THE CHESHIRE CHEESE.
"Labour is the salt of the earth, and Capital is the sworn foe to
Labour." Hear, hear, hear, with the clattering of many glasses, and
the smashing of certain pipes! Then the orator went on. "That Labour
should be the salt of the earth has been the purpose of a beneficent
Creator;--that Capital should be the foe to Labour has been
man's handywork. The one is an eternal decree, which nothing can
change,--which neither the good nor the evil done by man can affect.
The other is an evil ordinance, the fruit of man's ignorance and
within the scope of man's intellect to annul." Mr. Ontario Moggs
was the orator, and he was at this moment addressing a crowd of
sympathising friends in the large front parlour of the Cheshire
Cheese. Of all those who were listening to Ontario Moggs there was
not probably one who had reached a higher grade in commerce than that
of an artizan working for weekly wages;--but Mr. Moggs was especially
endeared to them because he was not an artizan working for weekly
wages, but himself a capitalist. His father was a master bootmaker on
a great scale;--for none stood much higher in the West-end trade than
Booby and Moggs; and it was known that Ontario was the only child
and heir, and as it were sole owner of the shoulders on which must
some day devolve the mantle of Booby and Moggs. Booby had long been
gathered to his fathers, and old Moggs was the stern opponent of
strikes. What he had lost by absolutely refusing to yield a point
during the last strike among the shoemakers of London no one could
tell. He had professed aloud that he would sooner be ruined, sooner
give up his country residence at Shepherd's Bush, sooner pull down
the honoured names of Booby and Moggs from over the shop-window in
Old Bond Street, than allow himself to be driven half an inch out
of his course by men who were attempting to dictate to him what he
should do with his own. In these days of strikes Moggs would look
even upon his own workmen with the eyes of a Coriolanus glaring upon
the disaffected populace of Rome. Mr. Moggs senior would stand at his
shop-door, with his hand within his waistcoat, watching the men out
on strike who were picketing the streets round his shop, and would
feel himself every inch a patrician, ready to die for his order. Such
was Moggs senior. And Moggs junior, who was a child of Capital, but
whose heirship depended entirely on his father's will, harangued his
father's workmen and other workmen at the Cheshire Cheese, telling
them that Labour was the salt of the earth, and that Capital was
the foe to Labour! Of course they loved him. The demagogue who
is of all demagogues the most popular, is the demagogue who is a
demagogue in opposition to his apparent nature. The radical Earl,
the free-thinking parson, the squire who won't preserve, the tenant
who defies his landlord, the capitalist with a theory for dividing
profits, the Moggs who loves a strike,--these are the men whom the
working men delight to follow. Ontario Moggs, who was at any rate
honest in his philanthropy, and who did in truth believe that it was
better that twenty real bootmakers should eat beef daily than that
one so-called bootmaker should live in a country residence,--who
believed this and acted on his belief, though he was himself not
of the twenty, but rather the one so-called bootmaker who would
suffer by the propagation of such a creed,--was beloved and almost
worshipped by the denizens of the Cheshire Cheese. How far the real
philanthropy of the man may have been marred by an uneasy and fatuous
ambition; how far he was carried away by a feeling that it was better
to make speeches at the Cheshire Cheese than to apply for payment of
money due to his father, it would be very hard for us to decide. That
there was an alloy even in Ontario Moggs is probable;--but of this
alloy his hearers knew nothing. To them he was a perfect specimen of
that combination, which is so grateful to them, of the rich man's
position with the poor man's sympathies. Therefore they clattered
their glasses, and broke their pipes, and swore that the words he
uttered were the kind of stuff they wanted.
"The battle has been fought since man first crawled upon the earth,"
continued Moggs, stretching himself to his full height and pointing
to the farthest confines of the inhabited globe;--"since man first
crawled upon the earth." There was a sound in that word "crawl"
typical of the abject humility to which working shoemakers were
subjected by their employers, which specially aroused the feelings
of the meeting. "And whence comes the battle?" The orator paused,
and the glasses were jammed upon the table. "Yes,--whence comes the
battle, in fighting which hecatombs of honest labourers have been
crushed till the sides of the mountains are white with their bones,
and the rivers run foul with their blood? From the desire of one
man to eat the bread of two?" "That's it," said a lean, wizened,
pale-faced little man in a corner, whose trembling hand was resting
on a beaker of gin and water. "Yes, and to wear two men's coats and
trousers, and to take two men's bedses and the wery witals out of two
men's bodies. D---- them!" Ontario, who understood something of his
trade as an orator, stood with his hand still stretched out, waiting
till this ebullition should be over. "No, my friend," said he, "we
will not damn them. I for one will damn no man. I will simply rebel.
Of all the sacraments given to us, the sacrament of rebellion is the
most holy." Hereupon the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese must have
feared for his tables, so great was the applause and so tremendous
the thumping;--but he knew his business, no doubt, and omitted to
interfere. "Of Rebellion, my friends," continued Ontario, with his
right hand now gracefully laid across his breast, "there are two
kinds,--or perhaps we may say three. There is the rebellion of arms,
which can avail us nothing here." "Perhaps it might tho'," said the
little wizened man in a corner, whose gin and water apparently did
not comfort him. To this interruption Ontario paid no attention. "And
there is the dignified and slow rebellion of moral resistance;--too
slow I fear for us." This point was lost upon the audience, and
though the speaker paused, no loud cheer was given. "It's as true as
true," said one man; but he was a vain fellow, simply desirous of
appearing wiser than his comrades. "And then there is the rebellion
of the Strike;" now the clamour of men's voices, and the kicking of
men's feet, and the thumping with men's fists became more frantic
than ever;"--the legitimate rebellion of Labour against its tyrant.
Gentlemen, of all efforts this is the most noble. It is a sacrifice
of self, a martyrdom, a giving up on the part of him who strikes of
himself, his little ones, and his wife, for the sake of others who
can only thus be rescued from the grasp of tyranny. Gentlemen, were
it not for strikes, this would be a country in which no free man
could live. By the aid of strikes we will make it the Paradise of
the labourer, an Elysium of industry, an Eden of artizans." There
was much more of it,--but the reader might be fatigued were the full
flood of Mr. Moggs's oratory to be let loose upon him. And through
it all there was a germ of truth and a strong dash of true, noble
feeling;--but the speaker had omitted as yet to learn how much
thought must be given to a germ of truth before it can be made to
produce fruit for the multitude. And then, in speaking, grand words
come so easily, while thoughts,--even little thoughts,--flow so
slowly!
[Illustration: "The battle has been fought since man first
crawled upon the earth," continued Moggs, stretching himself
to his full height and pointing to the farthest confines of
the inhabited globe . . .]
But the speech, such as it was, sufficed amply for the immediate
wants of the denizens of the Cheshire Cheese. There were men there
who for the half-hour believed that Ontario Moggs had been born to
settle all the difficulties between labourers and their employers,
and that he would do so in such a way that the labourers, at least,
should have all that they wanted. It would be, perhaps, too much to
say that any man thought this would come in his own day,--that he so
believed as to put a personal trust in his own belief; but they did
think for a while that the good time was coming, and that Ontario
Moggs would make it come. "We'll have 'im in parl'ament any ways,"
said a sturdy, short, dirty-looking artizan, who shook his head as
he spoke to show that, on that matter, his mind was quite made up.
"I dunno no good as is to cum of sending sich as him to parl'ament,"
said another. "Parl'ament ain't the place. When it comes to the p'int
they won't 'ave 'em. There was Odgers, and Mr. Beale. I don't b'lieve
in parl'ament no more." "Kennington Oval's about the place," said a
third. "Or Primrose 'ill," said a fourth. "Hyde Park!" screamed the
little wizen man with the gin and water. "That's the ticket;--and
down with them gold railings. We'll let' em see!" Nevertheless they
all went away home in the quietest way in the world, and,--as there
was no strike in hand,--got to their work punctually on the next
morning. Of all those who had been loudest at the Cheshire Cheese
there was not one who was not faithful, and, in a certain way, loyal
to his employer.
As soon as his speech was over and he was able to extricate himself
from the crowd, Ontario Moggs escaped from the public-house
and strutted off through certain narrow, dark streets in the
neighbourhood, leaning on the arm of a faithful friend. "Mr. Moggs,
you did pitch it rayther strong, to-night," said the faithful friend.
"Pitch it rather strong;--yes. What good do you think can ever come
from pitching any thing weak? Pitch it as strong as you will, find it
don't amount to much."
"But about rebellion, now, Mr. Moggs? Rebellion ain't a good thing,
surely, Mr. Moggs."
"Isn't it? What was Washington, what was Cromwell, what was Rienzi,
what was,--was,--; but never mind," said Ontario, who could not at
the moment think of the name of his favourite Pole.
"And you think as the men should be rebels again' the masters?"
"That depends on who the masters are, Waddle."
"What good 'd cum of it if I rebelled again' Mr. Neefit, and told him
up to his face as I wouldn't make up the books? He'd only sack me. I
find thirty-five bob a week, with two kids and their mother to keep
on it, tight enough, Mr. Moggs. If I 'ad the fixing on it, I should
say forty bob wasn't over the mark;--I should indeed. But I don't see
as I should get it."
"Yes you would;--if you earned it, and stuck to your purpose. But
you're a single stick, and it requires a faggot to do this work."
"I never could see it, Mr. Moggs. All the same I do like to hear you
talk. It stirs one up, even though one don't just go along with it.
You won't let on, you know, to Mr. Neefit as I was there."
"And why not?" said Ontario, turning sharp upon his companion.
"The old gen'leman hates the very name of a strike. He's a'most as
bad as your own father, Mr. Moggs."
"You have done his work to-day. You have earned your bread. You owe
him nothing."
"That I don't, Mr. Moggs. He'll take care of that."
"And yet you are to stay away from this place, or go to that, to suit
his pleasure. Are you Neefit's slave?"
"I'm just the young man in his shop,--that's all."
"As long as that is all, Waddle, you are not worthy to be called a
man."
"Mr. Moggs, you're too hard. As for being a man, I am a man.
I've a wife and two kids. I don't think more of my governor than
another;--but if he sacked me, where 'd I get thirty-five bob
a-week?"
"I beg your pardon, Waddle;--it's true. I should not have said it.
Perhaps you do not quite understand me, but your position is one of
a single stick, rather than of the faggot. Ah me! She hasn't been at
the shop lately?"
"She do come sometimes. She was there the day before yesterday."
"And alone?"
"She come alone, and she went home with the governor."
"And he?"
"Mr. Newton, you mean?"
"Has he been there?"
"Well;--yes; he was there once last week."
"Well?"
"There was words;--that's what there was. It ain't going smooth, and
he ain't been out there no more,--not as I knows on. I did say a word
once or twice as to the precious long figure as he stands for on our
books. Over two hundred for breeches is something quite stupendous.
Isn't it, Mr. Moggs?"
"And what did Neefit say?"
"Just snarled at me. He can show his teeth, you know, and look as
bitter as you like. It ain't off, because when I just named the very
heavy figure in such a business as ours,--he only snarled. But it
ain't on, Mr. Moggs. It ain't what I call,--on." After this they
walked on in silence for a short way, when Mr. Waddle made a little
proposition. "He's on your books, too, Mr. Moggs, pretty tight, as
I'm told. Why ain't you down on him?"
"Down on him?" said Moggs.
"I wouldn't leave him an hour, if I was you."
"D'you think that's the way I would be down on,--a rival?" and Moggs,
as he walked along, worked both his fists closely in his energy. "If
I can't be down on him other gait than that, I'll leave him alone.
But, Waddle, by my sacred honour as a man, I'll not leave him alone!"
Waddle started, and stood with his mouth open, looking up at his
friend. "Base, mercenary, false-hearted loon! What is it that he
wants?"
"Old Neefit's money. That's it, you know."
"He doesn't know what love means, and he'd take that fair creature,
and drag her through the dirt, and subject her to the scorn
of hardened aristocrats, and crush her spirits, and break her
heart,--just because her father has scraped together a mass of gold.
But I,--I wouldn't let the wind blow on her too harshly. I despise
her father's money. I love her. Yes;--I'll be down upon him somehow.
Good-night, Waddle. To come between me and the pride of my heart for
a little dirt! Yes; I'll be down upon him." Waddle stood and admired.
He had read of such things in books, but here it was brought home to
him in absolute life. He had a young wife whom he loved, but there
had been no poetry about his marriage. One didn't often come across
real poetry in the world,--Waddle felt;--but when one did, the treat
was great. Now Ontario Moggs was full of poetry. When he preached
rebellion it was very grand,--though at such moments Waddle was apt
to tell himself that he was precluded by his two kids from taking an
active share in such poetry as that. But when Moggs was roused to
speak of his love, poetry couldn't go beyond that. "He'll drop into
that customer of ours," said Waddle to himself, "and he'll mean
it when he's a doing of it. But Polly 'll never 'ave 'im." And
then there came across Waddle's mind an idea which he could not
express,--that of course no girl would put up with a bootmaker who
could have a real gentleman. Real gentlemen think a good deal of
themselves, but not half so much as is thought of them by men who
know that they themselves are of a different order.
Ontario Moggs, as he went homewards by himself, was disturbed by
various thoughts. If it really was to be the case that Polly Neefit
wouldn't have him, why should he stay in a country so ill-adapted to
his manner of thinking as this? Why remain in a paltry island while
all the starry west, with its brilliant promises, was open to him?
Here he could only quarrel with his father, and become a rebel, and
perhaps live to find himself in a jail. And then what could he do of
good? He preached and preached, but nothing came of it. Would not
the land of the starry west suit better such a heart and such a mind
as his? But he wouldn't stir while his fate was as yet unfixed in
reference to Polly Neefit. Strikes were dear to him, and oratory, and
the noisy applauses of the Cheshire Cheese; but nothing was so dear
to him as Polly Neefit. He went about the world with a great burden
lying on his chest, and that burden was his love for Polly Neefit.
In regard to strikes and the ballot he did in a certain way reason
within himself and teach himself to believe that he had thought out
those matters; but as to Polly he thought not at all. He simply loved
her, and felt himself to be a wild, frantic man, quarrelling with his
father, hurrying towards jails and penal settlements, rushing about
the streets half disposed to suicide, because Polly Neefit would have
none of him. He had been jealous, too, of the gasfitter, when he had
seen his Polly whirling round the room in the gasfitter's arms;--but
the gasfitter was no gentleman, and the battle had been even. In
spite of the whirling he still had a chance against the gasfitter.
But the introduction of the purple and fine linen element into his
affairs was maddening to him. With all his scorn for gentry, Ontario
Moggs in his heart feared a gentleman. He thought that he could make
an effort to punch Ralph Newton's head if they two were ever to be
brought together in a spot convenient for such an operation; but of
the man's standing in the world, he was afraid. It seemed to him to
be impossible that Polly should prefer him, or any one of his class,
to a suitor whose hands were always clean, whose shirt was always
white, whose words were soft and well-chosen, who carried with him
none of the stain of work. Moggs was as true as steel in his genuine
love of Labour,--of Labour with a great L,--of the People with a
great P,--of Trade with a great T,--of Commerce with a great C; but
of himself individually,--of himself, who was a man of the people,
and a tradesman, he thought very little when he compared himself to
a gentleman. He could not speak as they spoke; he could not walk as
they walked; he could not eat as they ate. There was a divinity about
a gentleman which he envied and hated.
Now Polly Neefit was not subject to this idolatry. Could Moggs
have read her mind, he might have known that success, as from the
bootmaker against the gentleman, was by no means so hopeless an
affair. What Polly liked was a nice young man, who would hold up his
head and be true to her,--and who would not make a fool of himself.
If he could waltz into the bargain, that also would Polly like.
On that night Ontario walked all the way out to Alexandria Cottage,
and spent an hour leaning upon the gate, looking up at the window
of the breeches-maker's bedroom;--for the chamber of Polly herself
opened backwards. When he had stood there an hour, he walked home to
Bond Street.