The town of Barhampton--or rather, that town which it suits me so to
denominate--is one of no great importance in point of size, and of no
great commerce, for railroads have not yet reached it; and the nearest
point which had been attained by any of those strange contrivances for
hurrying man through life and through a country, lay at the distance
of nearly fifty miles at the time of which I speak. Nevertheless, it
was a sea-port; and had it been near the capital, near any important
town, or situated in a thickly-populated district, it possessed
several considerable advantages, which would have secured to it, in
all probability, an extensive and lucrative trade. It had a very nice
small harbour, for which man had done something and nature much. The
water was deep therein; and had there been room for one of the
unwieldy monsters of the deep, a three-decker might have lain at
anchor there with six fathom under her keel. But the harbour was very
small, and had a line-of-battle ship attempted it, her boom would
probably have knocked down the harbour-master's office at the end of
the little jetty, while her bowsprit entered the Lord Nelson
public-house by the windows of the first floor. Boats and coasters, of
from thirty to ninety tons, could come in at all times of tide, but
nothing larger was seen in the harbour of Barhampton.
Outside the harbour, however, in what was called the bay, especially
when the wind set strong from the southwest, a very different scene
was displayed, for there nature seemed to have laboured alone on a far
grander scale. Two high and rocky promontories, at some points about a
mile and a half apart, stretched forth from the general line of the
coast into the sea, like two gigantic piers. One, following the line
of the high ridge which crowned it, was nearly straight; the other
swept round in the arc of a large circle, projecting considerably
farther into the ocean than the other, but gradually approaching, in
its sweep, the opposite promontory; so that, at the entrance of this
magnificent bay, the passage was not more than half a mile in width.
Few winds, of all those to which mariners have given name, affected in
any great degree the deep still waters within that high and
mountainous circle; and there, when tempests were raging without,
might be seen riding, in calm security, the rich argosie and the
stately ship of war. No cargoes, however, were now disembarked at
Barhampton, except those of the small vessels which entered the
harbour, and which supplied the town and the neighbouring country with
a variety of miscellaneous articles of ordinary use.
Nevertheless, in former times, the town, it would appear, must have
been a place of some importance. Rising up the slopes of the hills,
from the brink of the harbour, its narrow, tortuous, ill-lighted,
unswept, and dilapidated-looking streets reached the summit of the
high ground, where a number of superior houses were to be found,
somewhat stately in appearance, antique in form, and cold and formal
in aspect, except, indeed, where a cheerful little garden interposed,
blushing with china-astres, dahlias, and other autumnal flowers. Yet
even these could not give it an air of life, or if they did at all, it
was an air of vegetable life. There was no movement, there was no
activity in it. It seemed as if everybody in the place was dead,
except a few men who had come in to bury the rest. Beyond these houses
of the better classes, as rich people are called, were some poorer
dwellings, descending the slope on the opposite side of the ridge; and
beyond these again, came the ancient walls of the town, built and
perfected when Barhampton was a place of strength.
The town had not, indeed, been dismantled even yet, but it had been
disarmed; and now, instead of large cannon, and soldiers 'bearded like
pard,' the broad ramparts displayed the nursery-maids and the little
children of the citizens flirting with apprentices, or peeping out of
empty embrasures; or, on the Sunday, the great mass of the inhabitants
of the town walking in gay attire, enjoying the fine air, and gazing
over the wide prospect. Round about, nearly in the shape of a
horse-shoe, from one point of the harbour to the other, enclosing the
whole city, if it could be so called, within their area, swept those
old walls, time-worn, and lichen-covered, and loaded with snapdragon.
No mason's trowel, no busy chisel, had been employed upon them for
more than two centuries, and the hard knocks of Oliver Cromwell's
cannon had left traces still unobliterated even by the equalizing hand
of time.
The external appearance of the place was not at all deceptive. The
march of improvement was not a quick march in Barhampton. In fact, in
the space of fifty years, but one improvement had been made in the
town, and the audacious and reforming mayor, who had sanctioned,
recommended, and successfully carried out this act of innovation, had
been held in execration ever since by a considerable portion of his
fellow-townsmen. The deed I speak of was the enlargement of the
High-street, and the giving it as near as possible a straightforward
direction. It would now admit two carriages, or even waggons, abreast
in every part; formerly only one could pass, except at particular
places, where a greater expansion had been purposely given to the
road, in order to prevent the comers up and goers down from jamming
each other together immovably. In previous times, also, this street
had pursued a sort of zigzag direction, which nearly doubled its
length, and this had evidently been done, not for the purpose of
avoiding the acclivities, but rather for that of finding them out; for
even in going down the hill, carriages had to mount as often, though
not so far at any one time, as they had to descend; and in coming up,
one rise seemed only to be overcome in order to go down and seek for
another.
The same innovating magistrate who had committed the heinous act of
straightening and widening the street, had expressed an antipathy to
the old town gates, and their heavy oaken doors, with portcullis and
draw-bridge; but the whole town rose as one man to resist his rash and
horrible proceedings. In vain he showed that more than one horse had
taken fright in going over the clattering, rickety, old bridge; in
vain he pointed out that a very respectable old lady had broken her
neck at the same spot, by a fall into the ditch. The people said that
the horses were mad and the lady drunk, to do such things; and the
mayor died, like all great patriots, before he saw his schemes for the
improvement of his native place carried into full accomplishment.
Thirty years had passed since the reign of this potentate, and a
change had come over the spirit of the people of Barhampton. There
were many great reformers in the place--men who sighed for a complete
change in all things--who stood up for the rights and liberties of the
people; who would have all men permitted to sell gin and cordial
compounds from any hour at which they chose to begin, to any hour at
which they chose to end; who corrected municipal abuses, and
castigated corrupt parish officers; who worried the mayor, tormented
the aldermen, bored the county magistrates and members of parliament,
abused the overseers, and set even the beadle at nought. But in the
mending of their ways they still forgot to mend the ways of the city:
that did not come under their notions of reform. They refused a
church-rate, and therefore could not be expected to vote a paving and
lighting rate. They objected to all taxes of all kinds, and most of
all they objected to tax themselves. They evaded imposts wherever they
could; paid grumblingly those they were compelled to pay; cheated the
customs by prescription, and the excise by cunning; and thought
themselves pure and immaculate if they only defrauded the state and
escaped the law. How often is it with men, that punishment rather than
crime is considered disgraceful!
But I must not moralize upon the little community of Barhampton.
Things went on increasing and prospering with the reformers. At first
they were moved apparently by nothing but the pure spirit of
innovation; but there were some men of more mind amongst them than the
rest; and having all agreed upon the necessity of great and sweeping
changes in church, state, and municipality, they proceeded to inquire
what sort of changes were desirable. They instructed themselves in
what other people demanded, and thus the reforming part of the
population divided itself into three distinct portions, consisting of
Whigs, Radicals, and Chartists. Amongst the former were some of the
most respectable and dullest men of the town: the Radicals comprised
the great body of the mob-ocracy. The Chartists were men of
enthusiastic temperaments, sincere and eager characters, and in many
instances, of considerable powers of mind. They saw great social
evils, magnified their extent by the force of imagination, and,
unaccustomed to any of the details of public business, perceived but
one remedy for the sickness of the state, and imagined that remedy to
be a panacea for all ills. Moral force was a good thing in their eyes,
but physical force they thought a better. They believed themselves
prepared for all contingencies; they imagined themselves ready to shed
their blood in support of that which they never doubted to be good;
they dreamed of the crown of martyrdom in their country's service;
and, in short, they were political fanatics, though not a small
portion of true patriotism lay at the bottom of their yearnings for
revolution. On most occasions the Radicals would join with them, and
therefore the Chartists looked upon them for the time as brothers; but
the union was not solid, and in more important matters still, the
Radicals were disposed to support the Whigs. This fact began to be
felt a little before the period at which my tale opens. The Chartists
imagined that they perceived a greater sympathy in many points between
themselves and the Tories, than between themselves and the Whigs; that
there was more real philanthropy, a greater wish to see the condition
of the lower classes materially improved, amongst persons of Tory
principle, than in any other class. But there were also fundamental
differences, which rendered perfect assimilation with them impossible,
and though they regarded the Tories with a kindly feeling, they could
not unite with them for any great object.
Such was briefly the state of the town, physical and moral, when the
carriage of Sir Arthur Adelon rolled through the gates, which had not
been closed for half a century; and a drag having been put on, it
began to descend slowly the principal street of the place. In that
principal street was situated the small inn called the Rose, which,
though there were numerous public-houses, was the only place which
kept post-horses, and honoured itself by the name of hotel. The
streets were miserably dark, and nearly deserted, and Sir Arthur
Adelon felt a little nervous and uneasy at the thought of what was
before him.
In the heat of blood and party strife, men will go boldly and
straight-forwardly towards objects pointed out by principles in their
own mind, and will seek those objects and assert those principles at
the risk of life and fortune, and all that makes life and fortune
desirable. But they proceed upon the same course with very different
feelings when, in calmness and tranquillity, after a long cessation of
turmoil and contest, they return to the same paths, even though their
general views may remain unchanged, and they may think their purposes
as laudable as ever.
Such was the case with Sir Arthur Adelon. Perhaps, if one looked
closely into his heart, and could see, not only what was in it at the
present moment, but what I may call the history of his sensations, we
should find that his having embraced the extreme views which he
entertained had originated in mortified vanity and an embittered
spirit. An early disappointment, acting upon a haughty and somewhat
vindictive temper, had soured his feelings towards society in general;
and when, shortly afterwards, he had met a check, by the refusal of a
peerage which he thought he had well merited, a bitter disgust
succeeded towards institutions in which he was excluded from the high
position he had coveted, and he became anxious to throw down other men
from a position which he could not attain. It was by no regular
process of reasoning from these premises that he arrived at the
extremely democratical opinions which he often loudly proclaimed; but
the events of his early life gave a general bias to his thoughts,
which led him step by step to the violent views which he announced in
two contested elections in Yorkshire; and at the present time, though
he had sunk into temporary apathy, his notions were not at all
moderated even by years and experience. He was not inclined, indeed,
to risk so much, or to engage in such rash enterprises, as he might
have done in the hasty days of youth; but the long-buried seeds were
still in his mind, and it only required warmth and cultivation to make
them spring up as green and fresh as ever. Nevertheless, he approached
discussions in which he felt he might be carried beyond the point
where prudence counselled him to stop, with a great degree of nervous
anxiety; and he almost hoped, as his carriage stopped at the inn door,
and no signs of waking life appeared but the solitary lamp over the
little portico, that some accident might have prevented the meeting.
The next instant, however, a light shone through the glass door, and a
waiter appearing, approached the step of the carriage, saying, "The
gentleman told me to tell you, Sir Arthur, that he would be back in a
few minutes."
The baronet bit his lip--there was now no escaping; and following the
waiter to a sitting-room, he ordered some sherry, and took two or
three glasses, but they did not raise his spirits. All was silent in
the town; not a sound was heard but the sighing of the breeze from the
bay, and a faint sort of roar, which might be the wind in the chimney,
or the breaking of the sea upon the shore. Solemn and slow, vibrating
in the air long after each stroke, the great clock of the old church
struck twelve, and Sir Arthur Adelon muttered to himself, "I will not
wait, at all events; they cannot expect me to wait." One, two, three
minutes passed by, and the baronet rose, and was approaching the bell,
when the foot of the waiter was heard running up the stairs, and the
door was opened.
"The gentleman, sir," said the waiter; and entering more slowly, a
stout, hard-featured, red-haired man appeared, well dressed, and
though clumsily made, not of an ungentlemanly appearance. Sir Arthur
had never seen his face before, and gazed on him with some surprise;
but the stranger waited till the door was closed again, and then
advancing, with a slight bow, he said, "Sir Arthur Adelon, I believe?"
"The same, sir," replied the baronet. "I expected to find another
gentleman here. May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing?"
"My name, sir, is Mac Dermot," replied the stranger; "and my friend,
Mr. Norries, who is probably the person you allude to, would have been
here to receive you, but being detained with some preliminary
business, he requested me to come hither, and be your guide a little
farther in the town."
The name given was information sufficient to Sir Arthur Adelon
regarding the person before him. He saw one of the chief leaders of
the great, though somewhat wild and ill-directed movement, in which he
himself had taken, as yet, a very inconsiderable part. He felt that
his very communication with such a man compromised him in a high
degree; and he was anxious to ascertain how much Mac Dermot really
knew of his affairs before he proceeded farther. He therefore slowly
drew on his gloves, and took up his hat, saying, "I am very happy to
see you, Mr. Mac Dermot. I suppose my old acquaintance, Mr. Norries,
has made you acquainted with the various circumstances in which he has
been connected with me?"
"Not particularly," replied his companion. "He has informed us that he
acted for some time as your solicitor, when you were residing in
Yorkshire; and he has laid before us the report of several speeches
which you made at that time, with which, I may add, I was myself well
acquainted before; but which has given great satisfaction to every one
present, from the prospect of seeing a gentleman of such rank and
influence, and one who can so eloquently express our own exact
sentiments, likely to be united with us once more in advocating the
cause of the people against those who oppress them. Will you permit me
to lead the way?"
Sir Arthur Adelon had marked every word that was spoken with peculiar
attention, and Mac Dermot's reply was a great relief to him. Norries
had not mentioned the power he had over him, and moreover the words
'advocating the cause of the people' seemed to him to imply that
nothing of a violent or physical nature was intended; and that all the
leaders of the movement had in view was to endeavour to strengthen
themselves in public opinion by argument and by moral force.
He therefore followed with a lighter step, and was conducted through
several narrow and tortuous streets and back lanes, to a house which
presented no very imposing appearance, as far as it could be
discovered in the darkness of the night. The door was low and narrow,
and stood ajar; and when Mac Dermot pushed it open, and Sir Arthur saw
the passage by a light which was at the other end, he said to himself,
"There can be no very formidable meeting here, for there does not seem
to be room for a dozen men in the whole house." He was conducted
through the passage to a staircase as narrow, which led to a long sort
of gallery, running round what seemed a stable-yard, at the end of
which was a door, which Mac Dermot held open for his companion to
pass. When Sir Arthur had gone through, his guide closed the door and
locked it, and then saying, "This way, sir," led him to another door,
at which a man was standing immoveable, with a lamp in his hand. There
Mac Dermot knocked, and the door was unlocked and opened from within.
The next moment Sir Arthur Adelon found himself in a very large,
low-ceilinged, ill-shaped room, with a long table in the midst. There
were several tallow candles round about, emitting a most disagreeable
odour, and casting a red, glaring, unsatisfactory light upon the faces
of between thirty and forty men, seated at the board in various
attitudes. At the head of the table, in an armchair, appeared Norries,
such as I have described him before; but any attempt to paint the
other groups in the room would be vain, for every sort of face, form,
and dress which England can display, was there assembled, from the
sharp, shrewd face of long-experienced age, to the delicate features
of the beardless lad; from the stout and stalwart form of the hardy
yeoman, to the sickly and feeble frame of the over-tasked artisan of
the city. Here appeared one in the black coat and white neck-cloth
usually worn by the ministers of religion; there a man in the garb of
a mechanic: in one place a very spruce blue satin handkerchiefed
gentleman, with yellow gloves, and close by him another who was
apparently a labouring blacksmith, with his hands brown and sooty from
the forge. An elderly man, in a well-worn flaxen wig, and large eyes
like black cherries, might have passed by his dress for a very small
country attorney, and opposite to him sat a broad-shouldered man of
six foot two, in a blue coat, leather breeches, and top-boots,
probably some large farmer in the neighbourhood of the town.
Two seats were reserved on each side of the chairman; and while Mac
Dermot locked the door again, and every person present rose, Sir
Arthur Adelon, with his stately step and aristocratic air, but, if the
truth must be told, with a good deal of disgust and some anxiety at
heart, walked up to the head of the table, shook hands with Norries,
and took one of the vacant chairs. The other was immediately occupied
by Mac Dermot, and then rising, the chairman said, "Gentlemen, I have
the honour of introducing to you Sir Arthur Adelon, whose station and
fortune afford the lowest title to your esteem. Far higher in mind
than in rank, far richer in generous qualities and in mental
endowments than in wealth, he has ever shown himself the friend of
that great and majestic body, the people of this country; he has
always professed and undauntedly maintained the same opinions which we
conscientiously entertain; and he is ready, I am sure, to go heart and
hand with us in all just and reasonable measures for the defence of
our rights and liberties."
The whole party assembled gave the baronet a cheer, and the sensations
with which Sir Arthur had entered began already to wane, even in the
first excitement of the moment. Here, however, I must drop the curtain
over a scene of which the reader has probably had enough, and proceed
to other events of no less importance in this tale.