not move a hand to help, nor raise my voice to shout for assistance in
behalf of the victim. There I remained on my knees—speechless,
stupified, deprived of motion,—able only to exercise the faculty of
sight; and that showed me a horrible spectacle! For, having half stunned
the Squire with a fearful blow, inflicted with a lump of chalk, George
dragged him towards the kiln in which the lime was still burning,
diffusing a pale red glow immediately above. 'Mercy!' once more cried
the Squire, recovering his senses a second time.—'Mercy! miscreant,'
exclaimed George; 'what mercy have you ever shown to me?' and, as he
uttered these words, he hurled his victim, or rather his oppressor, into
the burning pit! There was a shriek of agony—but it was almost
immediately stifled; and the lurid glow became brighter, and the form of
my brother-in-law seemed to expand and grow vast to my affrighted view;
so that he appeared some dreadful fiend bending over the fiery
receptacle for damned souls!
"Still was I a motionless, speechless, stupified spectator of that
horrible tragedy, at a distance of about twenty yards. But no words can
describe the dreadful feelings that seized upon me, when I suddenly
beheld an object reach the top of the burning kiln, and cling there for
an instant, until George Dalton with his foot thrust him back—for that
object was indeed the Squire—into the fiery tomb! Then a film came
rapidly over my eyes—my head seemed to swim round—and I fell back
senseless. I was aroused by a sensation of violent shaking; and, on
opening my eyes, I saw George Dalton bending over me. I shuddered
fearfully—for all the particulars of the dreadful deed so recently
performed, rushed to my mind with overwhelming force; and I remember
that I clasped my hands together in an agonising manner, exclaiming, 'My
God! George, how could you do it?'—'Tim,' he replied, 'I do not repent
what I have done. Human endurance could not stand more. If I had to live
the last hour over again, I would act in the same manner. _Your_
father—_my_ father—and my child, were all as good as murdered by that
man: and he has deserved death. Death he has met at last; and the
sweetest moments I ever tasted were when I saw him crawling painfully up
from the smouldering bottom of the pit, with his flesh all scorched, his
clothes singed to tinder, and his face awfully disfigured,—clinging,
too, with his burnt hands to the burning lime, and too wretched—yes, too
full of horror, even to utter a moan. Then I kicked him back, and I
watched his writhings till all was over. He died with difficulty, Tim;
and my only regret is that he was not ten hours in the tortures of that
death, instead of as many minutes. But, come, get off your knees, and
let us be going. I do not ask you whether you mean to tell of me,
because that would not prevent you if you have the intention.'—'George,
do you think it possible!' I exclaimed, scarcely able to recover from
the horrified sensations which were excited by the cold, implacable
manner in which he had described the dying efforts and agonies of his
enemy.—'Well, Tim,' he said, 'I don't ask you for any promises: you can
do as you like. One thing is very certain, I could never harm you; and
so, if you do take it into your head to turn round upon me, you would be
treating me as I never should treat you. Let us say no more about it;
and if you _can_ keep a composed countenance before the women, do.'
"We left the pit; and when we reached the top, George said, 'You go one
way, and I will go another. If you are met out late by any one, you
would not be suspected; but I should—and I would not involve you in any
danger by your being seen with me; for, remember Tim,' he added, as we
were about to separate, 'if I should happen to be caught out, I shall
never say that you were present. And now get home as soon as you can;
and say that you left work an hour ago, but that you took a walk, or
something of that kind, before you went home. You can also seem
surprised that I have not yet come back: that is, if I don't get home
before you.' We parted, and I took the nearest road to the village,
which I reached a little after eleven. Marion and my mother were rather
uneasy at our absence; and I was quite unable to master my feelings so
far as to appear composed and comfortable. Indeed, they were already
overwhelming me with questions, when George made his appearance. I was
astonished to see how happy he appeared: there was, positively, a glow
of animation in his countenance, as if he had done some admirable deed.
Somehow or another, his good spirits were catching; and I began to think
that an admirable deed had really been accomplished, in ridding the
earth of a monster whose delight was to crush and oppress the poor.
George said that he had been to deliver some message to the owner of the
kiln, after he had separated from me; and that made him so late. I had
already stated that I had taken a good long walk, and our tales were
believed. But, when the two women retired to rest, and George and I were
left alone for a few minutes, his manner suddenly changed, as he said in
a hoarse, low whisper, 'Tim, there is danger menacing _me_. A few
minutes after you and I parted, I met the Squire's gamekeepers near the
pit, as they were going their rounds on account of the poachers; and
they recognised me. My only chance of safety is in the probability that
the lime will consume the body entirely. At all events I shall be the
first at the pit in the morning.' I was horror-struck at what he told
me, and conjured him to seek safety by flight; but he declared his
resolution to await the issue of events, and trust to fortune. He said
that he felt perfectly happy in having wreaked his vengeance upon the
Squire, and should not experience other feelings, were he on the
scaffold. He then rose and went to join Marion, while I prepared to
spread my bed as usual on the floor of our little parlour.
"It was not yet day-light when I was awakened by hearing a noise in the
room; and on inquiry, I found that it was George, about to sally forth,
as he had intimated to me on the preceding night. I offered to get up
and accompany him; but he said, 'Not for the world, Tim. Should any
thing happen to _me_, _you_ must be at least safe, for those poor
creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and protector.' He
then left the room, and in a few moments I heard the street-door closing
gently. I lay down again and tried to sleep, but could not. An
indescribable feeling of uneasiness was upon me, and I found myself,
even against my will, balancing and calculating the chances for or
against the detection of the murder. At length my mind was worked up to
such a pitch of excitement that I could remain in bed no longer; and I
rose and dressed myself. Having opened the shutters, I found that the
day was just breaking. I cleared away the bedding, and laid the
breakfast-table, as was my custom. Presently my mother and Marion made
their appearance; and we sate down to the morning meal. But I could eat
nothing; and my uneasiness was soon perceived. 'Tim,' said Marion,
'there is something upon your mind: I know there is. You cannot conceal
it; and if you deny it, you will not be speaking the truth. In the name
of heaven, tell me what grieves you! And why has George gone out so
unusually early and without his breakfast this morning?'—I assured both
my sister and mother that there was nothing the matter with me, and that
George had merely gone out early to do a good day's work, as he hoped to
get an increase of wages. Marion was not satisfied; but she saw that it
was useless to question me, at least before our mother: accordingly,
when the latter left the room after breakfast, my sister again urged me
to make her acquainted with the cause of the secret anxiety which she
knew was preying upon me. I renewed my protestations that she was
mistaken. 'Well, Tim,' she said in her quiet, plaintive manner, while
her blue eyes filled with tears, 'if any thing should happen, the blow
will be certain to kill me, because I shall be unprepared for it.'—For a
few moments I hesitated whether I would confide to her the terrific
secret of the murder; but I had not the courage, and hurried away to
join my brother-in-law at the kiln.
"As I passed through the village, with my pickaxe on my back, I met a
person whom I knew. 'Splint,' said he, 'have you heard any thing?'—I
know that I turned deadly pale, as I stammered out, 'No, nothing
particular.'—He did not notice my change of countenance, but added, 'The
Squire is missing, and foul play is suspected. That is all I have heard.
But where is George?'—'Why should you instantly ask that question, after
mentioning the report about Squire Bulkeley?' I asked; and it was with
the utmost difficulty that I could restrain my feelings so as to speak
in a manner at all composed.—'Oh! only because if any thing should be
wrong, you know, I am afraid that George Dalton would be suspected
first; as every one is aware that he is no friend to the Squire;'—and
the man passed on his way, not having intended to say any thing cruel or
cutting, for he was a good kind of a fellow. My alarms increased; and I
felt so terribly uneasy, that I knew not whether to throw down my
pickaxe and run away altogether, or whether I should proceed to the
chalk-pit. But while I was still weighing in my mind all the chances for
and against detection, I came within sight of the fatal spot where the
dreadful murder had been perpetrated. There was the height from which my
brother-in-law and the Squire had rolled down, so firmly locked in each
other's hostile embrace: there was the chimney of the kiln, in the
burning-pit of which the wretched man had endured such fearful agonies
before death released him!
"I know not how it was—but, though I really wished to fly from the fatal
spot, some strange influence urged me on, or rather attracted me
thither. When I reached a point from which I could command a view of the
depths of the chalk-pit, an icy chill struck to my heart. George was in
the grasp of the Squire's two principal gamekeepers; and the labourers
of the pit were gathered round the mouth of the kiln, in a manner which
convinced me that they had made some discovery. At that instant the
words which George had addressed to me that morning, flashed back to
mind:—'_Should any thing happen to me, you must be at least safe; for
these poor creatures of women cannot be left without a friend and
protector._'—My soul recovered all its power, and I felt that the truth
of those words was strong indeed. Yes—what would become of my poor
mother and the unhappy Marion, if both of their protectors were snatched
away from them? Never was presence of mind more necessary. With a firm
step I descended the sloping path leading into the pit, and affected
extreme surprise when I beheld George in the custody of the gamekeepers.
A rapid but significant glance on his part encouraged me to maintain the
part I was playing; and fortunately no one suspected that a mere lad of
fifteen or sixteen like me had any hand in the dreadful deed of which
there was now evidence to prove the perpetration. It was however with no
affected horror that I gathered from the hurried words of the labourers
the particulars of the discovery. It appeared that the absence of the
Squire from home all night had created an alarm; and this was augmented
when it was ascertained that the Squire had been with one of his
gamekeepers at the chalk-pit, and that half an hour afterwards this same
keeper and another had encountered George Dalton in the same vicinity.
The gamekeepers, finding that the Squire had not returned home all
night, repaired direct to the chalk-works, where they found George
Dalton had just arrived; and the dawn of day showed them enough at the
bottom of the lime-pit to convince them that murder had been
perpetrated. To the questions put to him by those who arrested him,
George replied that he had parted from me at about a quarter to ten
o'clock on the previous evening—that I had returned home—and that he had
remained behind to finish his work;—but he denied having seen the Squire
at all.
"I may as well state now, although I was not aware of the fact till some
hours later on that terrible day, that the Squire's bailiff had been
sent for the moment George was arrested and the murder was discovered;
and that, having heard George's answers to the questions put to him, he
set off for the village by a short cut over the Bulkeley estate; whereas
I took the main road to the pit, and therefore had not met him. It
appears that on his arrival at the village, the bailiff went straight to
our lodgings, and began to question Marion and her mother as to whether
George had been home at all during the night; and if so, at what hour he
had returned. Marion named the hour at which he had returned; adding,
that he was so late because he had been, on leaving off work, to deliver
a message to the owner of the chalk-pit. The bailiff then brutally
revealed the whole terrible truth to the two females; and though I was
not there to witness the same, yet it is easy to believe that it was
terrible and heart-rending indeed. But, heedless of the misery which his
abrupt discourse had produced, the bailiff hastened off to the owner of
the chalk-pit, and learnt from him that George had _not_ been near him
on the preceding evening. Back to the pit went the bailiff, now
accompanied by its owner; and the next step was to convey the prisoner
before the nearest magistrate, who happened to be the rector of the
parish. I was desired to go with the party; but no suspicion was
attached to me. It was proved that the calcined remains of a human body
were found in the hole where the lime was burnt; and that the metal
buttons picked up were those which belonged to the coat the Squire had
on the previous evening. I need not detail the nature of the evidence
which appeared to tell against George Dalton; because you can well
understand it from all the circumstances I have already related. He
conducted himself with wonderful calmness and presence of mind
throughout the long examination, which lasted for several hours; and
when the magistrate asked him if he had any thing to say in his defence,
or to show why he should not be committed for trial, he answered in a
firm tone, 'I am innocent, and have nothing more to say.' He was
accordingly committed for trial—handcuffs were put upon him; and he was
removed to an out-house, guarded by constables, until a cart could be
got in readiness to convey him to the County Gaol.
"But in the yard of the rector's abode a heart-rending scene took place.
Marion was there, waiting to see her husband, of whose guilt _she_, poor
thing! could entertain no doubt. She had left our mother, who had fallen
down in a fit when the disclosure was so rudely made by the bailiff, to
the care of the landlady of the house in which we lived; and, crushed
with deep affliction—weak—sickly—almost heart-broken as she was, she had
dragged herself to the place where she heard the examination was going
on. 'Oh! George, George!' she exclaimed, as she rushed forward to
embrace her husband, whose manacles rattled, as, forgetting that he wore
them, he endeavoured to extend his arms to receive her. How poor Marion
wept!—what convulsive sobs escaped her bosom! George wept also; but he
said every thing fond and endearing to console her. The parson-justice
appeared at the door of his house; and, perceiving the sad spectacle,
said, 'Take that woman away: I will not have such scenes under my
windows. She is no doubt as bad as he.'—Never shall I forget the look of
imploring anguish which Marion turned towards that _minister of the
Gospel_, who spoke so sternly and so unjustly; then, in the next moment,
she fell senseless upon the ground. The constables rushed upon George to
drag him off to the out-house: but he hurled them away, manacled as he
was, crying in a voice that struck terror to my soul, 'I will not move
an inch till I see this poor innocent creature properly cared for. Keep
off—or I shall do _another murder_!'—'Another murder!' exclaimed the
rector: 'then he confesses that of the Squire!'—But George heard not the
observation; nor did he seem to notice the tremendous oversight which he
had committed in the bewildering anguish of the moment. Bending over
Marion, he raised her with his chained hands, while one of the rector's
servants, more humane than his master, brought out water to sprinkle
upon her countenance. At length she slowly opened her eyes; and George,
beckoning to me, said, 'Now, Tim, take her away: I cannot bear this
scene any more!'—I approached, and lent my support to poor Marion, while
George, of his own accord, hurried to the out-house, not once casting a
look behind him.
"I know not how I got my wretched sister home;—and I was nearly as
wretched as herself. But at length we reached our humble lodging, where
the landlady, who appeared to be the only friend left to us in the
world, did all she could to console the miserable young wife. Had it not
been for that kind-hearted woman, we must all have perished through
sheer want; for I received notice from the owner of the chalk-pit that
my services would be dispensed with in future, and no one else would
give me work. A week after George's committal, my mother died; and she,
who was once the wife of a farmer well-to-do in the world, was now
buried at the expense of the parish! When the funeral was over, and
Marion grew somewhat more composed, she insisted upon removing to
Winchester, so as to be near the gaol wherein her husband lay. 'If we
go,' said I, 'we must beg our way.'—'Then we will beg our way, Tim,'
answered Marion; 'for, whether innocent or guilty, George is my husband,
and I can never cease to love him.'—I offered no farther remonstrance;
so, bidding our kind landlady farewell, we set out, with only
half-a-crown in our pockets; and for that sum we were indebted to that
same good landlady.
"On our arrival at Winchester, we took a small lodging near the goal;
and Marion went to see her husband. She insisted upon going alone; and I
did not thwart her in any of her wishes. When she returned to me, she
seemed a little more tranquil than she had yet been since the dreadful
disclosure of George's arrest on an accusation of murder. She was
consoled by having seen her husband, although she could not do otherwise
than believe him guilty. But of that she never spoke to me; and I was
very careful not to touch upon the point. I now tried to obtain work;
but, at some places where I applied, _character_ was inquired about, and
at others no assistance was wanted. At last I was actually compelled to
go into the streets and beg, for Marion was attacked with severe
indisposition. One evening, as I was returning home without having
succeeded in obtaining a single halfpenny all day long, and in a state
bordering on despair, I was warned by a beadle that if I was seen
begging in the streets again, I should be taken up as a rogue and
vagabond. Frightened by his threats, I hurried away, and was already in
sight of the house in which we lived, and where I had left my poor
sister in the morning, when, by the light streaming from a shop-window,
I saw an old gentleman drop something on the ground as he drew out his
pocket-handkerchief. He went on without noticing the occurrence; and I
picked up the object, which proved to be his purse. Gold glittered
through the net-work at one end—silver was in the other. I ran after the
gentleman as hard as I could, hoping to receive a reward for my trouble;
but I could not find him. Thinking he had entered some house in the
street, I waited for nearly an hour—but still he appeared not. It came
on to rain hard: I was soon wet through to the skin, for my clothes were
old and tattered; and the pangs of hunger were now dreadful. The idea of
using a small portion of the money in the purse, by degrees grew
stronger and stronger in my mind. I thought of poor Marion, who was
famished as well as myself;—the temptation was too strong—and I yielded.
Rushing to a baker's shop, I procured bread: thence I proceeded to a
general-dealer's, and purchased a little tea, sugar, butter, and other
necessaries. I then returned home, and told Marion that a charitable
gentleman had given me half-a-crown, and that I was also promised work.
'Alas! my poor brother,' she said, 'you are compelled to think of
supporting me as well as yourself: but it will not be for long, Tim,'
she added: 'I feel it _there_ now,'—and she touched her forehead,—'as
well as _here_,'—and she placed her hand on her heart.—I burst into
tears, and implored her not to talk in that mournful way. She shook her
head, sighing piteously—but said nothing.
"Next day I went out and remained absent until night. When I came home
again I said that I had obtained work, at the rate of two shillings a
day and was to be paid every evening. So I laid two shillings on the
table. I forgot to observe that the purse contained about eleven pounds
in gold and silver; and I was determined to dole it out in such a way
that Marion should not suspect me of deceiving her. As often as the gaol
regulations would permit, she visited her husband; for the little
comforts which I was now able to provide for her, restored her strength
in a trifling degree—at all events, sufficiently so to enable her to
drag her drooping form along to the dungeon which held all she deemed
most dear. Once only did I see George before the day of his trial; for
Marion preferred to visit him alone. He was greatly affected at
beholding us together, and thanked me for my kindness towards my sister.
"At last, after the lapse of about three months, the Assizes commenced;
and on the second day the trial came on. George had counsel to defend
him: for I supplied the means from the purse, having invented some tale
to account for the possession of the requisite sum to fee the barrister,
so that Marion was satisfied. It was with the greatest difficulty that I
could persuade her to remain at home during the proceedings, at which I
was compelled to be present as a witness. I need not detail all the
particulars of the evidence given against my unhappy brother-in-law:
circumstances all told in his disfavour, and the observation which he
had let slip, '_I shall do another murder_,' was made the most of by the
counsel for the prosecution. I was examined, and I swore that I had
quitted the prisoner at the lime-kiln at a quarter to ten on the night
in question. It was proved that it was not until _past_ ten that the
gamekeeper accompanied the Squire to the neighbourhood of the fatal
place; and therefore no questions were put likely to embarrass me. The
counsel for the defence argued most ingeniously in George's favour; but
the Judge summed up against him.[32] The Jury did not deliberate ten
minutes; and the verdict was _Guilty_! George was standing in the dock
all the time that the Jury were whispering together and when the foreman
pronounced his doom; and a slight muscular twitching of the lips was the
only sign of emotion. The Judge put on the black cap,[33] and sentenced
him to death in the usual horrible terms. I must confess that, though I
had but little room in my soul for reflection of any kind—so much was it
occupied with the _one_ dreadful fact of the day—I shuddered and looked
with loathing upon the Judge,—to hear that old man, himself having one
foot in the grave, uttering such a disgusting, cruel, and inhuman
sentence as this:—'_You shall be taken back to the place whence you
came, and thence to a place of execution, where you shall be hanged by
the neck until you are dead!_' Then, when man has done his worst, and
will not forgive nor attempt to reform the criminal, the awful atrocity
concludes with the damnable mockery—'_And may the Lord have mercy upon
your soul!_' I call it a mockery, because it is insulting to heaven to
invoke that pity and compassion which human beings so positively refuse.
But then the old Judge was a mere mouthpiece through which the
blood-thirsty law spoke; and he was compelled to do a duty for which he
was so well paid. Still I loathed that old man who could _sell_ his
feelings for money, and who could be allured by the temptation of a
large income to undertake an office which constrained him to doom his
fellow-creatures to die the deaths of mere dogs. I wondered whether he
could sleep comfortably in his bed afterwards; and I thought at the time
that I would sooner be the veriest beggar crawling on the face of the
earth, than a Judge with all his money—all the respect shown to him—and
all his titles of Lordship!
[Illustration]
"But I have wandered away from my subject. Poor George was removed from
the dock:—I mean, he accompanied the turnkeys back to the gaol; for he
walked as firmly as I could do at this moment. I now had a most dreadful
duty to perform—to convey the result to Marion. But I hastened back to
her, fearful lest she should learn that result from lips which might not
break the horrible tidings slowly to her. When I entered the garret
where I had left her, I found her on her knees praying aloud and
fervently. The sight was too much for me; and I burst into tears. She
rose slowly, took me by the hand, and said, 'Tim—dear Tim, you need not
attempt _to break it gently to me_, as I know you have come to do. I
feel—something tells me, indeed—that it is all over: and I have been
long prepared for this awful moment! I have never allowed myself to
indulge in vain hopes. The world, I was convinced, would persecute my
poor husband until it drove him to——but I cannot, cannot say where! That
he was guilty of the deed, Tim, I have known all along; and, dreadful as
that deed was, I could not reproach him for it. He was goaded to
desperation by wrong heaped upon wrong; and, instead of being treated as
a criminal, he should be looked upon as a victim himself.'—Marion had
spoken with an unnatural calmness, which made me tremble lest her reason
was deserting her; but when she had concluded her address to me, she
threw herself into my arms, and burst into a violent flood of weeping. I
endeavoured to console her: she grew frantic. The command which she had
maintained over herself throughout that dreadful day, and in the
solitude of that garret, had tried her powers of endurance too severely;
and now that her long pent-up anguish burst forth, it was awful in the
extreme. 'Oh! my God!' I exclaimed; 'what have we done that we should be
thus tortured on earth, as if we were in hell?'—and then I thought of
the crime I had committed in appropriating the contents of the purse to
my own use—and I felt ashamed. But in a few moments other feelings came
over me: it struck me that there was no use in being good. Old Dalton—my
father—my mother—poor Marion—and, until the date of that one deed,
myself,—none of us had ever been wicked—and yet, how awfully had we
suffered. The three first had positively been _killed_ by misfortune.
And George too,—there was not a more upright, honourable,
generous-hearted man in existence than he, until oppression and cruel
wrong wrought a change in his nature. Such were my thoughts; and again I
asked myself, what was the use of being good? From that moment I
determined to do as I saw the world doing around me.
"The execution was fixed for the second Thursday after the trial, which
took place on a Tuesday; and during the interval Marion saw her husband
three times. I accompanied her on each occasion; for I was afraid to
allow her to venture out alone. George maintained his courage in an
astonishing manner; but never alluded to the crime in our presence. He
showed the greatest affection towards his wife, and the warmest
attachment for me; and implored her not to give way more than she could
help to grief on his account. The third interview was on the evening
previous to the fatal day; and that was heart-rending indeed. Marion, no
longer resigned and enduring, was absolutely frantic; and she was borne
away, raving wildly, from the condemned cell. I managed to get her home;
and some female lodgers in the same house put her to bed. A surgeon was
sent for, and he pronounced her to be in the greatest danger. I sate up
with her all that night, throughout which she slept at intervals,
awaking to rave after her '_dear murdered husband_!' Had she not been my
sister, I never could have supported the horrors of that awful night.
Towards morning she seemed quite exhausted, and fell into a deep
slumber. The execution was to take place at twelve precisely; and I
hoped, sincerely hoped, that she might sleep until all should be over.
Hour after hour passed—eleven o'clock struck, and still she slept. Every
now and then she started convulsively, and murmured the name of her
husband. Oh! how anxiously did I then wait for the chimes that
proclaimed the quarters! and how slowly went the time! 'Poor George!
what are your feelings now?' I kept repeating to myself. A quarter
past—half-past eleven,—a quarter to twelve,—these had all struck, and
still she slept. As I sate by her bed-side, I could hear the rushing
crowds in the street below; and I also heard all the lodgers hastening
down the stairs to witness the execution! But still Marion slept; and,
in the bitterness of my own grief, this circumstance was a slight
consolation.
"At length the chimes announced the hour—the fatal hour! Scarcely had
they done playing, when Marion awoke with a sudden start, and raised
herself to a sitting posture in the bed. Wildly she glanced around—and
again she started fearfully as, the chimes being over, the clock began
to strike the hour. '_One—two—three_,' she began in a tone of piercing
anguish; and on she went counting the strokes till her tongue had
numbered _twelve_! 'My God! 'tis the hour!' she exclaimed, with a
dreadful shriek; then extending her arms wildly, she cried, 'I come,
George—I come!' and fell back heavily in the bed, as if shot through the
heart. She was no more!
"It appeared that the drop fell about half a minute after the last
stroke of twelve; and, therefore, by a strange chance, poor George
must have breathed his last almost at the very instant when Marion
uttered those words so wildly—'_I come! I come!_'—Thus died my
persecuted brother-in-law and my poor sister; and I was now left
alone—friendless—unprotected in the wide world.
"A strange whim now suddenly entered my head: I would bury the remains
of the ill-fated couple in the same grave! Such was my idea; and so
determined was I to carry it into execution that I set out deliberately
and calmly for the purpose of robbing some one to obtain the means for
the purpose. When I got into the street I found the crowds dispersing
after having witnessed the execution of my brother-in-law. How I loathed
the inhuman creatures, who had shown such eager curiosity to view the
last struggles of a man hung up like a dog by the blood-thirsty mandates
of the law! Some were laughing and joking together as they walked along;
and such observations as these caught my ears:—'How game he died, didn't
he?'—'That Jack Ketch is a devilish clever fellow at his business!'—'It
was the best turnoff I have seen for a long time.'—'I propose that we
don't go to work to-day. Let's make a holiday of it? For my part, I
never fail to attend all executions that take place in the county, and I
always look upon it as a holiday; just like Easter Monday or Whit Monday
for instance.'—'What fun it was to see that old chap whom I bonneted in
the crowd! How he did curse and swear just as the parson was reading the
last prayer on the scaffold!'—'I never had such a jolly good lark in my
life. I had my arm round Tom Tiffin's wife's waist all the time.'—'What
a precious sight of pickpockets there was in the crowd!'—These, and a
hundred other observations of the same kind, met my ears as I walked
along the streets through which the people were returning from the
execution. At length I passed the door of a public news-room; and there
several gentlemen were standing, in conversation about the hideous
spectacle, which one of them had witnessed, and which this individual
was describing with wonderful minuteness to his companions. I pretended
to be looking at some pictures in the shop-window, but was in reality
surveying the group, thinking that one of them might become paymaster
(though against his will) for the funeral of my sister and
brother-in-law.—'You don't mean to say that the woman really did it?'
cried one of the gentlemen.—'I mean to say,' answered the person who had
witnessed the execution, 'that immediately after the criminal was dead,
or rather as soon as he had ceased to struggle, the woman went up on the
scaffold and the executioner put the murderer's hand upon her face to
cure the King's evil; and when she had gone down again, a countryman
ascended to the platform, and was touched in the same way for a wen
which he had got upon his head. I saw it all myself.'—'Well, I could
scarcely believe it,' said the other gentleman who had spoken.—'I will
lay you ten guineas,' exclaimed the one who had witnessed the execution,
'that if you ask any other person who was present, he will tell you the
same thing: and, thus speaking, the gentleman drew out his purse. His
friend, however, declined the wager; and the purse was re-consigned to
the pocket, but not before I had seen enough of it to convince me that
its contents were worth having. I felt the less remorse in robbing that
man, because he had described, with such methodical cold-bloodedness,
all the minute details of the execution; and, availing myself of on
opportunity when the group had got deep into a loud and excited
discourse on the incidents of touching for the King's evil and the wen,
I managed to extract the purse in even a far more skilful manner than I
had expected. The robbery was not immediately perceived; and I got clear
away.
"On returning to my miserable garret, and by the side of the bed whereon
lay the remains of my once beautiful and amiable sister, I counted the
contents of the purse. 'Eleven guineas!' I murmured to myself; and, as I
glanced tremblingly at the corpse, it actually seemed to me at the
moment as if an expression of deep gloom and sorrow suddenly passed over
its countenance. 'Oh! my sister—my dear sister!' I cried; 'I have done
it for your sake:'—and then, unable to remain any longer near one who
seemed to reproach me even in death, I hurried away to the prison to
claim the body of my brother-in-law. This request was granted without
difficulty; and in the course of the day the husband and wife lay
together upon the same bed—side by side—motionless, white, and cold,—the
former murdered by the law, the latter by cruel wrong and diabolical
oppression. The undertaker had received my instructions, and the
preparations for the funeral were in progress. But two nights did I pass
in the same room with those dead bodies; for, although I was afraid, yet
something seemed to whisper to me within, that it would be heartless and
cruel to abandon even those inanimate remains until the grave should
close over them! And as I sate by their side, while a candle burnt dimly
on the table, I thought to myself, 'All this tremendous amount of
sorrow, calamity, and woe has been caused by a wealthy and unprincipled
landlord! Had it not been for Squire Bulkeley, those two would still
have been alive, and would have been happy, prosperous, and useful to
society. But the tenant or the small landowner has no chance against the
proprietor of great estates, if the latter chooses to be a tyrant. The
herring has as much right as the whale to swim in the waters which God
has made; and yet the whale swallows up the herring! So is it with the
great and the small landholder!'
"Well, the funeral took place—and there were four mourners, one real and
three sham. The real one was myself—the three sham were the undertaker
and two of his dependants. Nevertheless, my aim was accomplished: George
and his wife slept in the same grave; and the money of a man who had
greedily devoured the hideous spectacle of public strangulation had
served to bury them! In spite of my grief I chuckled at this idea; it
seemed something like retributive justice. I had now no object in
staying at Winchester; and, with eleven shillings in my pocket, I set
out to walk to London. During my journey I passed the chalk-pit where
the dreadful deed had taken place—I passed it purposely, because I now
wanted to harden my mind as much as possible, for I saw it was no use
for a poor friendless orphan like me to think of being honest. In the
most civilised country (as it is called) in the world, I had seen such
abominable acts of oppression perpetrated, under colour of law, that I
envied those naked savages in islands a great way off of whom I had read
in books; _for I thought that it was better to be barbarians without the
pretence of civilisation, than to be barbarians with that pretence_. I
had heard a great deal said by my father, by old Mr. Dalton, and also by
the clergyman from the pulpit, about the paternal nature of the English
Government; but I now began to perceive that it had been mere delusion
on the part of my well-meaning parent and Mr. Dalton, and rank hypocrisy
and wanton deception on the part of the parson. All I could now think of
the paternal Government was, that it favoured institutions by means of
which poor men might be driven to desperation, and then they were coolly
and quietly hanged for the deeds to the perpetration of which they had
been so goaded. I began to look upon the English people as the most
chicken-hearted and contemptible nation in the world for allowing the
aristocracy to ride rough-shod over them; whereas the great and
high-minded French people, as I had read in books, had risen up like one
man and overthrown _their_ aristocracy altogether.[34] But let me
continue my history. Having passed by the chalk-pit—the fatal
chalk-pit—I visited the immediate neighbourhood of the farm-house where
a happy family had once dwelt—my own! Now it was tenanted by strangers.
I went on, and came to the house to which George Dalton had borne my
sister Marion a blooming bride: that tenement was now deserted—and it
struck horror to my heart to observe—or rather to _feel_—that death-like
silence which pervaded a place where the joyous laugh of George Dalton
and the musical voice of my dear sister had once been heard. O God! that
so much misery should have fallen upon _two_ families who strove so hard
to live honestly and in peace with all mankind!
"The tears streamed down my face as I turned back into the high road and
pursued my way towards London. I now thought, as I went along, that if I
could, _possibly_ obtain honest employment in the great city, honest I
would endeavour to remain,—I say _remain_, because although I had
committed two thefts, yet I was far from being utterly depraved. The
tears which painful remembrances had called forth, had softened my
heart; and the image of my lamented sister appeared to urge me to
virtue. Armed with this resolution, I proceeded towards the metropolis.
It was evening when, after two days' fatiguing journey, I entered
London, and put up at a miserable lodging-house in the window of which I
saw a bill stating that single men might have a bed for fourpence a
night. Eight hours' good rest gave me strength and spirits to begin my
search after employment. I went into the City and inquired at several
warehouses if a light porter was wanted. Having met with many refusals,
and being wearied with walking about, I went into a public-house to get
some refreshment; and happening to mention my situation to the landlord,
he very kindly recommended me to apply at a certain warehouse which he
named and where he knew that a porter was wanted. I did so, and was
fortunate enough to succeed in obtaining the place, with a salary of
twelve shillings a week.
"I commenced my new avocation on the following morning, and exerted
myself to the utmost to obtain the good opinion of my master. I was
regular in the hours of attendance, and frequently remained behind at
the office, when the clerks had departed, to finish the labours which
had been assigned to me in the morning. I was economical and prudent in
my expenditure; and the pittance which I received was ample to keep
myself. At the expiration of four months from the time when I first
entered this establishment, I had entirely gained the confidence of my
employer. My salary was increased; and I began to think that fortune was
once more inclined to smile upon me; when a circumstance occurred which
convinced me that the long lane of life had not yet taken a turn. My
employer one morning desired me to proceed to a particular address, at
the West End of the Town, and insist upon the payment of a bill, which,
in the course of business, had fallen into his hands, and which had been
protested. I instantly set out for the place intimated; and, having
inquired for the gentleman, whose name was familiar enough to me, though
I could not suspect the identity which proved to be the case. I was
shown into an elegant apartment, where a gentleman was sitting with his
face to the fire and his back to the door, smoking a cigar. 'Who the
devil's that?' demanded the occupant of the room, without turning his
head, but in a voice which was not unknown to me. 'If you're a dun, I
ain't at home.'——'I have called for payment——,' I began.—'Holloa! who
have we here?' ejaculated the gentleman; and, rising from his chair, he
disclosed the features of the magistrate who had first committed George
Dalton for poaching. 'What! Tim Splint!' he cried: 'is this you?'—'It is
I, the brother-in-law of the man whom you helped to persecute,' I
returned, equally surprised at this unexpected encounter.—'No impudence,
my good fellow,' said the magistrate, very coolly; 'or else I shall be
compelled to kick you out of the room. But what vulgar thing have you
got in your hand there?'—'A bill, with your name to it, and the payment
of which I am come to require,' was my immediate answer.—'Oh! that's
it—is it?' ejaculated the magistrate, casting his eyes over the document
which I displayed to his view. 'Well, let me see, how shall I pay this?
In Bank notes, or by kicking you out of the house, or by recommending
the holder to read his bill again this day six months? Oh, I have
it;'—and, sitting down to an elegant writing-table, he penned a hasty
note, sealed it, and desired me to give it to the person who had sent
me. I then withdrew, anxious to avoid a dispute which would be perfectly
useless, and which would probably prejudice the interests of my
employer. I returned to the office in the City, and delivered the note.
The merchant opened it, and his countenance changed as he perused its
contents. For some moments he remained absorbed in thought; and then,
apparently acting in obedience to a sudden impulse, passed the note to
me, who had been anxiously watching the strange demeanour of my master.
The letter contained the following words:—'_Mr.——would be much obliged
to the holder of his acceptance, for a hundred and sixty-eight pounds,
if he would forbear from sending the brother of a man who has been
hanged, to demand the amount, as such persons are by no means welcome at
the abode of Mr.——, however well they may suit the holder of his bill.
The meaning of this request would be ascertained, were the porter
Timothy Splint, questioned as to his connexion with the murderer George
Dalton._'—I folded up the letter, returned it to my employer, and said,
'I cannot deny the truth of its contents; but I am innocent, although my
poor brother-in law died on the scaffold.'—'You should have been candid
at the commencement,' interrupted my employer, firmly but mildly.
'Whether you are innocent or not, matters not now. Had you told me your
real position when you first came to me, I should have admired your
frankness, and given you a fair trial. As it is, we must part at
once.'—I attempted to justify my silence respecting the ignominious end
of my relative; but the merchant was inexorable in his determination not
to hear any thing in the shape of an explanation. He paid me the wages
due to me, with a sovereign over, and dismissed me.
"I forthwith began to look after a new situation; and I remembered the
parting words of the merchant whom I had left, resolving to be candid in
the first instance, when soliciting a new place. My duties at my recent
situation had compelled me to visit other mercantile firms on many
occasions; and I had formed the acquaintance of several of the persons
employed in those establishments. To some of them I repaired to
ascertain where vacancies were to be filled up; and, having obtained a
considerable list, I set out upon a round of applications. The first
house I inquired at was that of a general merchant and warehouseman, who
required a porter and collector of monies.—'Have you ever served in that
capacity before?' was the first demand.—'I was in the employ of a highly
respectable merchant,' I returned, mentioning his name, 'whose service I
only left a few days ago.'—'I remember that you were engaged there; I
thought your face was familiar to me,' said the merchant. 'And I also
recollect that I heard you spoken of in the highest possible terms,' he
continued; 'indeed, you were represented to me as being invaluable in
your particular department. But, of course, you did not leave your late
employer for any misconduct on your part?'—'Not at all, sir,' was my
answer. 'I must, however, explain a certain circumstance——.'—'Well, I
will just send round, merely for the form's sake, you know, and
ascertain that it is all right; and if you will call to-morrow morning,
I have no doubt I shall be enabled to give you a favourable answer.'—'I
must really, sir,' said I, 'speak to you very seriously for a moment
before you take any trouble on my behalf. If you will have the kindness
to listen to me, I shall explain my real position. The truth is, though
perfectly innocent of any crime myself, I have the misfortune to be
related to a persecuted man, who was driven by despair to commit a deed
for which he suffered on the scaffold.'—'The scaffold!' ejaculated the
merchant in dismay.—'Yes, sir,' I continued, hastily endeavouring to
give a full explanation; 'and if you will but permit me to tell you in a
few words the melancholy history, you will see no reason to be
displeased with my candour. On the contrary, you will, I am sure, pity
me, sir.'—'I thank you for such candour,' interrupted the merchant,
buttoning up his breeches-pockets, and locking his desk; 'but I regret
that, under circumstances, I cannot think of taking you into my
service.'—'But do pray listen to me, sir,' I exclaimed: 'you are
doubtless a man of sense, of justice, and of impartiality; and I appeal
to you——.'—'My good young man, it is no use to take up my time,'
interrupted the merchant impatiently; 'I am certainly not going to
receive you into my service, under existing circumstances.'
"I was compelled to take my departure. I left the house, ashamed and
abashed—fearful that my evil doom was sealed—afraid to look those whom I
met in the face—and fancying that every one seemed to know who and what
I was. But a few moments' reflection taught me to believe that I had no
reason to anticipate failure every where, because I had met with a
repulse in one place. I accordingly proceeded to another establishment
where a light porter was also required. The head of this firm was a
venerable old man, with long grey hair falling over his coat-collar, a
bald head, and a huge pair of silver spectacles on his nose. There was
altogether something so kind, so unassuming, and so philanthropic in the
appearance of this individual, that I was immediately inspired with
confidence. I began my narrative, and related the main incidents,
without interruption from my hearer, who listened to me with the
greatest attention and apparent interest.—'My good young man,' said the
merchant, taking off his spectacles, and wiping them, 'I feel deeply for
you. Every word which you have told me, I firmly believe; your manner
and your language inspire me with confidence. Merciful God! into what a
state would society be plunged if innocence that had been wronged, could
not obtain the credence of those to whom it offered its justification! I
repeat, I am interested in you; I feel deeply for you. You have had your
share of misfortune, poor young man! Most sincerely do I hope that your
future prospects will not be equally embittered. I have a son of just
your age;—he has gone to the East Indies in a free-trader in which I
have a share; and, if it were only for his sake, I should feel
interested in you, for you resemble him in person. Heaven! what a world
this is! Why, man is a cannibal in a moral sense, for he is constantly
devouring his fellow-man! Upon my word, I could weep, I could shed
tears, when I think of the misfortunes which you have endured.'—'I am
overcome by your kind sympathy,' said I, now certain that this time I
had encountered the man who would not allow my misfortunes to stand in
the way of my appointment to the vacant situation. 'How much did you
receive per week at your last place?' asked the old gentleman.—I named
the sum.—'And what hours did you keep?'—This question I also
answered.—'Was your master kind and considerate?' proceeded the
venerable merchant, in a compassionate tone of voice.—'He was very kind
in his manners; but at parting he behaved harshly and ungenerously, when
he discovered all I have just told you; and I think I had reason to
complain.'—'Ah! it was cruel, it was ungenerous,' said the venerable old
gentleman, musing. 'But don't you see,' he added, 'that as society is at
present constituted, and I admit that its constitution is vitiated in
the extreme, it is impossible for a man who depends upon the world for
his subsistence, to act contrary to the received notions and usual
habits of that world. Now, for my part, I should be glad, I should be
delighted to take you in a moment; but I dare not. I am very sorry, but
I really _would_ strain a point to serve you, if I possibly could.'—You
may suppose that I was astonished at this announcement. I had made sure
of the situation from the first moment that the old merchant had
addressed me; and I now saw my hopes cruelly and fatally defeated. With
a heavy heart I went away; and the tears ran down my cheeks, as I
reflected upon all I had just heard. Never did my situation in the world
appear more lonely—never more truly desperate!
"My position was too hopeless to allow me to apply at another mercantile
establishment for upwards of an hour. It required that interval to
soothe and soften down my feelings; and I then ventured into the
warehouse of an export merchant upon a very extensive scale, whose name
was down upon my list. I was introduced into the presence of a young
man, who wore a large blue figured satin stock with an enormous gold
pin, and a chain hanging over an elegant silk waistcoat. This gentleman
sate on one side of a desk; and his partner, who was dressed as well as
he was, occupied the other. I immediately attracted their attention; and
the elder partner, laying down his pen, exclaimed, 'Why, you're a
devilish smart looking fellow. Here, sit down and take a glass of
porter; you seem tired. By the bye, we haven't had our cigars yet,
Dick,' he added, addressing his partner; 'let's smoke and talk over this
business at the same time. Sit down, my man: we have no humbug about us,
I can tell you.'—And so indeed it appeared; for the two gentlemen
produced cigars and bottled porter, and I was very soon engaged in a
most comfortable chat with them. At length they began to speak about the
business which had taken me there, and when I told them my story in a
straight-forward manner, they declared, with an oath, that 'they would
take me on my word, and that they didn't want any damned reference, or
any thing of that kind.' The terms were agreed upon, and I was to
commence my duties on the following morning. When I took my leave the
two partners shook hands with me, expressing their conviction that 'I
was a damned good fellow and understood what was what,' and also that 'I
was just the kind of bird they had some time been looking for.' I
accordingly entered on this new place; but I had not been there long,
before I began to notice, though I was regularly paid, that a great many
persons called for money, and never could obtain a settlement of their
accounts. On some occasions the partners were denied, although they were
in the counting-house, drinking and smoking; and then the applicants
were very much disposed to be insolent, making use of such terms as
'swindlers,' 'rogues,' &c. Some would express their conviction 'that it
was all a regular _do_,' while others felt equally certain 'that it was
nothing but a _plant_.' There was also another circumstance which
astonished me; and that was the singular mode in which the business of
the firm was conducted. No sooner did the bales of goods arrive by the
front door, than they were carried out at the back, and sent away in
vans. Altogether it was a most extraordinary firm; and one morning I
discovered that the doors were closed, the partners had bolted, and the
City-officer was inquiring after them, in consequence of a warrant which
he had with him for their apprehension. Thus I lost a place where the
duties were easy, but where the respectability attached to it was not
very likely to increase my own.
"I was thus thrown once more upon the world; and again was I compelled
to look out for a situation. I applied at numerous warehouses and
offices; but when I stated my real condition,—when I revealed the secret
that I was related to a man who had been hanged,—I was thrust from the
doors of some, reproached for my impertinence in calling by others, and
treated with coolness or contempt by a third set of men. No one seemed
to believe that I could possibly be honest. Day after day saw the
renewal of disappointment, and that sickening at the heart which leads
to despair;—night after night did I return to my lodging, to meet a
landlady who wanted the money I owed her. At last she would have no
further patience; and one night when I went back late, she poked her
head out of a window, desiring me to begone and loading me with abuse. I
slunk away, almost-heartbroken at the treatment I had just received, and
at the deplorable situation to which I was reduced. Accident, or rather
necessity, conducted me back to the low lodging-house at which I had put
up on my first arrival in London; and there I fell in with some persons
who were very willing to assist me in a certain way. In fact they
proposed that I should join them in a robbery which they were arranging;
and after vainly struggling with my better feelings, I consented. It is
no use to tell you how I got on from bad to worse:—you can both very
well guess how it is that when once a man gets regularly into this line,
he seldom or ever gets out of it again till his career is cut short by
transportation or the scaffold."
Thus terminated Tim the Snammer's History, which, as we stated at the
conclusion of the preceding chapter, we have greatly modified in style
and changed in language, without however omitting, altering, or
exaggerating any one incident, nor any one sentiment.
It was now late; and the Snammer took his leave of Josh Pedler and
Matilda Briggs, having promised to call again next day, and arrange with
the former the contemplated robbery of Old Death.
-----
Footnote 30:
Taken as a body, there is not a more infamous and tyrannical set of
authorities on the face of the earth than the unpaid magistracy of
England. How the high spirited people of this country can endure such
an atrocious system, is to us surprising. Almost entirely
irresponsible—chosen on account of their wealth and influence in their
respective counties, but without the least reference to their
abilities—and, by the very circumstances of their position, opposed to
the interests of the masses, the justices of the peace are so many
diabolical tyrants vested with a power which completely coerces the
industrious and labouring classes. If it be necessary to have _paid
barristers_ as magistrates in the cities and great towns, why should
not the same rule apply to smaller towns and to rural districts? To
invest an irresponsible, narrow-minded, and prejudiced body of men
with such immense powers as those wielded by magistrates, is a foul
blot upon our civilisation. Prison-chains, fines, and treadmills are
at the disposal of these justices; and the use they make of their
power proves that the entire system on which their attributes and
jurisdiction are based, deserve universal execration. Thousands and
thousands of honest, well-meaning, hard-working families have been
ruined by this hierarchy of terrestrial fiends. Talk of the freedom of
the British subject, and boast of the trial by jury! Why, any
magistrate, by his own _single_ decision, can award heavy fines or
months of imprisonment! The unpaid magistracy exists as a protection
and also as an agency for the infernal Game Laws. Their local powers
and influence give them immense weight in general elections, for poor
people are afraid to offend them. But the worst kind of unpaid
magistrates are the clergymen who are in the commission of the peace.
These men usually act more like off-shoots of the Czar of Russia than
as magistrates in a civilised country and as ministers of the
charitable and generous doctrines of the Christian faith.
Footnote 31:
This act is not only still unrepealed, but was put in force about
eighteen months or two years ago, by certain county magistrates
against two or three poor labourers.
Footnote 32:
It is generally understood that the Judge should be merely an
expounder of the law affecting the cases brought under the cognizance
of the court, and also a means of refreshing the memories of the
jurymen by reading over his notes, or the salient points in them. At
least, to our thinking, a Judge should never allow his own opinion on
the point at issue to transpire. If he do, he is almost sure to bias
the jury. But, unfortunately, nearly all the Judges in this country
act in a dictational manner with regard to juries. They _direct_ the
verdicts returned. This assumption on the part of the Judges of the
privileges and attributes of juries, renders the latter perfectly
unnecessary. For ourselves, we believe that trial by jury is in these
islands a mere farce—an idle mockery—a contemptible delusion: the
Judges are the real juries after all. And yet we boast of the
institution! That institution would indeed be a glorious one, were the
Judges to discharge their duties properly: _but, in nine cases out of
ten, they do not_.
Footnote 33:
There is something uncommonly barbarous in many of our institutions
and customs. Were it not associated with such solemn occasions, we
should laugh at the mountebank piece of solemn humbug of the black
cap—as if the Judge himself could not assume a demeanour serious and
dignified enough for the awful and atrocious duty which the law
imposes upon him in pronouncing death sentences. The custom of Judges
and barristers disfiguring themselves in huge wigs is a mere relic of
barbarism, and unworthy of a civilized age. If the law cannot maintain
its solemn majesty without such wretched aids, heaven knows there must
be something radically wrong either in the constitution of the
tribunals themselves or in the conduct of the functionaries of
justice. Away with all such mockeries and fools'-play as wigs and
black caps, and let men distribute the justice _of_ men _as_ men, and
not muffled up and disguised like old women. The maintenance of all
customs which our barbarian ancestors handed down to us shows an
aversion to _progress_ on the part of the Government and the
Legislature. The wisdom of those ancestors existed, we imagine, only
in the _wig_: let the wisdom of the present day show itself by the
fact of discarding all useless pomp and vain ostentation.
Footnote 34:
"The Aristocracy of England, a History for the People," by John
Hampden, Junior (the pseudonym of a very clever writer, whatever his
real name and whoever he may be) is a work which should be read by all
classes—by the aristocratic sections of society, because it may warn
them of the impending storm; and by the middle and poorer grades,
because it will shew them their oppressors in their true characters.
This and William Howitt's "History of Priestcraft" (both published by
Messrs. Chapman, Newgate Street) are glorious signs of the times in
which we live. From the first-mentioned book we quote the ensuing
passage:—
"Look at France. Every one is familiar with the dreadful condition to
which its proud and imbecile aristocracy reduced it. Every one knows
in what a storm of blood and terror the oppressed people rose and took
an eternal vengeance on their oppressors. If we read the accounts of
France, just previous to the Revolution, we cannot avoid being struck
with a terrible similarity of circumstances and features with those of
our own country now. Nay, the following description by their own
historian, Thiers, seems to be that of England at present:—'The
condition of the country, both political and economical, was
intolerable. There was nothing but privilege—privilege vested in
individuals, in classes, in towns, in provinces, and even in trades
and professions. Every thing contributed to check industry and the
natural genius of man. All the dignities of the state, civil,
ecclesiastical, and military, were exclusively reserved to certain
individuals. No man could take up a profession without certain titles,
and the compliance with certain pecuniary conditions. Even the favours
of the crown were converted into family property, so that the king
could scarcely exercise his own judgment, or give any preference.
Almost the only liberty left to the sovereign was that of making
pecuniary gifts, and he had been reduced to the necessity of disputing
with the Duke of Coigny for the abolition of a useless place. Every
thing, then, was made immoveable property in the hands of a few, and
every where these few resisted the many who had been despoiled. The
burdens of the state weighed on one class only. The noblesse and the
clergy possessed about two-thirds of the landed property; the other
third, possessed by the people, paid taxes to the king, a long list of
feudal _droits_ to the noblesse, tithes to the clergy, and had,
moreover, to support the devastations committed by noble sportsmen and
their game. The taxes upon consumption pressed upon the great
multitude, and consequently on the people. The collection of these
imposts was managed in an unfair and irritating manner; the lords of
the soil left long arrears with impunity, but the people, upon any
delay in payment, were harshly treated, arrested and condemned to pay
in their persons, in default of money to produce. The people,
therefore, nourished with their labour, and defended with their blood,
the higher classes of society, without being able to procure a
comfortable subsistence for themselves. The towns-people, a body of
citizens, industrious, educated, less miserable than the people, could
nevertheless obtain none of the advantages to which they had a right
to aspire, seeing that it was their industry that nourished and their
talents that adorned the kingdom.'—Is not that a wonderful fac-simile
of our own present condition? But these circumstances produced
revolution in France; what will they produce here! If they are allowed
to continue they will produce the very same thing. The French
historians assert, that had the cries of the people been listened to
before they grew maddened with their miseries, there would have been
reform instead of revolution, and their nation would have been spared
the years of unexampled horror and self-laceration through which it
had to wade. Now is the same saving crisis with us! The people, the
most industrious of them in town and country, starve by tens of
thousands, or lead a sort of half life in incessant labour, rags, and
hunger. All parts of our social system call out for relief. The
manufacturer, the farmer, equally complain; the agricultural labourers
are reduced to a condition worse than serfdom—to a condition of
unparalleled destitution; and in some districts gangs of them are
driven to the field, as we learn from parliamentary reports, under
gang-masters, and are lodged promiscuously like cattle—men, women, and
children, in temporary booths, fitter for beasts than human beings. In
many parts of this once happy country the agricultural labourers are
getting but five and six shillings per week; while they are asked
8_l._ an acre for bits of land to set a few potatoes on."
The author of "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON" would not have his readers
imagine him to be in favour of "physical force." No—we abhor war even
with foreign powers; but no words are strong enough to express our
loathing and abhorrence of the bare idea of that infernal scourge—a
civil war. Another quotation from the work of John Hampden, Junior,
will serve to express also our opinions on the point:—
"The neglect of the public interest it extends to the whole frightful
mass of _delegated taxation_, under which the nation groans, even more
heavily than under the direct national imposts. The reviewer justly
remarks that the maxim of legislators is 'Every one for himself, and
the public for us all!' But could this state of things possibly exist
if Englishmen did their duty, if they resolved to do their own
_public_ business, as they do their private—to do it themselves, and
not foolishly intrust to men who have shown themselves at once so
incapable and so unworthy of trust in every respect? Is there any
reason why the people of England, who conduct their commerce, their
manufactures, their domestic trade and affairs so admirably, should
not conduct the affairs of their government just as well if they were
to set about it? Is there any reason that a man who guides a ship
round the world, clear of rocks and breakers, should not as well help
to steer the vessel of state? Why should not he who governs a
steam-engine just as well govern or assist in governing a country? The
great Oxenstiern, Chancellor of Sweden, said to his son, 'Mark, my
son, with what a small stock of talent a nation may be governed.' But
our aristocracy have for ages demonstrated that they do not even
possess this 'small stock of talent,' or of as much honesty; and the
remedy for the evils they have covered us with is as clear as the
day-light:—_The power must be wrested from them!_' But how? By arms?
No: Englishmen know too well the dangers of revolution: they have too
much to lose; and they have too much humanity. The soil of England
will not willingly drink in the blood of its children, as in the
barbarous ages; the remedy is alike simple and conspicuous. It lies in
one joint rising and stern demand of all and every class in the
country. All—manufacturer and farmer, gentleman and ploughman,
merchant and shop-man, artizan and labourer—all must combine, and with
one dread voice, like another Cromwell, command the aristocrats to
quit the people's house, and 'give place to better men.' This is the
simple and sole remedy. A thousand evils are complained of. 'The whole
head is sick and the whole heart is sore;' but 'THE GREAT ROOT OF ALL'
is the usurpation of the Commons House of Parliament by the
aristocracy. One party proclaims that the whole people is corrupted by
the bribery of these patrician senators, and demand the _universal
franchise_, and in that they demand the true and only remedy. But
because some are for this, and some for that, and do not all join in
the _hearty rending shout_ for the FRANCHISE—_that magic word in which
lies the constitution_—that cure for all bribery (for who can bribe
thirty millions of people)—that guarantee for the steady maintenance
of the constitution—for, once in the hands of the totality, the
totality will never relinquish it again—they cry, but they cry in
vain. Till we obtain the _franchise_ we obtain _nothing_; when we
obtain _that_ we obtain _every thing_. Every petition, every demand,
however stern or resolved, that asks for any thing short of the
UNIVERSAL FRANCHISE, is the preparation of an absurdity, and the
greatest of all absurdities. He is just as wise who asks short of
this, as if he prayed the Pope to abolish the Catholic religion, or a
Jew to give you all he is worth. The aristocracy have usurped the
House of Commons—for what? Just for this very purpose—of resisting the
proper demands of the people—of maintaining and perpetuating all the
evils for whose removal you pray. It is true the people, combining on
some great emergency—driven, as it were into this combination by some
desperate pressure—may alarm the aristocracy into some individual
concession, as in the case of the Reform Bill. But this is a
stupendous exertion, a violent and convulsive sort of action in the
political system, which wrests only, at the point of famine or
national ruin, its own rights from the usurping party. Public opinion
is said, in this country, to be the actual ruling power; but it is a
fitful and irregular power. Like the Indian, or the boa-constrictor,
it is aroused to action only by hunger or imminent impending danger;
at the smallest return of ease it pauses; it becomes drowsy again, and
the mischief goes on for another period. If public opinion really
rules, it should lift itself to the necessary height of command, and
do its work effectually. That would save us all much trouble. There is
but one perfect permanent remedy—but one means of absolute cure for
our perpetually recurring evils: _We must have these usurpers out of
the people's house, and rule in it ourselves!_ and this is to be done
only by insisting on _the franchise, the whole franchise, and nothing
but the franchise_."