AN EVENING AT THE HOLLS’.
It is evening at the Holls’. The children are in bed, the place is, as
Mrs. Holl says, “tidied up,” and John is smoking his pipe with several
visitors who have dropped in. There is policeman A 56, and Perkins;
William Holl, and his wife too, have come over, for this does not happen
to be one of his nights at the meeting. Lastly, there is Mr. Barton.
That person, however, was certainly a less welcome guest than the
others, for John Holl did not like the man; why he could hardly say, but
he knew he did not, and was at no particular pains to conceal his
aversion. Mr. Barton never seemed to notice John’s rebuffs, but
periodically, perhaps once in six months, would come in and smoke a pipe
with him. John Holl had very often asked his wife, on whose good sense
he much relied, What that chap Barton meant by coming to see them? He
seemed comfortably off, and why he should come in twice a year to smoke
a pipe was a thing he could not understand. But for once, Sarah was
quite unable to enlighten her husband. The matter had fairly puzzled
both John and his wife. Many years had passed since John Holl first made
Mr. Barton’s acquaintance. It happened thus: John had no children then,
and was much younger and not quite so steady as he had since become.
John’s temptations, too, were many; for in the discharge of his
occupation as dustman, he had sundry mugs of beer offered to him in the
course of the day. So it chanced that one particularly warm summer
afternoon, being oppressed by the heat, John accepted several of these
offerings, and had felt his thirst noways abated thereby. After his work
was done, therefore, he went into a public-house, to endeavour still
further to wash the dust from his throat. Here, somehow or other—he
never could exactly recall the cause—he became involved in a fierce
dispute with a man who was also engaged in quenching a devouring thirst.
To settle this difference of opinion, they adjourned into the back-yard.
The end of this was, that John Holl, who had drunk more than his
opponent, got considerably the worst of it. The first thing he
remembered afterwards was, that he was sitting on the ground, supported
by Mr. Barton. This good Samaritan had entered the public-house just
after John himself, had espoused his side in the argument with great
zeal, and now sprinkled water in his face, and endeavoured to pour
brandy down his throat. When he had partially recovered, Mr. Barton, in
the kindest manner sent for a cab, drove John to his house, and there
delivered him over to the tender care and pity, mingled with
upbraidings, of his wife. After this he came in several times to see how
John was getting on, but, when he had as it were got a footing in the
house, his visits gradually became less frequent, and at last months
passed by without their seeing him. Then, greatly to their astonishment,
he had dropped in again; and from that time, every six months or so, Mr.
Barton would pay them a visit; greet John and Sarah as if he had seen
them only the day before; reach a long pipe down from the mantelpiece,
seat himself in his usual place next to James, and begin to smoke
tranquilly. Husband and wife had often wondered and discussed much what
could be his possible motive in thus, for seventeen years, continuing
his periodical visits. They did not like the man; still they had no
reason for telling him so, more especially as he tried to make his
visits as acceptable as possible, never failing to produce a small
bottle of spirits, remarking—with an immovable face, which it was
impossible to question—that he had in his pocket by accident, and to
insist that it should be drunk then and there. For the children, too, he
always brought a bag of cakes or lollipops, so that to them his visits
were noteworthy affairs. Indeed they served Mrs. Holl as a species of
calendar, and she reckoned the date of all her household events for
years past by them. Baby had been born about a month before Barton’s
fourth visit back. James had the measles just about the time of his
sixth visit, and so on; and, indeed, Sarah would sometimes greatly
mystify her neighbours by this method of reckoning. It was not till many
years after the commencement of this disjointed intimacy that John Holl
had found out who his visitor really was. He had always supposed him to
be something in the city—for Barton occasionally mentioned his
office—but he did not even know in what part of London he lived, and put
him down as being a close man, not given to talking about his affairs.
Four years ago, he had made the discovery in this wise. A 56 happened to
be spending his evening with John when Mr. Barton had come in. A 56 had
said rather respectfully, “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” and Mr. Barton had
looked for a moment decidedly taken aback, but recovering himself had
said, “We are both off duty together to-night, Brown;” Brown being the
name by which A 56 was known in private life. After this Mr. Barton had
sat smoking and talking for a time as usual, and when he was gone, A 56
told them that Mr. Barton was a sort of private detective, at which John
and Sarah had been astonished, and indignant.
“What,” John said, “a detective! and what does he mean by coming spying
here? I hain’t nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Brown; he may spy as much
as he likes in my house, but he won’t find nothing but what is honestly
paid for. I ain’t no thief, Mr. Brown. If I find anything in the
bins—and many a silver spoon and fork, and all sorts have I found there
in my time—when I finds them I gives them up. Why, Lor, what good would
it be if I didn’t? Sairey would not so much as look at them. Next time
Mr. Barton comes here he’ll see what he’ll get for his peeping and
spying. Just to think of it, Sairey, to think that while I thought
everyone knew John Holl was an honest man, that all this time I have had
a policeman—no offence, Mr. Brown—but a private policeman a spying into
my doings.”
“I don’t think—do you know, John,” A 56 said, after smoking meditatively
for some time, “I don’t think you need trouble yourself about Barton’s
suspicions of your honesty. If there had been any great robbery of
plate, and they could not make out how the stuff had gone, and you had
taken away the dust, say early in the morning, I don’t know that they
might not suspect you, and keep you under their eye; but Lor bless you,
it would not have lasted more than a few weeks at most. It ain’t nothing
of that sort, you may take your solemn Davey. It is a rum start surely.
I have often heard you talk about a Mr. Barton, who came in twice a
year, but it never entered my head as how it were Barton the private
detective.”
“Well, but what does he come here for, Mr. Brown? Just tell me that,”
John Holl said, bringing his heavy hand down upon the table. “I’ll find
out next time he comes, or my name’s not John Holl. I will punch his
head for him, Mr. Brown, detective or no detective; there’s no law
against that I expect, if he comes into my house without even saying by
your leave.”
A 56 smoked thoughtfully, not paying much attention to what John Holl
said; then he remarked, “It is certainly strange, John. Barton is a deep
one, there’s no doubt of that, and not a bit the sort of chap to waste a
minute of his time without some good reason for it, but I can’t see what
his game is here.”
“What was this Mr. Barton?” Mr. Holl asked.
“He was a Bow Street runner,” A 56 said, “but he was turned out of the
force some twelve years back. He calls himself a private detective now,
and does all sorts of things in that way. They say he is as sharp as a
needle. He’s got to the bottom of several jobs which have beaten our
people, but I have heard, though I should not say so to every one, that
he plays double sometime. But there, that mayn’t be true, and you see
our people are rather jealous of him.”
“That’s right enough, Mr. Brown, but still I can’t see what he has been
spying about here so long for—twelve years—no, more—nigh upon thirteen,
it were just about the time when James and his poor mother came here.”
“Was it though?” the policeman said; “then you may take my word for it,
John, he comes to keep his eye on the boy. I’d bet a gallon to a pint he
knows who the boy is, and is paid by his friends to let him know if he’s
alive, and how he is getting on; yes, you may depend upon it, that’s
about the mark.”
John Holl and his wife looked at each other in astonishment. Sarah was
the first to speak.
“That’s it, John, sure enough. Like enough he’ll turn out some rich
man’s son, and get all his money yet.”
“I would not think that, Mrs. Holl; no, not if I was you,” policeman
Brown said; “I should say his chance now is worse than it was before.
Then some day, I don’t say it was likely, still there it was, it might
have been found out by some accident who he was, but now it seems as if
they must know where he is, and all about him, but don’t want to
acknowledge or do anything for him.”
“Then they’re a bad, unnatural lot, whoever they are,” Mrs. Holl said,
indignantly, “and the poor lad a cripple too. But any ways, John, if he
comes to look after James, we must speak him fair, for who knows,
perhaps some day when they are dying they may be sorry for what they
have done all these years, and turn round and send for him.”
“That is so,” the policeman said; “let him come and go just as if you
thought nothing more of him than before; if any good come of it, so much
the better. If not, his visits won’t have done you any harm.”
And so it was settled. Since that conversation Mr. Barton had paid his
seven visits with his usual punctuality—this was his eighth. No hint was
ever given by John and Sarah that they suspected the cause of his
coming, and to James they had never spoken of what had passed, for he
had gone to bed at the time when their discovery of Mr. Barton’s
occupation was made, and they agreed that it was much better to say
nothing to him on the subject.
For some time the little party talked on indifferent matters, and then
the cripple boy, who was rather fond of attacking William Holl, brought
up the question of politics. James had read much, and variously. All
these years that he had been crippled, he had had no other occupation,
and he had thought as well as read; at ordinary times his diction,
although better, still resembled that of those around him, but when he
warmed into a subject he dropped this altogether, and spoke in the
language of those in the world, of which he had seen so little and read
so much. “Well, Uncle William, and how go on the Chartists?”
“The great cause goes on well, James, as well or better than we could
hope. The working classes are everywhere moving, and a deep feeling of
discontent at their condition is fast gaining ground among them.”
“And a great pity too, William,” Sarah Holl said; “we have always done
very well before we got these Chartist notions into our heads, and for
my part I can’t see what we want with them, or what good they are to do
us, when we do get them.”
William Holl smiled pityingly, his wife sadly.
“Sairey is right,” her husband said. “We have done very well, and I for
one don’t want no change. I should like to own my horse and cart, but I
don’t see that the charter is going to give it me. So let well alone,
says I.”
“Anyhow, William,” Sarah said, “it has done neither you nor Bessy any
good. When I think of what you both were two years ago, and what you are
now, it makes me sick of the very name of the Charter.”
“The first disciples of a cause always suffer,” William Holl said
earnestly, “and Bessy and I must be content to do the same. When we look
back some day upon our success, we shall be rewarded.”
“The success you will have to look back upon some day, William Holl, if
you don’t watch it,” A 56 said, “will be finding yourself some fine
morning shut up between four walls.”
“The voice of the million cannot be put down!” William Holl said,
sententiously.
“Yes, it can, Uncle William,” James said, “when the million don’t happen
to be united, and the two or three hundred thousand who are their
masters, and who have an armed force at their command, are perfectly
unanimous.”
“The history of the world says otherwise.”
“In some cases, uncle, I grant you, where the million are really ground
down, as you are so fond of saying, or are crying for bread, their voice
is, I allow, irresistible, but unless their grievance is a real one, and
their hearts are in it, it may be very loud, but no one cares for it.
Your opponents have strength, and perfect unanimity; they have the law
on their side, the troops and the police, and against all this your mere
mob is a wave against a rock.”
“The French Revolution, James, has taught us the power of the people.”
“The French Revolution!” James laughed. “You will never play that game
over here, nor is it the slightest criterion for you. The French people
had reason on their side, they had justice if not law. The people were
tyrannised over to an extent we can hardly understand; they groaned
under an overbearing nobility with feudal power, who looked upon them as
hardly human beings; their condition was dreadful, and they were nearly
starving. They had something to fight for. But we are not mere slaves as
they were, nor are we starving. The French people groaned under so
terrible a tyranny, that the whole of the middle classes, the great
proportion of the clergy, and a good many even of the nobles were at
first with them—in fact were the Revolution, although in the end the
people turned upon their benefactors, and destroyed nobility, clergy,
and middle class. The people there were at the commencement united with
the middle class, and at any rate knew what they were fighting for, and
were sufficiently in earnest to be ready to give their lives for their
cause. You stand alone; the middle classes are more bitterly opposed to
you than even the upper, you have no unity among yourselves, and lastly,
you are fighting for you know not what—for a chimera.”
“I beg your pardon, James,” William Holl said, hotly, “it is no chimera.
Universal suffrage is Nature’s law; every man has a right to a voice in
the Government.”
“Now, my dear uncle, that is so like you. You see you get together, and
you dogmatise, and agree with each other, till you lay down things as
law, which have no existence except in your own brain. What do you mean
by that great sounding phrase,—‘universal suffrage is Nature’s law.’ It
sounds well, but what does it mean? Has it any meaning at all—and if so,
is it true? Let us go back to a state of nature—savage nature, and what
will you find? Chiefs or governors are elected to rule the nation; but I
will venture to say, in no tribe or race of which there is any history,
were they chosen by the vote of man, woman, and child; they were elected
and are now elected among savage tribes by the wise men of the nation,
the object being to choose the men most fitted for the place. And so
with this Government of ours; when Parliament was established, it was
proposed that the men most suited to rule the nation should be chosen.
There were various ways in which this might have been done, but the way
selected was that boroughs and counties should each send so many
members, which members were in those days unquestionably selected by the
leading men in such boroughs and counties. Since its foundation the
number admitted to the privilege, or to speak more correctly, the number
of those upon whom the responsibility of selecting the representatives
devolves, has largely increased, until nearly every man of intelligence
or energy, having a house, can vote. The object of it all is to obtain a
good Government. Is not that object attained? Do you mean for an instant
to say that a Parliament such as would be elected under a system of
universal suffrage would be equal in intelligence, in character, or in
any single point, with the present one? Failing to prove that, your
whole argument falls to the ground. If under the present state of things
you found Parliament legislating entirely for the benefit of the rich as
against the poor, taking burdens off their own shoulders to lay them on
yours, you might well complain. But it is not so. The burdens on
property are very great, the burden on you very slight. Every question
which comes before them which can in any way benefit the working classes
has always its full share of attention. What reason therefore have you
to complain? Of those who have the vote, not one half exercise the
inestimable privilege you make so much fuss about; not one quarter would
do so unless canvassed and worried and bribed. My dear uncle, as father
says, we are very well as we are; let well alone.”
“There is something in what you say, James; but unquestionably a
republic in which each man has a voice is the happiest form of
government.”
“Theoretically it may be, uncle, although I should doubt it. The Jews
tried it, and fell back upon a monarchy. The Athenians tried it, and
there it lasted till the time of their fall; but you will find that the
house of assembly, so to speak, in Athens, was chosen by a more limited
proportion of the people than have the vote here; besides, if you read
their domestic history, I don’t think you will conclude that it was a
happy or reputable one. Rome tried it; but in her earlier history the
real power was always in the hands of the patricians, who chose consuls,
who were kings with another name. And in Rome, as the popular element
became stronger, so was the government worse, until the nation took
refuge under an emperor. England tried a revolution, and fell into the
hands of Cromwell, who, although he ruled them wisely and well, was far
more despotic in his power than any king who preceded him. France tried
it, and you can’t say much for the conduct of King Mob there; and at
last they came to the conclusion that an emperor was better than
mob-law. Yes, I see, uncle, America. America is a young country. She has
had, since her formation, no enemy near her to try her; she started with
every advantage, and what is the result? She has pretty nearly universal
suffrage—that is, every man has a vote—but what is the consequence? he
finds it of no use voting independently, and he therefore binds himself
to a party, and has a ticket given him with a list of names, which he is
bound to vote for. Look at Congress, no sane man could compare it,
either for intelligence, eloquence, statesmanship, or conduct, with our
own House of Commons; besides, above all is the President, who is really
very nearly independent of Congress, and is, indeed, as despotic as any
European monarch.”
While James had been speaking, the others had been smoking in silence.
Mr. Barton was surprised, although he said nothing, and the others were
accustomed to his talk, which was indeed far beyond his age and station.
When he ceased there was a moment’s silence, and then John Holl said,—
“Well spoken, James, spoken out like a man, ay, and a clever man, too. I
don’t quite know all you were saying, not having learning myself; but I
am proud to hear you, James, and I feel more than repaid, if it were
only to hear you talk like that, for any trouble we may have had with
you, my boy. Now, brother Will, you ain’t got nothing to say to that;
give it up, man, for Bessy’s sake if not your own; give it up, and go to
work again like a man.”
“I have plenty to say against it if I choose, John,” William said.
“James talks very well, looking at it in the light he does, and, I will
say fairly, puts his side stronger than I ever heard it put before; but
he talks from books, and not from real life. He does not know how we are
put upon—how should he?”
“Ah, that’s what you always fall back upon, uncle,” James said,
laughing. “You are put upon; it is very vague, and therefore,
unsupported as it is by a single fact, very difficult to disprove. How I
wish I was like other people. I should like to go to one of your
meetings, and speak there. You get together, you are all the same side,
and you talk and talk, and back each other up, till you think there is
nothing to be said on the other side of the question.”
“Lor bless you,” Perkins said, “they wouldn’t let you speak; don’t you
go to think that; if you didn’t agree with them they wouldn’t hear a
word you had to say, and you might think yourself very lucky if you got
out of the place as whole as you went in. I’ve been to some of these
sort of places, but the more I find they talk about liberty, the less
they will give it to any one else.”
“Do you know, Perkins, I should like to go to one of these Chartist
meetings. I have heard James talk it over so often, that I think I could
tell them a thing or two.”
“Look here, John,” the prize-fighter said, “I don’t like these things,
but I should not mind it for once for a lark. So if you go, here’s one
with you. What do you say, William, will you take us?”
“I don’t know when there will be one,” William Holl said, evasively,
glancing at A 56.
“You need not mind me, William Holl,” the policeman said; “we’ve no
instructions about you yet. When we have, be as cunning as you like, we
shall soon find out all about your goings on; but if you will take my
advice, you will drop it. James has put it very straight and right, and
I drink his health, and it would be better for some of you if you had a
little of his sense. You will find yourself in the wrong box one of
these days.”
William Holl only shook his head, and then rose, saying it was past nine
and it was time to be off. So his wife put her bonnet on, and all took
their leave, including Mr. Barton, who had, as was his wont, spoken very
little, but who had listened attentively, especially when James was
speaking, as if desirous of judging as far as possible of the lad’s
character.