esteem and regard with which Sybil looked upon Hatton
might have matured into sentiments of a deeper nature; but on this
subject the father had never breathed a word. Nor had Hatton, except
to Gerard, ever intimated his wishes, for we could scarcely call them
hopes. He was a silent suitor of Sybil, watching opportunities and ready
to avail himself of circumstances which he worshipped. His sanguine
disposition, fed by a very suggestive and inventive mind, and stimulated
by success and a prosperous life, sustained him always to the last.
Hatton always believed that everything desirable must happen if a man
had energy and watched circumstances. He had confidence too in the
influence of his really insinuating manner; his fine taste, his tender
tone, his ready sympathy, all which masked his daring courage and
absolute recklessness of means.
There were general greetings of the greatest warmth. The eyes of Hatton
were suffused with tears as he congratulated Gerard on his restored
health, and pressed Sybil’s hand with the affection of an old friend
between both his own.
“I was down in this part of the world on business,” said Hatton, “and
thought I would come over here for a day to find you all out.” And
then after some general conversation he said “And where do you think I
accidentally paid a visit a day or two back? At Mowbray Castle. I see
you are surprised. I saw all your friends. I did not ask his Lordship
how the writ of right went on. I dare say he thinks ‘tis all hushed. But
he is mistaken. I have learnt something which may help us over the stile
yet.”
“Well-a-day,” said Gerard, “I once thought if I could get back the lands
the people would at last have a friend; but that’s past. I have been a
dreamer of dreams often when I was overlooking them at work. And so we
all have I suppose. I would willingly give up my claim if I could be
sure the Lancashire lads will not come to harm this bout.”
“‘Tis a more serious business,” said Hatton, “than any thing of the kind
that has yet happened. The government are much alarmed. They talk of
sending the Guards down into the north, and bringing over troops from
Ireland.”
“Poor Ireland!” said Gerard. “Well, I think the frieze-coats might give
us a helping hand now, and employ the troops at least.”
“No, my dear father, say not such things.”
“Sybil will not let me think of these matters friend Hatton,” said
Gerard smiling. “Well, I suppose it’s not in my way, at least I
certainly did not make the best hand of it in ‘39; but it was London
that got me into that scrape. I cannot help fancying that were I on our
Moors here a bit with some good lads it might be different, and I must
say so, I must indeed, Sybil.”
“But you are very quiet here I hope,” said Hatton.
“Oh! yes,” said Gerard, “I believe our spirit is sufficiently broken
at Mowbray. Wages weekly dropping, and just work enough to hinder sheer
idleness; that sort of thing keeps the people in very humble trim. But
wait a bit, and when they have reached the starvation point I fancy we
shall hear a murmur.”
“I remember our friend Morley in ‘39, when we returned from London, gave
me a very good character of the disposition of the people here,” said
Hatton; “I hope it continues the same. He feared no outbreak then, and
the distress in ‘39 was severe.”
“Well,” said Gerard, “the wages have been dropping ever since. The
people exist, but you can scarcely say they live. But they are cowed I
fancy. An empty belly is sometimes as apt to dull the heart as inflame
the courage. And then they have lost their leaders, for I was away you
see, and have been quiet enough since I came out; and Warner is broken:
he has suffered more from his time than I did; which is strange, for he
had his pursuits; whereas I was restless enough, and that’s the truth,
and had it not been for Sybil’s daily visit I think, though I may never
be allowed to live in a castle, I should certainly have died in one.”
“And how is Morley?”
“Right well; the same as you left him: I saw not a straw’s change when I
came out. His paper spreads. He still preaches moral force, and
believes that we shall all end in living in communities. But as the only
community of which I have personal experience is a gaol, I am not much
more inclined to his theory than heretofore.”
Book 6 Chapter 6
The reader may not have altogether forgotten Mr Nixon and his comates,
the miners and colliers of that district not very remote from Mowbray,
which Morley had visited at the commencement of this history, in order
to make fruitless researches after a gentleman whom he subsequently so
unexpectedly stumbled upon. Affairs were as little flourishing in that
region as at Mowbray itself, and the distress fell upon a population
less accustomed to suffering and whose spirit was not daunted by the
recent discomfiture and punishment of their leaders.
“It can’t last,” said Master Nixon as he took his pipe from his mouth at
the Rising Sun.
He was responded to by a general groan. “It comes to this,” he
continued, “Natur has her laws, and this is one; a fair day’s wage for a
fair day’s work.”
“I wish you may get it,” said Juggins, “with a harder stint every week
and a shilling a day knocked off.”
“And what’s to come to-morrow?” said Waghorn. “The butty has given
notice to quit in Parker’s field this day se’nnight. Simmons won’t drop
wages, but works half time.”
“The boys will be at play afore long,” said a collier.
“Hush!” said Master Nixon with a reproving glance, “play is a very
serious word. The boys are not to go to play as they used to do without
by your leave or with your leave. We must appoint a committee to
consider the question and we must communicate with the other trades.”
“You’re the man, Master Nixon, to choose for churchwarden,” replied the
reproved miner with a glance of admiration.
“What is Diggs doing?” said Master Nixon in a solemn tone.
“A-dropping wages and a-raising tommy like fun,” said Master Waghorn.
“There is a great stir in Hell-house yard,” said a miner who entered the
tap room at this moment, much excited. “They say that all the workshops
will be shut to-morrow; not an order for a month past. They have got a
top-sawyer from London there who addresses them every evening, and says
that we have a right to four shillings a day wages, eight hours’ work
and two pots of ale.”
“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work,” said Master Nixon. “I would
not stickle about hours, but the money and the drink are very just.”
“If Hell-house yard is astir,” said Waghorn, “there will be a good deal
to be seen yet.”
“It’s grave,” said Master Nixon. “What think you of a deputation there?
It might come to good.”
“I should like to hear the top-sawyer from London,” said Juggins. “We
had a Chartist here the other day, but he did not understand our case at
all.”
“I heard him,” said Master Nixon, “but what’s his Five Points to us? Why
he ayn’t got tommy among them.”
“Nor long stints,” said Waghorn.
“Nor butties,” said Juggins.
“He’s a pretty fellow to come and talk to us,” said a collier. “He had
never been down a pit in all his life.”
The evening passed away in the tap room of the Rising Sun in reflections
on the present critical state of affairs and in consultations as to
the most expedient course for the future. The rate of wages which for
several years in this district had undergone a continuous depression,
had just received another downward impulse and was threatened with still
further reduction, for the price of iron became every day lower in the
market, and the article itself so little in demand that few but the
great capitalists who could afford to accumulate their produce were able
to maintain their furnaces in action. The little men who still continued
their speculations could only do so partially, by diminishing the days
of service and increasing their stints or toil and by decreasing the
rate of wages as well as paying them entirely in goods, of which they
had a great stock and of which they thus relieved themselves at a high
profit. Add to all these causes of suffering and discontent among the
workmen the apprehension of still greater evils and the tyranny of the
butties or middlemen, and it will with little difficulty be felt that
the public mind of this district was well-prepared for the excitement of
the political agitator, especially if he were discreet enough rather
to descant on their physical sufferings and personal injuries than to
attempt the propagation of abstract political principles, with which it
was impossible for them to sympathise with the impulse and facility
of the inhabitants of manufacturing towns, members of literary and
scientific institutes, habitual readers of political journals and
accustomed to habits of discussion of all public questions. It generally
happens however that where a mere physical impulse urges the people
to insurrection, though it is often an influence of slow growth and
movement, the effects are more violent and sometimes more obstinate
than when they move under the blended authority of moral and physical
necessity, and mix up together the rights and the wants of Man.
However this may be, on the morning after the conversation at the Rising
Sun which we have just noticed, the population having as usual gone
to their work, having penetrated the pit and descended the shaft, the
furnaces all blazing, the chimneys all smoking,--suddenly there rose a
rumour even in the bowels of the earth, that the hour and the man had at
length arrived; the hour that was to bring them relief and the man that
was to bear them redress.
“My missus told it me at the pit-head when she brought me my breakfast,”
said a pikeman to his comrade, and he struck a vigorous blow at the
broadseam on which he was working.
“It is not ten mile,” said his companion. “They’ll be here by noon.”
“There is a good deal to do in their way,” said the first pikeman. “All
men at work after notice to be ducked, they say, and every engine to be
stopped forthwith.”
“Will the police meet them before they reach this?”
“There is none: my missus says that not a man John of them is to be
seen. The Hell-cats as they call themselves halt at every town and offer
fifty pounds for a live policeman.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the second pikeman. “I’ll stop my stint and
go up the shaft. My heart’s all of a flutter, I can’t work no more.
We’ll have a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work yet.”
“Come along, I’m your man; if the doggy stop us, we’ll knock him down.
The People must have their rights; we’re driven to this, but if one
shilling a day is dropped, why not two?”
“Very true; the People must have their rights, and eight hours’ work is
quite enough.”
In the light of day, the two miners soon learnt in more detail the news
which the wife of one of them earlier in the morning had given as a
rumour. There seemed now no doubt that the people of Wodgate, commonly
called the Hell-cats, headed by their Bishop, had invaded in great
force the surrounding district, stopped all the engines, turned all
the potters out of the manufactories, met with no resistance from the
authorities, and issued a decree that labour was to cease until the
Charter was the law of the land.
This last edict was not the least surprising part of the whole affair;
for no one could have imagined that the Bishop or any of his subjects
had ever even heard of the Charter, much less that they could by any
circumstances comprehend its nature, or by any means be induced to
believe that its operation would further their interests or redress
their grievances. But all this had been brought about, as most of the
great events of history, by the unexpected and unobserved influence of
individual character.
A Chartist leader had been residing for some time at Wodgate, ever since
the distress had become severe, and had obtained great influence and
popularity by assuring a suffering and half-starving population, that
they were entitled to four shillings a day and two pots of ale, and only
eight hours’ work. He was a man of abilities and of popular eloquence,
and his representations produced an effect; their reception invested
him with influence, and as he addressed a population who required
excitement, being very slightly employed and with few resources for
their vacant hours, the Chartist who was careful never to speak of
the Charter became an important personage at Wodgate, and was much
patronized by Bishop Hatton and his Lady, whose good offices he was
sedulous to conciliate. At the right moment, everything being ripe
and well prepared, the Bishop being very drunk and harassed by the
complaints of his subjects, the Chartist revealed to him the mysteries
of the Charter, and persuaded him not only that the Five Points would
cure everything, but that he was the only man who could carry the Five
Points. The Bishop had nothing to do; he was making a lock merely for
amusement; he required action; he embraced the Charter, without having
a definite idea what it meant, but he embraced it fervently, and he
determined to march into the country at the head of the population of
Wodgate, and establish the faith. Since the conversion of Constantine,
a more important adoption had never occurred. The whole of the north
of England, and a great part of the midland counties were in a state of
disaffection; the entire country was suffering; hope had deserted the
labouring classes; they had no confidence in any future of the existing
system. Their organisation, independent of the political system of the
Chartists, was complete. Every trade had its union, and every union its
lodge in every town, and its central committee in every district. All
that was required was the first move, and the Chartist emissary had long
fixed upon Wodgate as the spring of the explosion, when the news of the
strike in Lancashire determined him to precipitate the event.
The march of Bishop Hatton at the head of the Hell-cats into the mining
districts was perhaps the most striking popular movement since the
Pilgrimage of Grace. Mounted on a white mule, wall-eyed and of hideous
form, the Bishop brandished a huge hammer with which he had announced he
would destroy the enemies of the people: all butties, doggies, dealers
in truck and tommy, middle masters and main masters. Some thousand
Hell-cats followed him brandishing bludgeons, or armed with bars of
iron, pickhandles, and hammers. On each side of the Bishop, on a donkey,
was one of his little sons, as demure and earnest as if he were handling
his file. A flowing standard of silk inscribed with the Charter, and
which had been presented to him by the delegate, was borne before him
like the oriflamme. Never was such a gaunt, grim crew. As they advanced
their numbers continually increased, for they arrested all labour in
their progress. Every engine was stopped, the plug was driven out of
every boiler, every fire was extinguished, every man was turned out. The
decree went forth that labour was to cease until the Charter was the law
of the land: the mine and the mill, the foundry and the loom-shop were
until that consummation to be idle: nor was the mighty pause to be
confined to these great enterprises. Every trade of every kind and
description was to be stopped: tailor and cobbler, brushmaker and sweep,
tinker and carter, mason and builder, all, all; for all an enormous
Sabbath that was to compensate for any incidental suffering that it
induced by the increased means and the elevated condition it ultimately
would insure--that paradise of artizans, that Utopia of Toil, embalmed
in those ringing words, sounds cheerful to the Saxon race--“A fair day’s
wage for a fair day’s work.”
Book 6 Chapter 7
During the strike in Lancashire the people had never plundered, except a
few provision shops, chiefly rifled by boys, and their acts of violence
had been confined to those with whom they were engaged in what on the
whole might be described as fair contest. They solicited sustenance
often in great numbers, but even then their language was mild and
respectful, and they were easily satisfied and always grateful. A body
of two thousand persons, for example--the writer speaks of circumstances
within his own experience--quitted one morning a manufacturing town in
Lancashire, when the strike had continued for some time and began to be
severely felt, and made a visit to a neighbouring squire of high degree.
They entered his park in order--men, women, and children--and then
seating themselves in the immediate vicinity of the mansion, they sent a
deputation to announce that they were starving and to entreat relief.
In the instance in question, the lord of the domain was absent in the
fulfilment of those public duties which the disturbed state of the
country devolved on him. His wife, who had a spirit equal to the
occasion, notwithstanding the presence of her young children who might
well have aggravated feminine fears, received the deputation herself;
told them that of course she was unprepared to feed so many, but that,
if they promised to maintain order and conduct themselves with decorum,
she would take measures to satisfy their need. They gave their pledge
and remained tranquilly encamped while preparations were making to
satisfy them. Carts were sent to a neighbouring town for provisions;
the gamekeepers killed what they could, and in a few hours the multitude
were fed without the slightest disturbance, or the least breach of their
self-organised discipline. When all was over, the deputation waited
again on the lady to express to her their gratitude, and the gardens
of this house being of celebrity in the neighbourhood, they requested
permission that the people might be allowed to walk through them,
pledging themselves that no flower should be plucked and no fruit
touched. The permission was granted: the multitude in order, each file
under a chief and each commander of the files obedient to a superior
officer, then made a progress through the beautiful gardens of their
beautiful hostess. They even passed through the forcing houses and
vineries. Not a border was trampled on, not a grape plucked; and when
they quitted the domain, they gave three cheers for the fair castellan.
The Hell-cats and their following were of a different temper to these
gentle Lancashire insurgents. They destroyed and ravaged; sacked and
gutted houses; plundered cellars; proscribed bakers as enemies of the
people; sequestrated the universal stores of all truck and tommy shops;
burst open doors, broke windows, destroyed the gas works, that the towns
at night might be in darkness; took union workhouses by storm, burned
rate-books in the market-place, and ordered public distribution of
loaves of bread and flitches of bacon to a mob--cheering and laughing
amid flames and rapine. In short they robbed and rioted; the police
could make no head against them; there was no military force; the whole
district was in their possession: and hearing that a battalion of
the Coldstreams were coming down by a train, the Bishop ordered all
railroads to be destroyed, and if the Hell-cats had not been too drunk
to do his bidding and he too tipsy to repeat it, it is probable that a
great destruction of these public ways might have taken place.
Does the reader remember Diggs’ tommy shop? And Master Joseph? Well a
terrible scene took place there. The Wodgate girl, with a back like a
grasshopper, of the Baptist school religion, who had married Tummas,
once a pupil of the Bishop and still his fervent follower, although he
had cut open his pupil’s head, was the daughter of a man who had worked
many years in Diggs’ field, had suffered much under his intolerable
yoke, and at the present moment was deep in his awful ledger. She had
heard from her first years of the oppression of Diggs and had impressed
it on her husband, who was intolerant of any tyranny except at Wodgate.
Tummas and his wife, and a few chosen friends, therefore went out one
morning to settle the tommy-book of her father with Mr Diggs. A whisper
of their intention had got about among those interested in the subject.
It was a fine summer morning, some three hours from noon, the shop was
shut, indeed it had not been opened since the riots, and all the lower
windows of the dwelling were closed, barred, and bolted.
A crowd of women had collected. There was Mistress Page and Mistress
Prance, old Dame Toddles and Mrs Mullins, Liza Gray and the comely dame
who was so fond of society that she liked even a riot.
“Master Joseph they say has gone to the North,” said the comely dame.
“I wonder if old Diggs is at home?” said Mrs Mullins.
“He won’t show I’ll be sworn,” said old Dame Toddles.
“Here are the Hell-cats,” said the comely dame. “Well I do declare they
march like reglars; two, four, six, twelve; a good score at the least.”
The Hell-cats briskly marched up to the elm-trees that shaded the canal
before the house, and then formed in line opposite to it. They were
armed with bludgeons, crowbars, and hammers. Tummas was at the head and
by his side his Wodgate wife. Stepping forth alone, amid the cheering
of the crowd of women, the pupil of the Bishop advanced to the door of
Diggs’ house, gave a loud knock and a louder ring. He waited patiently
for several minutes; there was no reply from the interior, and then
Tummas knocked and rang again.
“It’s very awful,” said the comely dame.
“It’s what I always dreamt would come to pass,” said Liza Gray, “ever
since Master Joseph cut my poor baby over the eye with his three foot
rule.”
“I think there can be nobody within,” said Mrs Prance.
“Old Diggs would never leave the tommy without a guard,” said Mrs Page.
“Now lads,” said Tummas looking round him and making a sign, and
immediately some half dozen advanced with their crowbars and were about
to strike at the door, when a window in the upper story of the house
opened and the muzzle of a blunderbuss was presented at the assailants.
The women all screamed and ran away.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” said the comely dame halting to regain her
breath.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” sighed Mrs Page.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” moaned Mrs Prance.
“Sure enough,” said Mrs Mullins, “I saw his ugly face.”
“More frightful than the great gun,” said old Dame Toddles.
“I hope the children will get out of the way,” said Liza Gray, “for he
is sure to fire on them.”
In the meantime, while Master Joseph himself was content with his
position and said not a word, a benignant countenance exhibited itself
at the window and requested in a mild voice to know, “What his good
friends wanted there?”
“We have come to settle Sam Barlow’s tommy book,” said their leader.
“Our shop is not open to-day my good friends: the account can stand
over; far be it from me to press the poor.”
“Master Diggs,” said a Hell-cat, “canst thou tell us the price of bacon
to-day?”
“Well, good bacon,” said the elder Diggs willing to humour them, “may be
eightpence a-pound.”
“Thou are wrong Master Diggs,” said the Hell-cat, “‘tis fourpence and
long credit. Let us see half a dozen good flitches at fourpence, Master
Diggs; and be quick.”
There was evidently some controversy in the interior as to the course at
this moment to be pursued. Master Joseph remonstrated against the policy
of concession, called conciliation, which his father would fain follow,
and was for instant coercion; but age and experience carried the day,
and in a few minutes some flitches were thrown out of the window to the
Hell-cats who received the booty with a cheer.
The women returned.
“‘Tis the tenpence a-pound flitch,” said the comely dame examining the
prize with a sparkling glance.
“I have paid as much for very green stuff,” said Mrs Mullins.
“And now Master Diggs,” said Tummas, “what is the price of the best
tea a-pound? We be good customers, and mean to treat our wives and
sweethearts here. I think we must order half a chest.”
This time there was a greater delay in complying with the gentle hint;
but the Hell-cats getting obstreperous, the tea was at length furnished
and divided among the women. This gracious office devolved on the wife
of Tummas who soon found herself assisted by a spontaneous committee of
which the comely dame was the most prominent and active member. Nothing
could be more considerate, good-natured, and officious, than the mode
and spirit with which she divided the stores. The flitches were cut up
and apportioned in like manner. The scene was as gay and hustling as a
fair.
“It’s as good as a grand tommy day,” said the comely dame with a
self-complacent smile as she strutted about smiling and dispensing
patronage.
The orders for bacon and tea were followed by a very popular demand
for cheese. The female committee received all the plunder and were very
active in its distribution. At length a rumour got about that Master
Joseph was entering the names of all present in the tommy books, so
that eventually the score might be satisfied. The mob had now very much
increased. There was a panic among the women, and indignation among the
men: a Hell-cat advanced and announced that unless the tommy books were
all given up to be burnt, they would pull down the house. There was no
reply: some of the Hell-cats advanced; the women cheered; a crowbar fell
upon the door; Master Joseph fired, wounded a woman and killed a child.
There rose one of those universal shrieks of wild passion which announce
that men have discarded all the trammels of civilization, and found in
their licentious rage new and unforseen sources of power and vengeance.
Where it came from, how it was obtained, who prompted the thought, who
first accomplished it, were alike impossible to trace; but as it were
in a moment, a number of trusses of straw were piled up before the
house and set on fire, the gates of the timber-yard were forced, and a
quantity of scantlings and battens soon fed the flame. Everything indeed
that could stimulate the fire was employed; and every one was occupied
in the service. They ran to the water side and plundered the barges, and
threw the huge blocks of coal upon the enormous bonfire. Men, women, and
children were alike at work with the eagerness and energy of fiends. The
roof of the house caught fire: the dwelling burned rapidly; you could
see the flames like the tongues of wild beasts, licking the bare and
vanishing walls; a single being was observed amid the fiery havoc,
shrieking and desperate he clung convulsively to a huge account book, It
was Master Joseph. His father had made his escape from the back of the
premises and had counselled his son instantly to follow him, but Master
Joseph wished to rescue the ledger as well as their lives, and the delay
ruined him.
“He has got the tommy book,” cried Liza Gray.
The glare of the clear flame fell for a moment upon his countenance of
agony; the mob gave an infernal cheer; then some part of the building
falling in, there rose a vast cloud of smoke and rubbish, and he was
seen no more.
Book 6 Chapter 8
“Life’s a tumbleabout thing of ups and downs,” said Widow Carey
stirring her tea, “but I have been down this time longer than I can ever
remember.”
“Nor ever will get up, Widow,” said Julia at whose lodgings herself and
several of Julia’s friends had met, “unless we have the Five Points.”
“I will never marry any man who is not for the Five Points,” said
Caroline.
“I should be ashamed to marry any one who had not the suffrage,” said
Harriet.
“He is no better than a slave,” said Julia.
The widow shook her head. “I don’t like these politics,” said the good
woman, “they bayn’t in a manner business for our sex.”
“And I should like to know why?” said Julia. “Ayn’t we as much concerned
in the cause of good government as the men? And don’t we understand
as much about it? I am sure the Dandy never does anything without
consulting me.”
“It’s fine news for a summer day,” said Caroline, “to say we can’t
understand politics with a Queen on the throne.”
“She has got her ministers to tell her what to do,” said Mrs Carey,
taking a pinch of snuff. “Poor innocent young creature, it often makes
my heart ache to think how she is beset.”
“Over the left,” said Julia. “If the ministers try to come into her
bed-chamber, she knows how to turn them to the right about.”
“And as for that,” said Harriet, “why are we not to interfere with
politics as much as the swell ladies in London?”
“Don’t you remember, too, at the last election here,” said Caroline,
“how the fine ladies from the Castle came and canvassed for Colonel
Rosemary?”
“Ah!” said Julia, “I must say I wish the Colonel had beat that horrid
Muddlefist. If we can’t have our own man, I am all for the Nobs against
the Middle Class.”
“We’ll have our own man soon, I expect,” said Harriet. “If the people
don’t work, how are the aristocracy to pay the police?”
“Only think!” said Widow Carey shaking her head. “Why, at your time of
life, my dears, we never even heard of these things, much less talked of
them.”
“I should think you didn’t, widow, and because why?” said Julia;
“because there was no march of mind then. But we know the time of day
now as well as any of them.”
“Lord, my dear,” said Mrs Carey; “what’s the use of all that? What
we want is, good wages and plenty to do; and as for the rest, I don’t
grudge the Queen her throne, nor the noblemen and gentlemen their good
things. Live and let live say I.”
“Why, you are a regular oligarch, widow,” said Harriet.
“Well, Miss Harriet,” replied Mrs Carey, a little nettled; “‘tisn’t
calling your neighbours names that settles any question. I’m quite sure
that Julia will agree to that, and Caroline too. And perhaps I might
call you something if I chose, Miss Harriet; I’ve heard things said
before this, that I should blush to say, and blush to hear too. But I
won’t demean myself, no I won’t. Holly-hock, indeed! Why holly-hock?”
At this moment entered the Dandy and Devilsdust.
“Well young ladies,” said the Dandy. “A-swelling the receipt of customs
by the consumption of Congo! That won’t do, Julia; it won’t, indeed. Ask
Dusty. If you want to beat the enemy, you must knock up the revenue. How
d’ye do, widow?”
“The same to you, Dandy Mick. We is deploring the evils of the times
here in a neighbourly way.”
“Oh, the times will soon mend,” said the Dandy gaily. “Well, so I
think,” said the widow; “for when things are at the worst, they always
say--”
“But you always say they cannot mend, Mick,” said Julia interrupting her.
“Why in a sense, Julia, in a certain sense, you are right; but there
are two senses to everything, my girl,” and Mick began singing, and then
executed a hornpipe to the gratification of Julia and her guests.
“‘Tis genteel,” said Mick, receiving their approbation. “You remember it
at the Circus?”
“I wonder when we shall have the Circus again?” said Caroline.
“Not with the present rate of wages,” said Devilsdust.
“It’s very hard,” said Caroline, “that the Middle Class are always
dropping our wages. One really has no amusements now. How I do miss the
Temple!”
“We’ll have the Temple open again before long,” said the Dandy.
“That will be sweet,” exclaimed Caroline. “I often dream of that foreign
nobleman who used to sing, ‘Oh, no, we never!’”
“Well, I cannot make out what puts you in such spirits, Mick,” said
Julia. “You told me only this morning that the thing was up, and that
we should soon be slaves for life; working sixteen hours a day for no
wages, and living on oatmeal porridge and potatoes, served out by the
millocrats like a regular Bastile.”
“But, as Madam Carey says, when things are at the worst--”
“Oh! I did say it,” said the widow, “surely, because you see, at my
years, I have seen so many ups and downs, though I always say--”
“Come, Dusty,” said Julia, “you are more silent than ever. You won’t
take a dish I know: but tell us the news, for I am sure you have
something to say.”
“I should think we had,” said Dusty.
Here all the girls began talking at the same time, and without waiting
for the intelligence, favouring one another with their guesses of its
import.