Truth is the precious harvest of the earth.
But once, when harvest waved upon a land,
The noisome cankerworm and caterpillar,
Locusts, and all the swarming foul-born broods,
Fastened upon it with swift, greedy jaws,
And turned the harvest into pestilence,
Until men said, What profits it to sow?
Felix was going to Sproxton that Sunday afternoon. He always enjoyed his
walk to that outlying hamlet; it took him (by a short cut) through a
corner of Sir Maximus Debarry's park; then across a piece of common,
broken here and there into red ridges below dark masses of furze; and
for the rest of the way alongside of the canal, where the Sunday
peacefulness that seemed to rest on the bordering meadows and pastures
was hardly broken if a horse pulled into sight along the towing-path,
and a boat, with a little curl of blue smoke issuing from its tin
chimney, came slowly gliding behind. Felix retained something of his
boyish impression that the days in a canal-boat were all like Sundays;
but the horse, if it had been put to him, would probably have preferred
a more Judaic or Scotch rigor with regard to canal-boats, or at least
that the Sunday towing should be done by asses, as a lower order.
This canal was only a branch of the grand trunk, and ended among the
coal-pits, where Felix, crossing a network of black tram-roads, soon
came to his destination--that public institute of Sproxton, known to its
frequenters chiefly as Chubb's, but less familiarly as the Sugar Loaf,
or the New Pits; this last being the name for the more modern and lively
nucleus of the Sproxton hamlet. The other nucleus, known as the Old
Pits, also supported its "public," but it had something of the forlorn
air of an abandoned capital; and the company at the Blue Cow was of an
inferior kind--equal, of course, in the fundamental attributes of
humanity, such as desire for beer, but not equal in ability to pay for
it.
When Felix arrived, the great Chubb was standing at the door. Mr. Chubb
was a remarkable publican; none of your stock Bonifaces, red, bloated,
jolly, and joking. He was thin and sallow, and was never, as his
constant guests observed, seen to be the worse (or the better) for
liquor; indeed, as among soldiers an eminent general was held to have a
charmed life, Chubb was held by the members of the Benefit Club to have
a charmed sobriety, a vigilance over his own interest that resisted all
narcotics. His very dreams, as stated by himself, had a method in them
beyond the waking thoughts of other men. Pharaoh's dream, he observed,
was nothing to them; and, as lying so much out of ordinary experience,
they were held particularly suitable for narration on Sunday evenings,
when the listening colliers, well washed and in their best coats, shook
their heads with a sense of peculiar edification which belongs to the
inexplicable. Mr. Chubb's reasons for becoming landlord of the Sugar
Loaf, were founded on the severest calculation. Having an active mind,
and being averse to bodily labor, he had thoroughly considered what
calling would yield him the best livelihood with the least possible
exertion, and in that sort of line he had seen that a "public" amongst
miners who earned high wages was a fine opening. He had prospered
according to the merits of such judicious calculation, was already a
forty-shilling freeholder, and was conscious of a vote for the county.
He was not one of those mean-spirited men who found the franchise
embarrassing, and would rather have been without it: he regarded his
vote as part of his investment, and meant to make the best of it. He
called himself a straight-forward man, and at suitable moments expressed
his views freely; in fact, he was known to have one fundamental division
for all opinion--"my idee" and "humbug."
When Felix approached, Mr. Chubb was standing, as usual, with his hands
nervously busy in his pockets, his eyes glancing around with a detective
expression at the black landscape, and his lipless mouth compressed, yet
in constant movement. On a superficial view it might be supposed that so
eager-seeming a personality was unsuited to the publican's business; but
in fact, it was a great provocative to drinking. Like the shrill biting
talk of a vixenish wife, it would have compelled you to "take a little
something" by way of dulling your sensibility.
Hitherto, notwithstanding Felix drank so little ale, the publican
treated him with high civility. The coming election was a great
opportunity for applying his political "idee," which was, that society
existed for the sake of the individual, and that the name of that
individual was Chubb. Now, for a conjunction of absurd circumstances
inconsistent with that idea, it happened that Sproxton hereto had been
somewhat neglected in the canvass. The head member of the company that
worked the mines was Mr. Peter Garstin, and the same company received
the rent from the Sugar Loaf. Hence, as the person who had the most
power of annoying Mr. Chubb, and being of detriment to him, Mr. Garstin
was naturally the candidate for whom he had reserved his vote. But where
there is this intention of ultimately gratifying a gentleman by voting
for him in an open British manner on the day of the poll, a man, whether
Publican or Pharisee (Mr. Chubb used this generic classification of
mankind as one that was sanctioned by Scripture), is all the freer in
his relation with those deluded persons who take him for what he is not,
and imagine him to be a waverer. But for some time opportunity had
seemed barren. There were but three dubious votes besides Mr. Chubb's
in the small district of which the Sugar Loaf could be regarded as the
centre of intelligence and inspiration: the colliers, of course, had no
votes, and did not need political conversion; consequently, the
interests of Sproxton had only been tacitly cherished in the breasts of
candidates. But ever since it had been known that a Radical candidate
was in the field, that in consequence of this Mr. Debarry had coalesced
with Mr. Garstin, and that Sir James Clement, the poor baronet, had
retired, Mr. Chubb had been occupied with the most ingenious mental
combinations in order to ascertain what possibilities of profit to the
Sugar Loaf might lie in this altered state of the canvass.
He had a cousin in another county, also a publican, but in a larger way,
and resident in a borough, and from him Mr. Chubb had gathered more
detailed political information than he could find in the Loamshire
newspapers. He was now enlightened enough to know that there was a way
of using voteless miners and navvies at nominations and elections. He
approved of that; it entered into his political "idee"; and indeed he
would have been for extending the franchise to this class--at least in
Sproxton. If any one had observed that you must draw a line somewhere,
Mr. Chubb would have concurred at once, and would have given permission
to draw it at a radius of two miles from his own tap.
From the first Sunday evening when Felix had appeared at the Sugar Loaf,
Mr. Chubb had made up his mind that this 'cute man who kept himself
sober was an electioneering agent. That he was hired for some purpose or
other there was not a doubt; a man didn't come and drink nothing without
a good reason. In proportion as Felix's purpose was not obvious to
Chubb's mind, it must be deep; and this growing conviction had even led
the publican on the last Sunday evening privately to urge his mysterious
visitor to let a little ale be chalked up for him--it was of no
consequence. Felix knew his man, and had taken care not to betray too
soon that his real object was so to win the ear of the best fellows
about him as to induce them to meet him on a Saturday evening in the
room where Mr. Lyon, or one of his deacons, habitually held his
Wednesday preachings. Only women and children, three old men, a
journeyman tailor, and a consumptive youth, attended those preachings;
not a collier had been won from the strong ale of the Sugar Loaf, not
even a navvy from the muddier drink of the Blue Cow. Felix was sanguine;
he saw some pleasant faces among the miners when they were washed on
Sundays; they might be taught to spend their wages better. At all
events, he was going to try: he had great confidence in his powers of
appeal, and it was quite true that he never spoke without arresting
attention. There was nothing better than a dame school in the hamlet; he
thought that if he could move the fathers, whose blackened week-day
persons and flannel caps, ornamented with tallow candles by way of
plume, were a badge of hard labor, for which he had a more sympathetic
fibre than for any ribbon in the buttonhole--if he could move these men
to save something from their drink and pay a school-master for their
boys, a greater service would be done them than if Mr. Garstin and his
company were persuaded to establish a school.
"I'll lay hold of them by their fatherhood," said Felix; "I'll take one
of their little fellows and set him in the midst. Till they can show
there's something they love better than swilling themselves with ale,
extension of the suffrage can never mean anything for them but extension
of boozing. One must begin somewhere: I'll begin at what is under my
nose. I'll begin at Sproxton. That's what a man would do if he had a
red-hot superstition. Can't one work for sober truth as hard as for
megrims?"
Felix Holt had his illusions, like other young men, though they were not
of a fashionable sort; referring neither to the impression his costume
and horsemanship might make on beholders, nor to the ease with which he
would pay the Jews when he gave a loose to his talents and applied
himself to work. He had fixed his choice on a certain Mike Brindle (not
that Brindle was his real name--each collier had his _sobriquet_) as the
man whom he would induce to walk part of the way home with him this very
evening, and get to invite some of his comrades for the next Saturday.
Brindle was one of the head miners: he had a bright good-natured face,
and had given especial attention to certain performances with a magnet
which Felix carried in his pocket.
Mr. Chubb, who had also his illusions, smiled graciously as the
enigmatic customer came up to the door-step.
"Well, sir, Sunday seems to be your day: I begin to look for you on a
Sunday now."
"Yes, I'm a workingman; Sunday is my holiday," said Felix, pausing at
the door since the host seemed to expect this.
"Ah, sir, there's many ways of working. I look at it you're one of those
as work with your brains. That's what I do myself."
"One may do a good deal of that and work with one's hands too."
"Ah, sir," said Mr. Chubb, with a certain bitterness in his smile, "I've
that sort of head that I've often wished I was stupider. I use things
up, sir; I see into things a deal too quick. I eat my dinner, as you may
say, at breakfast-time. That's why I hardly ever smoke a pipe. No sooner
do I stick a pipe in my mouth than I puff and puff till it's gone before
other folks' are well lit; and then, where am I? I might as well have
let it alone. In this world it's better not to be too quick. But you
know what it is, sir."
"Not I," said Felix, rubbing the back of his head, with a grimace. "I
generally feel myself rather a blockhead. The world's a largish place,
and I haven't turned everything inside out yet."
"Ah, that's your deepness. I think we understand one another. And about
this here election, I lay two to one we should agree if we was to come
to talk about it."
"Ah!" said Felix, with an air of caution.
"You're none of a Tory, eh, sir? You won't go to vote for Debarry? That
was what I said at the very first go-off. Says I, he's no Tory. I think
I was right, sir--eh?"
"Certainly; I'm no Tory."
"No, no, you don't catch me wrong in a hurry. Well, between you and me,
I care no more for the Debarrys than I care for Johnny Groats. I live on
none o' their land, and not a pot's-worth did they ever send to the
Sugar Loaf. I'm not frightened at the Debarrys: there's no man more
independent than me. I'll plump or I'll split for them as treat me the
handsomest and are the most of what I call gentlemen; that's my idee.
And in the way of hatching for any man, them are fools that don't employ
me."
We mortals sometimes cut a pitiable figure in our attempts at display.
We may be sure of our own merits, yet fatally ignorant of the point of
view from which we are regarded by our neighbor. Our fine patterns in
tattooing may be far from throwing him into a swoon of admiration,
though we turn ourselves all round to show them. Thus it was with Mr.
Chubb.
"Yes," said Felix, dryly; "I should think there are some sorts of work
for which you are just fitted."
"Ah, you see that? Well, we understand one another. You're no Tory; no
more am I. And if I'd got four hands to show at a nomination, the
Debarrys shouldn't have one of 'em. My idee is, there's a deal too much
of their scutchins and their moniments in Treby Church. What's their
scutchins mean? They're a sign with little liquor behind 'em; that's how
I take it. There's nobody can give account of 'em as I ever heard."
Mr. Chubb was hindered from further explaining his views as to the
historical element in society by the arrival of new guests, who
approached in two groups. The foremost group consisted of well-known
colliers, in their good Sunday beavers and colored handkerchiefs serving
as cravats, with the long ends floating. The second group was a more
unusual one, and caused Mr. Chubb to compress his mouth and agitate the
muscles about it in rather an excited manner.
First came a smartly-dressed personage on horseback, with a conspicuous
expansive shirt-front and figured satin stock. He was a stout man, and
gave a strong sense of broadcloth. A wild idea shot through Mr. Chubb's
brain; could this grand visitor be Harold Transome? Excuse him: he had
been given to understand by his cousin from the distant borough that a
Radical candidate in the condescension of canvassing had even gone the
length of eating bread-and-treacle with the children of an honest
freeman, and declaring his preference for that simple fare. Mr. Chubb's
notion of a Radical was that he was a new and agreeable kind of
lick-spittle who fawned on the poor instead of on the rich, and so was
likely to send customers to a "public"; so that he argued well enough
from the premises at his command.
The mounted man of broadcloth had followers: several shabby-looking men,
and Sproxton boys of all sizes, whose curiosity had been stimulated by
unexpected largesse. A stranger on horseback scattering half-pence on a
Sunday was so unprecedented that there was no knowing what he might do
next; and the smallest hindmost fellows in sealskin caps were not
without hope that an entirely new order of things had set in.
Everyone waited outside for the stranger to dismount, and Mr. Chubb
advanced to take the bridle.
"Well, Mr. Chubb," were the first words when the great man was safely
out of the saddle, "I've often heard of your fine tap, and I'm come to
taste it."
"Walk in, sir--pray walk in," said Mr. Chubb, giving the horse to the
stable-boy. "I shall be proud to draw for you. If anybody's been
praising me, I think my ale will back him."
All entered in the rear of the stranger except the boys, who peeped in
at the window.
"Won't you please to walk into the parlor, sir," said Mr. Chubb,
obsequiously.
"No, no, I'll sit down here. This is what I like to see," said the
stranger, looking round at the colliers, who eyed him rather shyly--"a
bright hearth where workingmen can enjoy themselves. However, I'll step
into the other room for three minutes, just to speak half a dozen words
with you."
Mr. Chubb threw open the parlor door, and then stepping back, took the
opportunity of saying, in a low tone, to Felix, "Do you know this
gentleman?"
"Not I; no."
Mr. Chubb's opinion of Felix Holt sank from that moment. The parlor door
was closed, but no one sat down or ordered beer.
"I say, master," said Mike Brindle, going up to Felix, "don't you think
that's one o' the 'lection men?"
"Very likely."
"I heared a chap say they're up and down everywhere," said Brindle; "and
now's the time, they say, when a man can get beer for nothing."
"Ay, that's sin' the Reform," said a big, red-whiskered man, called
Dredge. "That's brought the 'lections and the drink into these parts;
for afore that, it was all kep' up the Lord knows wheer."
"Well, but the Reform's niver come anigh Sprox'on," said a gray-haired
but stalwart man called Old Sleck. "I don't believe nothing about'n, I
don't."
"Don't you?" said Brindle, with some contempt. "Well, I do. There's
folks won't believe beyond the end o' their own pickaxes. You can't
drive nothing into 'em, not if you split their skulls. I know for
certain sure, from a chap in the cartin' way, as he's got money and
drink too, only for hollering. Eh, master, what do _you_ say?" Brindle
ended, turning with some deference to Felix.
"Should you like to know all about the Reform?" said Felix, using his
opportunity. "If you would, I can tell you."
"Ay, ay--tell's; you know I'll be bound," said several voices at once.
"Ah, but it will take some little time. And we must be quiet. The
cleverest of you--those who are looked up to in the Club--must come and
meet me at Peggy Button's cottage next Saturday, at seven o'clock, after
dark. And, Brindle, you must bring that little yellow-haired lad of
yours. And anybody that's got a little boy--a very little fellow, who
won't understand what is said--may bring him. But you must keep it
close, you know. We don't want fools there. But everybody who hears me
may come. I shall be at Peggy Button's."
"Why, that's where the Wednesday preachin' is," said Dredge. "I've been
aforced to give my wife a black eye to hinder her from going to the
preachin'. Lors-a-massy, she thinks she knows better nor me, and I can't
make head nor tail of her talk."
"Why can't you let the woman alone?" said Brindle, with some disgust.
"I'd be ashamed to beat a poor crawling thing 'cause she likes
preaching."
"No more I did beat her afore, not if she scrat' me," said Dredge, in
vindication; "but if she jabbers at me, I can't abide it. Howsomever,
I'll bring my Jack to Peggy's o' Saturday. His mother shall wash him. He
is but four year old, and he'll swear and square at me a good un, if I
set him on."
"There you go blatherin'," said Brindle, intending a mild rebuke.
This dialogue, which was in danger of becoming too personal, was
interrupted by the reopening of the parlor door, and the reappearance of
the impressive stranger with Mr. Chubb, whose countenance seemed
unusually radiant.
"Sit you down here, Mr. Johnson," said Chubb, moving an arm-chair. "This
gentleman is kind enough to treat the company," he added, looking round,
"and what's more, he'll take a cup with 'em; and I think there's no man
but what'll say that's a honor."
The company had nothing equivalent to a "hear, hear," at command, but
they perhaps felt the more, as they seated themselves with an
expectation unvented by utterance. There was a general satisfactory
sense that the hitherto shadowy Reform had at length come to Sproxton in
a good round shape, with broadcloth and pockets. Felix did not intend to
accept the treating, but he chose to stay and hear, taking his pint as
usual.
"Capital ale, capital ale," said Mr. Johnson, as he set down his glass,
speaking in a quick, smooth treble. "Now," he went on, with a certain
pathos in his voice, looking at Mr. Chubb, who sat opposite, "there's
some satisfaction to me in finding an establishment like this at the
Pits. For what would higher wages do for the workingman if he couldn't
get a good article for his money? Why, gentlemen"--here he looked
round--"I've been into ale-houses where I've seen a fine fellow of a
miner or a stone-cutter come in and have to lay down money for beer that
I should be sorry to give to my pigs!" Here Mr. Johnson leaned forward
with squared elbows, hands placed on his knees, and a defiant shake of
the head.
"Aw, like at the Blue Cow," fell in the irrepressible Dredge, in a deep
bass; but he was rebuked by a severe nudge from Brindle.
"Yes, yes, you know what it is, my friend," said Mr. Johnson, looking at
Dredge, and restoring his self-satisfaction. "But it won't last much
longer, that's one good thing. Bad liquor will be swept away with other
bad articles. Trade will prosper--and what's trade now without steam?
and what is steam without coal? And mark you this, gentlemen--there's no
man and no government can make coal."
A loud "Haw, haw," showed that this fact was appreciated.
"Nor freeston', nayther," said a wide-mouthed wiry man called Gills, who
wished for an exhaustive treatment of the subject, being a stone-cutter.
"Nor freestone, as you say; else, I think, if coal could be made
above-ground, honest fellows who are the pith of our population would
not have to bend their backs and sweat in a pit six days out of the
seven. No, no; I say, as this country prospers it has more and more need
of you, sirs. It can do without a pack of lazy lords and ladies, but it
can never do without brave colliers. And the country _will_ prosper. I
pledge you my word, sirs, this country will rise to the tiptop of
everything, and there isn't a man in it but what shall have his joint in
the pot, and his spare money jingling in his pocket, if we only exert
ourselves to send the right men to Parliament--men who will speak up for
the collier, and the stone-cutter, and the navvy" (Mr. Johnson waved his
hand liberally), "and will stand no nonsense. This is a crisis, and we
must exert ourselves. We've got Reform, gentlemen, but now the thing is
to make Reform work. It's a crisis--I pledge you my word it's a crisis."
Mr. Johnson threw himself back as if from the concussion of that great
noun. He did not suppose that one of his audience knew what a crisis
meant; but he had large experience in the effect of uncomprehended
words; and in this case the colliers were thrown into a state of
conviction concerning they did not know what, which was a fine
preparation for "hitting out," or any other act carrying a due sequence
to such a conviction.
Felix felt himself in danger of getting into a rage. There is hardly any
mental misery worse than that of having our own serious phrases, our own
rooted beliefs, caricatured by a charlatan or a hireling. He began to
feel the sharp lower edge of his tin pint-measure, and to think it a
tempting missile.
Mr. Johnson certainly had some qualifications as an orator. After this
impressive pause he leaned forward again, and said, in a lowered tone,
looking round--
"I think you all know the good news."
There was a movement of shoe-soles on the quarried floor, and a scrape
of some chair legs, but no other answer.
"The good news I mean is, that a first-rate man, Mr. Transome, of
Transome Court, has offered himself to represent you in Parliament,
sirs. I say you in particular, for what he has at heart is the welfare
of the workingman--of the brave fellows that wield the pickaxe, and the
saw, and the hammer. He's rich--has more money than Garstin--but he
doesn't want to keep it to himself. What he wants is, to make a good use
of it, gentlemen. He's come back from foreign parts with his pockets
full of gold. He could buy up the Debarrys, if they were worth buying,
but he's got something better to do with his money. He means to use it
for the good of the workingmen in these parts. I know there are some men
who put up for Parliament and talk a little too big. They may say they
want to befriend the colliers, for example. But I should like to put a
question to them. I should like to ask them, 'What colliers?' There are
colliers up at Newcastle, and there are colliers down in Wales. Will it
do any good to honest Tom, who is hungry in Sproxton, to hear that Jack
at Newcastle has his belly full of beef and pudding?"
"It ought to do him good," Felix burst in, with his loud, abrupt voice,
in odd contrast with glib Mr. Johnson's. "If he knows it's a bad thing
to be hungry and not have enough to eat, he ought to be glad that
another fellow, who is not idle, is not suffering in the same way."
Every one was startled. The audience was much impressed with the
grandeur, the knowledge, and the power of Mr. Johnson. His brilliant
promises confirmed the impression that Reform had at length reached the
New Pits; and Reform, if it were good for anything, must at last resolve
itself into spare money--meaning "sport" and drink, and keeping away
from work for several days in the week. These "brave" men of Sproxton
liked Felix as one of themselves, only much more knowing--as a
workingman who had seen many distant parts, but who must be very poor,
since he never drank more than a pint or so. They were quite inclined to
hear what he had got to say on another occasion, but they were rather
irritated by his interruption at the present moment. Mr. Johnson was
annoyed, but he spoke with the same glib quietness as before, though
with an expression of contempt.
"I call it a poor-spirited thing to take up a man's straight-forward
words and twist them. What I meant to say was plain enough--that no man
can be saved from starving by looking on while others eat. I think
that's common-sense, eh, sirs?"
There was again an approving "Haw, haw." To hear anything said, and
understand it, was a stimulus that had the effect of wit. Mr. Chubb cast
a suspicious and viperous glance at Felix, who felt that he had been a
simpleton for his pains.
"Well, then," continued Mr. Johnson, "I suppose I may go on. But if
there is any one here better able to inform the company than I am, I
give way--I give way."
"Sir," said Mr. Chubb, magisterially, "no man shall take the words out
of _your_ mouth in this house. And," he added, looking pointedly at
Felix, "company that's got no more orders to give, and wants to turn up
rusty to them that has, had better be making room than filling it. Love
an' 'armony's the word on our Club's flag, an' love an' 'armony's the
meaning of 'The Sugar Loaf, William Chubb.' Folks of a different mind
had better seek another house of call."
"Very good," said Felix, laying down his money and taking his cap. "I'm
going." He saw clearly enough that if he said more, there would be a
disturbance which could have no desirable end.
When the door had closed behind him, Mr. Johnson said, "What is that
person's name?"
"Does anybody know it?" said Mr. Chubb.
A few noes were heard.
"I've heard him speak like a downright Reformer, else I should have
looked a little sharper after him. But you may see he's nothing
partic'lar."
"It looks rather bad that no one knows his name," said Mr. Johnson.
"He's most likely a Tory in disguise--a Tory spy. You must be careful,
sirs, of men who come to you and say they're Radicals, and yet do
nothing for you. They'll stuff you with words--no lack of words--but
words are wind. Now, a man like Transome comes forward and says to the
workingmen of this country: 'Here I am, ready to serve you and speak for
you in Parliament, and to get the laws made all right for you; and in
the meanwhile, if there's any of you who are my neighbors who want a
day's holiday, or a cup to drink with friends, or a copy of the King's
likeness--why, I'm your man. I'm not a paper handbill--all words and no
substance--nor a man with land and nothing else; I've got bags of gold
as well as land.' I think you know what I mean by the King's likeness."
Here Mr. Johnson took a half-crown out of his pocket and held the head
toward the company.
"Well, sirs, there are some men who like to keep this pretty picture a
great deal too much to themselves. I don't know whether I'm right, but I
think I've heard of such a one not a hundred miles from here. I think
his name was Spratt, and he managed some company's coal-pits."
"Haw, haw! Spratt--Spratt's his name," was rolled forth to an
accompaniment of scraping shoe-soles.
"A screwing fellow, by what I understand--a domineering fellow--who
would expect men to do as he liked without paying them for it. I think
there's not an honest man wouldn't like to disappoint such an upstart."
There was a murmur which was interpreted by Mr. Chubb. "I'll answer for
'em, sir."
"Now, listen to me. Here's Garstin: he's one of the company you work
under. What's Garstin to you? who sees him? and when they do see him
they see a thin miserly fellow who keeps his pockets buttoned. He calls
himself a Whig, yet he'll split votes with a Tory--he'll drive with the
Debarrys. Now, gentlemen, if I said I'd got a vote, and anybody asked me
what I should do with it, I should say, 'I'll plump for Transome.'
You've got no votes, and that's a shame. But you _will_ have some day,
if such men as Transome are returned; and then you'll be on a level with
the first gentleman in the land, and if he wants to sit in Parliament,
he must take off his hat and ask your leave. But though you haven't got
a vote you can give a cheer for the right man, and Transome's not a man
like Garstin; if you lost a day's wages by giving a cheer for Transome,
he'll make you amends. That's the way a man who has no vote can serve
himself and his country; he can lift up his hand and shout 'Transome
forever!'--'hurray for Transome!' Let the workingmen--let the colliers
and navvies and stone-cutters, who between you and me have a good deal
too much the worst of it, as things are now--let them join together and
give their hands and voices for the right man, and they'll make the
great people shake in their shoes a little; and when you shout for
Transome, remember you shout for more wages, and more of your rights,
and you shout to get rid of rats and _sprats_ and such small animals,
who are the tools the rich make use of to squeeze the blood out of the
poor man."
"I wish there'd be a row--I'd pommel him," said Dredge, who was
generally felt to be speaking to the question.
"No, no, my friend--there you're a little wrong. No pommelling--no
striking first. There you have the law and the constable against you. A
little rolling in the dust and knocking hats off, a little pelting with
soft things that'll stick and not bruise--all that doesn't spoil the
fun. If a man is to speak when you don't like to hear him, it is but
fair you should give him something he doesn't like in return. And the
same if he's got a vote and doesn't use it for the good of the country;
I see no harm in splitting his coat in a quiet way. A man must be taught
what's right if he doesn't know it. But no kicks, no knocking down, no
pommelling."
"It 'ud be good fun, though, if so-_be_," said Old Sleck, allowing
himself an imaginative pleasure.
"Well, well, if a Spratt wants you to say Garstin, it's some pleasure to
think you can say Transome. Now, my notion is this. You are men who can
put two and two together--I don't know a more solid lot of fellows than
you are; and what I say is, let the honest men in this country who've
got no vote show themselves in a body when they have got the chance.
Why, sirs, for every Tory sneak that's got a vote, there's fifty-five
fellows who must stand by and be expected to hold their tongues. But I
say let 'em hiss the sneaks, let 'em groan at the sneaks, and the sneaks
will be ashamed of themselves. The men who've got votes don't know how
to use them. There's many a fool with a vote, who is not sure in his
mind whether he shall poll, say for Debarry, or Garstin, or
Transome--whether he'll plump or whether he'll split; a straw will turn
him. Let him know your mind if he doesn't know his own. What's the
reason Debarry gets returned? Because people are frightened at the
Debarrys. What's that to you? You don't care for the Debarrys. If people
are frightened at the Tories, we'll turn round and frighten _them_. You
know what a Tory is--one who wants to drive the workingman as he'd drive
cattle. That's what a Tory is; and a Whig is no better, if he's like
Garstin. A Whig wants to knock the Tory down and get the whip, that's
all. But Transome's neither Whig nor Tory; he's the workingman's friend,
the collier's friend, the friend of the honest navvy. And if he gets
into Parliament, let me tell you it will be better for you. I don't say
it will be the better for overlookers and screws, and rats and _sprats_;
but it will be the better for every good fellow who takes his pot at the
Sugar Loaf."
Mr. Johnson's exertions for the political education of the Sproxton men
did not stop here, which was the more disinterested in him as he did not
expect to see them again, and could only set on foot an organization by
which their instruction could be continued without him. In this he was
quite successful. A man known among the "butties" as Pack, who had
already been mentioned by Mr. Chubb, presently joined the party, and had
a private audience of Mr. Johnson, that he might be instituted as the
"shepherd" of this new flock.
"That's a right down genelman," said Pack, as he took the seat vacated
by the orator, who had ridden away.
"What's his trade, think you?" said Gills, the wiry stone-cutter.
"Trade?" said Mr. Chubb. "He one of the top sawyers of the country. He
works with his head, you may see that."
"Let's have our pipes, then," said Old Sleck; "I'm pretty well tired o'
jaw."
"So am I," said Dredge. "It's wriggling work--like follering a stoat. It
makes a man dry. I'd as lief hear preaching, on'y there's naught to be
got by't. I shouldn't know which end I stood on if it wasn't for the
tickets and the treatin'."