Crying for the Light: or, Fifty Years Ago. Volume 2 of 3

‘But Peel could not have done so had he wished. You forget the English Evangelicals, with their hatred of Popery in any shape, and the Scotch Presbyterians, and the English Dissenters, who object on principle to any State support of religion.’

‘Alas! I know it too well,’ replied Wentworth; ‘yet had Peel or Pitt had their way, we should have had no Irish difficulty. As it is, Ireland has her revenge. It is she who decides the fate of parties, the rise and fall of ministries, the policy of our great empire, with its conflicting interests in every corner of the globe. Oh that the Green Isle were a thousand miles away! The difficulty would be removed if Ireland had only her fair share of representation, but that is an impossible reform.’

A curious character was that old parson; professedly a Presbyterian, and calling himself such, he and his people were Unitarians. He lived on an endowment left by Lady Hewlett, whose charities were such a bitter bone of contention between the Unitarians and the orthodox Dissenters; but Parliament interfered, and a Bill was carried to render all further litigation impossible. He preached in a grand old red-brick chapel in the busiest part of the town. He had an old-fashioned pulpit with an old-fashioned sounding-board above, and in front of him were great square pews lined with green baize; while behind, in the little red-brick vestry, there were quaint portraits of old divines, of whom no one knew anything. Now, in his meeting-house, with its memorial tablets of departed workers, the worshippers were few and far between. Once there had been life there, but that was a long time ago; and now his hearers were chiefly old, gray-headed men and women, whose fathers and mothers had taken them there in early childhood, and whose talk, when they did talk, which was but rarely, was of Drs. Price and Priestley, and Mr. Belsham, and of Mrs. Barbauld and other ornaments of their expiring creed. It was hard work to preach to such; nevertheless the little parson was a happy man, as he thought of the God of love, of whom once a week he loved to speak. No one interfered with him. To no religious gathering in the town was he ever invited. Churchmen and Dissenters alike gave him the cold shoulder. But he upheld the standard of a Church with no creeds; was content to receive such as could not subscribe to other dogmas, and to believe in a Christian charity which was to cover a multitude of sins. He damned nobody, he frightened nobody, he was nobody’s enemy. His was a voice crying in the wilderness. Once a year he went to the assembly of his denomination in Essex Street Chapel, London, and heard how the cause with which he was connected was advancing, and the day-dawn of a national Christianity was at hand, and then he came back to Sloville to vegetate for another year, while sensational preachers filled the other chapels.

He had his garden, and that was a constant source of happiness, and as he was a vegetarian and his garden supplied all his needs, it mattered little that his salary was a scanty pittance, such as a respectable working mechanic would turn up his nose at. His wife was a lady who did not hesitate to do all the household work herself. Modern life in its rush and roar has left such people far behind. But one loves to remember them, and their peaceful ways, their cheerful solitude, their plain living and high thinking.

CHAPTER XVII.

QUIET TALKS

On the day of the public meeting, just as Wentworth had retired to his head-quarters at the Red Lion, one of the few old-fashioned public-houses which survive to tell us how truly Shenstone wrote when he told us that the warmest welcome he found was at an inn – and how wise were men of the Johnson era in recognising that fact – he heard a tap at the door, after he had taken off his boots and had lit his cigar.

‘Come in,’ he cried.

The new visitor availed himself of the invitation. He was a tremendous fellow to look at, with something of an animal expression, with a loud voice, and a little bloated about the face, as if he took rather more beer than was good for him. His hands were rather grimy, his clothes were the worse for wear, and he had a short pipe in his mouth, which he was about to put out, but did not, as he saw Wentworth was smoking himself.

‘Your name, sir?’ said Wentworth.

‘My name – you know me well enough. My name is Johnson – I was at your meeting to-night, and you and I have met before.’

‘Yes, you were there, as you say – one of my noisiest opponents, I believe – and now I think of it, when I was at Sloville, you were one of the Chartists who tried to put me down.’

‘You’re right, Mr. Wentworth.’

‘Happy to renew the acquaintance. To what am I indebted for the honour of this visit?’

‘Well, you see, we are in now for an election, and I flatter myself the winning candidate will be the man for whom I vote.’

‘Is that so?’

‘True as the Gospel.’

‘Well, you did not seem very favourable to-night.’

‘No, and that’s why I am here. My party won’t think much of me unless I act an independent part, and there’s a good many of us; we wish to have a bit of a literary man. It is my belief, as I tells ’em, that there is nothing like eddication and the gift of the gab.’

‘Upon my word, you’re right, Mr. Johnson, though when one looks at Ireland and England, too, one is inclined to feel that we may have too much of a good thing, and that we should be all the better if we had a little less talk and a little more work.’

‘Capital! that’s the very thing for Sloville, only you must pitch it a little stronger, and fire away at the lazy parsons and the ’aughty haristocracy, and say something about the blood-sucking manufacturers who leave us – who make all their wealth – to starve and die. We’re agin ’em all, me and my pals.’

‘Well, we will talk of that presently. If I get into Parliament, how am I to live?’

‘Well, we must have paid members of Parliament; you’ll be all right then.’

‘Are you fond of professional parsons, Mr. Johnson?’

‘No, I hate ’em like p’ison.’

‘And yet you would have professional politicians. They are as odious to me as professional parsons. A man may mean well when he first sets out, but directly his political career becomes to him his bread-and-butter, he will cease to be an honest man. If he is paid by the people, he will be their slave, and not their representative. If he is paid by the State, he will so shape his conduct that he may secure his re-election. He cannot act honestly. By the necessity of his position he is bound to keep his place, because he needs his salary. It is as bad and infamous for a man to make politics his livelihood as religion. In America they have a class of men known as professional politicians, and what is the result? that respectable Americans rarely enter public life.’

‘Well, you do surprise me!’ said Johnson, smoking his pipe uneasily. ‘I knew you were a little crotchety when you came to our Chartist meeting, but I thought you went the whole hog.’

‘Well, we’ve secured a good deal more for the people than you or I expected at that time.’

‘Maybe,’ said Johnson doggedly.

‘But what do you want?’

Johnson’s face brightened as he said:

‘That’s coming to the point – we do not want any more Whigs or Tories.’

‘But if a Tory comes to Sloville and offers to give the people land – we can’t say restore it, for we Anglo-Saxons never had an inch of the soil of England. If, further, he tell them that they have not had their fair share of the profits of capital – if he says he will get every one a fair day’s wages for a fair day’s work – that the working men shall have decent homes built for them by Government – that every one shall have his three acres and a cow – that the parent shall be relieved of all responsibility as regards his children – that, in short, he will bring the millennium – don’t you think he will get returned whether he calls himself Whig or Tory?’

‘I believe you,’ said Johnson excitedly, giving the table an emphatic thump. ‘Leastways, I knows many as will vote for him, and this I knows, that no one opposed to him would have much chance. There’s none on ’em dare turn me out of a meetin’, and there’s none of ’em can drown my voice.’

‘Yes, I had a good proof of that to-night. But don’t you know that any man coming with such a programme is an impostor?’

‘No, hang me if I do! I say he is the man for me and the United Buffaloes, of which I am the president, and who will vote as I do. I repeat, he is the man for Sloville.’

‘Of course,’ said Wentworth sarcastically, ‘he is, and he is quite safe, because he knows he promises what he can never perform.’

‘How do you make that?’

‘Let us take the question of the working man not getting his fair share of the profits. You know Lancashire?’

‘Well, I should think I do.’

‘Well, so do I, and it seems to me that the workmen are pretty well employed, and pretty well off. They get their weekly wages.’

‘Yes, in course they do.’

‘But is it not a fact that not a brass farthing of profit is being made in the cotton trades, and that consequently at this time the workman has quite his fair share of the capital? Look at our great companies, our railways, our ships, most of them earning no dividends or but small ones, but who employ millions of men at fair wages. You call the capitalist a bloodsucker, a vampire.’

‘And so he is.’

‘Well, get rid of his tyranny.’

‘How?’

‘Become a capitalist yourself. As a rule the capitalist is a working man who has lifted himself out of his class by superior self-denial, or tact, or skill, or perseverance. Last night when I went to the Town Hall I saw the name of Brown over a grand shop. When I knew Sloville, Brown’s father was one of the poorest men in the place, and there was no boy worse off than poor Brown. I went in and said to him: “I am glad to see you so flourishing.” “Yes,” said he, “I’ve much to be thankful for.” “How is it you’ve got on so?” I said. “By minding my own business, and by not going to the public-house,” he replied.’

‘Yes,’ said Johnson, ‘Brown was allus a pushing boy.’

‘So have all of us to be nowadays. You don’t think we are to sit still, and open our mouths and shut our eyes, and see what Heaven will give us; do you?’

‘Yes, but – ’

‘But what? It is in ourselves that lies the secret of success. Look at Ireland: for ages the people have come to the English Government for aid to fish, to farm, to manufacture, and what is the result? That now there are no people so badly off.’

‘Ireland, sir,’ said Johnson angrily, ‘is ruined by the injustice of England.’

‘Not quite so much as you think. Though Ireland has been shamefully treated, as much by Irishmen as Englishmen, however, I admit. But to return to the question of capital, why cannot a workman become an employer? You can run a cotton-mill if you like to co-operate and put by your savings. There is no need to ask Parliament to interfere. You want the landlords abolished. Take to farming yourselves. Land is cheap enough, and farms are to be had almost for the asking. Don’t ask Government to take the land and employ all who live in the country on it, whether they are worth their salt or not. This is a free country, and any men who have sufficient confidence in each other, and self-reliance, can become their own employers, as farmers or manufacturers, if they will join their savings for that purpose. There are no better workmen than the English, and I want to see them better off.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ said Johnson; ‘it seemed to me that you were rather against the working man.’

‘I am against some of his ways,’ said Wentworth. ‘I am against improvident marriages. In the middle circles of society we can’t marry till we have a chance of keeping a wife. But almost directly poor lads or girls – especially in our great cities – are of age, and often before, they are married, and have families that they can’t keep, and then the taxpayer, often little better off than themselves, has to pay for their support. Is that fair?’

‘Well, it do seem rather hard.’

‘As long as that is the case wages must be low, for the supply will be in excess of the demand. Suppose you get Parliament to come to the aid of such. The result is you will have more improvident marriages. Then you tax still more heavily the middle and the upper classes, and the middle classes become paupers themselves. I see a remedy for this. We shall have the children of the working classes better educated, and then they will not think of marrying till they can live in a decent manner. They will shrink from inflicting hardships on innocent children, as they do now.’

‘Well, they have to wait a long time.’

‘I fear so. But how is trade at Sloville?’

‘Why, just now very bad.’

‘Shall I tell you one reason?’

‘Just as you please; only, whatever you say I shall report to the United Buffaloes.’

‘Well, I don’t want to go out of my way to offend them, especially since they all vote together. But you had a strike here last summer, had you not?’

‘Yes, and a pretty time of it we had.’

‘It is over now, and what is the result?’

‘Why, that we are going on pretty much as usual.’

‘Not exactly. That strike cost a lot of money.’

‘I believe you.’

‘And that is all thrown away, and to that extent the working men are so much the poorer. Is not that a fact?’

‘Well, it is no use denying of it; but the masters have suffered as well, though you get no benefit by their suffering.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

‘The Unions’, I suppose. ‘They were beaten, at any rate.’

‘The Unions. I am glad you mention them, because there is another thing I have to say. I fear that you can never get good work as long as men are all paid alike, whether they are good workmen or not.’

‘But that is what we insist on more than anything else.’

‘I am sorry for it. Such a condition is fatal to individual excellence. Let me illustrate my remarks: I knew a man employed at a printing-office in connection with printing steel-plates. He was an intelligent, careful workman, and he did more work and better than the others, and earned more money. The other men conspired against him, and he found in his absence his work was spoilt, and his press injured, and he was driven away. Now, such cases are of constant occurrence. Let me give you another case: A man was taken into an office at a lesser rate than the others, and they gave up their work and had to come on the Union. Again, how often is a good man worried out of his place unless he joins the Union and works as slowly, and makes a job last as long, as the others! You complain of the great competition from foreign workmen – how is it that they are in this country?’

‘Ah! that’s the question.’

‘A question easily answered. Most of them are brought over on the occasion of a strike, and when they come here they stop here, and add to the overstocked market. Your regulations for the support of your members are excellent, and deserve all praise; your Unions also are most desirable when protection is required against hard and unjust masters, though the number of them is not so large as you endeavour to make it. But when you set up to dictate to masters as to whom they shall employ, you do injustice to respectable men willing to work, whom you compel to starve, and in the long-run you help to create that depression of trade of which we all complain.’

‘Have you anything more agin the Unions?’ asked Johnson angrily.

‘Yes; I maintain that when they thus endeavour to control the labour market they often drive away trade. Why are our shops filled with American manufactures? For this simple reason: In America the men are always looking out to improve the processes of manufacture. A workman who can strike out a new and improved method is rewarded by his masters and applauded by his fellows. Here masters and men are against him. The workmen are too conservative. You are not offended, I hope, by my plain speaking?’

‘Not at all,’ replied the visitor in a sulky tone.

‘Well, I will add that, so far as I can see, they often drive trade away as well. I will just give you one instance: I was spending an evening with an eminent judge a little while ago.’

‘Why, the lawyers are the greatest trades unionists going,’ said Johnson passionately.

‘It may be. I am not a lawyer, and have not much to say on their behalf. The judge of whom I speak had just been at one of our great Midland towns, where an order had come for a large supply for a foreign Government. “But,” said the English firm, “we must have a strike clause inserted in the agreement, as our men will strike directly they hear we’ve got the order.” The agent of the foreign Government declined to agree to such a proposal, and the order was taken to Belgium and executed there.’

‘Ah, that was an isolated case.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Mr. Wentworth. ‘I can give plenty of other cases that show how often the British workmen unwittingly drive away trade, and make us all suffer in consequence.’

‘Well, this is a free country, and the workmen have a right to act as they think best,’ said Johnson.

‘Undoubtedly; I do not dispute that for an instant. All I say is, don’t throw all the blame of poverty on the rich; a good deal of it is due to the poor themselves. Parliament can do little more than it has done. No Act of Parliament can give permanent employment and good wages to a man who drinks, or neglects his duty, or who will not work properly and efficiently.’

‘Ah, there are people who think otherwise.’

‘I fear there are.’

‘According to your way of talk, Mr. Wentworth, Parliament ain’t of much use.’

‘I fear not. I only defend representative government as the only possible mode of political life in the absence of a benevolent despotism, controlled by a free press. The ideal government is that which interferes least with the people.’

‘Then, what do you recommend?’

‘Moral reform. Do you know,’ continued Wentworth, ‘that Trade Unionism seems to me essentially one-sided.’

‘That is rather too rich,’ said the visitor. ‘All we seek is justice to ourselves.’

‘But is not that unjust to the masters? A firm commences a business or works a mine. It is put to great expense; sinks an enormous amount of capital, and then because it chooses to employ individuals who have a right to be employed, who have as much right to earn their own living as other men, the Union withdraws their men, and the works have to be stopped, and many a firm has given up business in consequence, and thus the area of the unemployed and the amount of national poverty and distress is increased. No man can serve two masters. There must be a head somewhere, and a firm naturally may claim to be at the head of a business, and should be left to regulate its own affairs. What would become of a ship if the crew were to deprive the captain of his command, and to navigate it themselves?’

‘What would you do, then?’

‘Why, just act according to Christian principles.’

‘Christian principles – what are they?’

‘That man and master should do to each other as to themselves.’

Johnson blackened in his face and whispered something about nonsense.

‘But that is not all.’

‘No, I should think not,’ said Johnson.

‘My next demands are moral reform, and the power of the people.’

‘Ah, now, that’s coming to the point.’

‘But I mean by the power of the people, not a vote at the dictation of a caucus, but the action of an educated independent people.’

Again Johnson frowned.

‘Well, let me hear what you recommend. The future belongs to you, Mr. Johnson.’

‘Why, we want State aid against the selfishness of the rich, and State employment for the poor.’

‘Well, that is rather a reversal of the system which has made England great by reason of the energy and freedom of her people. The State works clumsily and ineffectively. Look at the memoirs of officials, or Government reports, or the revelations of our great establishments, and you will see for yourself that the State works in a way which, if a private firm followed, it would soon be in the Bankruptcy Court. In America things in this respect are as bad as here. The abuses of the Civil Service there are greater than at home. A distinguished American writes: “The spoil system, introduced by President Jackson, which is now stigmatized as ‘the American system,’ imperils not only the purity, economy, and efficiency of the Government, but it destroys confidence in the method of popular government by party. It creates a mercenary political class, an oligarchy of stipendiaries, a bureaucracy of the worst kind, which controls parties with relentless despotism.” How do you like that, friend?’

‘Not at all,’ said Johnson.

‘No; we must continue fighting on the old lines. Like Burke, I believe at this period of the world’s history there is nothing new in politics or morals. Society has got into the groove which was the only one possible. It must ever go on the old lines. Upset it, turn it topsey-turvy, as they did in France, or as the Socialists would do, and a little while again you will find it on the old lines. Share the wealth of the country, if you like, between you all; it won’t make much difference to me, but the next generation will be as badly off as ever – worse off – for you will have taken from the labourer all motive for exertion.’

‘And is this what I am to tell the United Buffaloes?’

‘If you like.’

‘If I do, not one of us will vote for you.’

‘Then, perhaps the sooner I give up the contest the better.’

‘That is what I think,’ said Johnson, as he took up his hat and departed, leaving Wentworth to fear that his mission to Sloville was at an end.

Why, even, as he confessed to himself, the Tory programme was more attractive than his own. Toryism is never particular on the score of money. Its generosity at the expense of other people is prodigious. Naturally, we all like a lavish expenditure. There is no one so popular as a spendthrift, as long as his money lasts, no one so hated as a screw.

When rosy-fingered morning next day dawned on Sloville, there was quite a crowd of visitors at the hotel patronized by Mr. Wentworth. Everybody is supernaturally and unusually wise when an election takes place, and, feeling how uncertain is human life, seems apparently determined to make the most of it. It is the harvest, if not of the busy bee, at any rate of the busybody. Before Mr. Wentworth had finished his coffee and bacon and eggs, while the dry toast in the rack was yet untouched, the aged and beery waiter announced as how there was a lady outside waitin’ to speak to him.

‘Show her in,’ said the candidate, and in she walked with that boldness and self-possession, unpleasant in woman, which marks the advanced female.

‘I hear, Mr. Wentworth, you are a candidate for our borough. May I ask what are your views on the subject of Women’s Rights? – a question of vast importance to our sex. You know our abject and degraded state; how we are trodden under foot by our lord and master, man.’

The lady was a spinster, or she would not have talked in that style, but at length she had said all that she wanted, and paused for a reply.

‘I fear,’ said Wentworth, ‘that you and I can never agree. I don’t believe that man and woman are the same. Nature has made them different. A woman treads the earth with a lighter step, talks in a feebler voice. If she succeeds on the platform or in public life, it is because of her exceptional performance in that character; and owing to her more excitable temperament and physical peculiarities, and to the duties devolving on her as wife and mother, I argue that she is unfitted for public life. Her duty is at home. It is there she reigns a queen, and where, I ask, can she desire a nobler field? Our men are what their mothers make them. I say it is to the home that we have to look for the purification and elevation of our public life; it is to the mothers of to-day that we look for the great men of the morrow.’

‘And is this all you’ve got to say?’ said the lady, with a somewhat chap-fallen countenance. ‘I did hope, as a journalist, I might have heard something more satisfactory. There are many of us in Sloville. We are affiliated to a society whose headquarters are in London, and we are determined to vote for no man.’

‘Excuse me, I understood ladies had no votes.’

‘I mean we are determined that no man shall vote for anyone who is not sound on the question of Women’s Rights.’