“I don’t think I can stand this much longer,” said Mr Mountchesney, the son-in-law of Lord de Mowbray, to his wife, as he stood before the empty fire-place with his back to the mantelpiece and his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. “This living in the country in August bores me to extinction. I think we will go to Baden, Joan.”
“But papa is so anxious, dearest Alfred, that we should remain here at present and see the neighbours a little.”
“I might be induced to remain here to please your father, but as for your neighbours I have seen quite enough of them. They are not a sort of people that I ever met before, or that I wish to meet again. I do not know what to say to them, nor can I annex an idea to what they say to me. Heigho! certainly the country in August is a thing of which no one who has not tried it has the most remote conception.”
“But you always used to say you doted on the country, Alfred,” said Lady Joan in a tone of tender reproach.
“So I do; I never was happier than when I was at Melton, and even enjoyed the country in August when I was on the Moors.”
“But I cannot well go to Melton,” said Lady Joan.
“I don’t see why you can’t. Mrs Shelldrake goes with her husband to Melton, and so does Lady Di with Barham; and a very pleasant life it is.”
“Well, at any rate we cannot go to Melton now,” said Lady Joan mortified; “and it is impossible for me to go to the Moors.”
“No, but I could go,” said Mr Mountchesney, “and leave you here. I might have gone with Eugene de Vere and Milford and Fitz-heron. They wanted me very much. What a capital party it would have been, and what capital sport we should have had! And I need not have been away for more than a month or perhaps six weeks, and I could have written to you every day and all that sort of thing.”
Lady Joan sighed and affected to recur to the opened volume which during this conversation she had held in her hand.
“I wonder where Maud is,” said Mr Mountchesney; “I shall want her to ride with me to-day. She is a capital horsewoman, and always amuses me. As you cannot ride now, Joan, I wish you would let Maud have Sunbeam.”
“As you please.”
“Well I am going to the stables and will tell them. Who is this?” Mr Mountchesney exclaimed, and then walked to the window that looking over the park showed at a distance the advance of a very showy equipage.
Lady Joan looked up.
“Come here, Joan, and tell me who this is,” and Lady Joan was at his side in a moment.
“It is the livery of the Bardolfs,” said Lady Joan.
“I always call them Firebrace; I cannot get out of it,” said Mr Mountchesney. “Well, I am glad it is they; I thought it might be an irruption of barbarians. Lady Bardolf will bring us some news.”
Lord and Lady Bardolf were not alone; they were accompanied by a gentleman who had been staying on a visit at Firebrace, and who, being acquainted with Lord de Mowbray, had paid his respects to the castle in his way to London. This gentleman was the individual who had elevated them to the peerage—Mr Hatton. A considerable intimacy had sprung up between him and his successful clients. Firebrace was an old place rebuilt in the times of the Tudors, but with something of its more ancient portions remaining, and with a storehouse of muniments that had escaped the civil wars. Hatton revelled in them, and in pursuing his researches, had already made discoveries which might perhaps place the coronet of the earldom of Lovel on the brow of the former champion of the baronetage, who now however never mentioned the Order. Lord de Mowbray was well content to see Mr Hatton, a gentleman in whom he did not repose the less confidence, because his advice given him three years ago, respecting the writ of right and the claim upon his estate had proved so discreet and correct. Acting on that advice Lord de Mowbray had instructed his lawyers to appear to the action without entering into any unnecessary explanation of the merits of his case. He counted on the accuracy of Mr Hatton’s judgment, that the claim would not be pursued; and he was right; after some fencing and preliminary manoeuvring, the claim had not been pursued. Lord de Mowbray therefore, always gracious, was disposed to accord a very distinguished reception to his confidential counsellor. He pressed very much his guests to remain with him some days, and though that was not practicable, Mr Hatton promised that he would not leave the neighbourhood without paying another visit to the castle.
“And you continue quiet here?” said Mr Hatton to Lord de Mowbray.
“And I am told we shall keep so,” said Lord de Mowbray. “The mills are mostly at work, and the men take the reduced wages in a good spirit. The fact is our agitators in this neighbourhood suffered pretty smartly in ‘39, and the Chartists have lost their influence.
“I am sorry for poor Lady St Julians,” said Lady Bardolf to Lady de Mowbray. “It must be such a disappointment, and she has had so many; but I understand there is nobody to blame but herself. If she had only left the Prince alone, but she would not be quiet!”
“And where are the Deloraines?”
“They are at Munich; with which they are delighted. And Lady Deloraine writes me that Mr Egremont has promised to join them there. If he do, they mean to winter at Rome.”
“Somebody said he was going to be married,” said Lady de Mowbray.
“His mother wishes him to marry,” said Lady Bardolf; “but I have heard nothing.”
Mr Mountchesney came in and greeted the Bardolfs with some warmth. “How delightful in the country in August to meet somebody that you have seen in London in June!” he exclaimed. “Now, dear Lady Bardolf do tell me something, for you can conceive nothing so triste as we are here. We never get a letter. Joan only corresponds with philosophers and Maud with clergymen; and none of my friends ever write to me.”
“Perhaps you never write to them?”
“Well, I never have been a letter writer; because really I never wanted to write or to be written to. I always knew what was going on because I was on the spot; I was doing the things that people were writing letters about—but now not being in the world any longer, doing nothing, living in the country—and the country in August—I should like to receive letters every day, but I do not know who to fix upon as a correspondent. Eugene de Vere will not write, Milford cannot; and as for Fitz-heron he is so very selfish, he always wants his letters answered.”
“That is very unreasonable,” said Lady Bardolf.
“Besides what can they tell me at this moment? They have gone to the Moors and are enjoying themselves. They asked me to go with them, but I could not go, because you see I could not leave Joan; though why I could not leave her, I really cannot understand, because Egerton has got some moors this year, and he leaves Lady Augusta with her father.”
Lady Maud entered the room in her bonnet, returning from an airing. She was all animation—charmed to see everybody; she had been to Mowbray to hear some singing at the Roman Catholic chapel in that town; a service had been performed and a collection made for the suffering workpeople of the place. She had been apprised of it for some days, was told that she would hear the most beautiful voice that she had ever listened to, but it had far exceeded her expectations. A female voice it seemed; no tones could be conceived more tender and yet more thrilling: in short seraphic.
Mr Mountchesney blamed her for not taking him. He liked music, singing, especially female singing; when there was so little to amuse him, he was surprised that Lady Maud had not been careful that he should have been present. His sister-in-law reminded him that she had particularly requested him to drive her over to Mowbray, and he had declined the honour as a bore.
“Yes,” said Mr Mountchesney, “but I thought Joan was going with you, and that you would be shopping.”
“It was a good thing our House was adjourned before these disturbances in Lancashire,” said Lord Bardolf to Lord de Mowbray.
“The best thing we can all do is to be on our estates I believe,” said Lord de Mowbray.
“My neighbour Marney is in a great state of excitement,” said Lord Bardolf; “all his yeomanry out.”
“But he is quiet at Marney?”
“In a way; but these fires puzzle us. Marney will not believe that the condition of the labourer has anything to do with them; and he certainly is a very acute man. But still I don’t know what to say to it. The poor-law is very unpopular in my parish. Marney will have it, that the incendiaries are all strangers hired by the anti-Corn-law League.”
“Ah! here is Lady Joan,” exclaimed Lady Bardolf, as the wife of Mr Mountchesney entered the room; “My dearest Lady Joan!”
“Why Joan,” said Mr Mountchesney, “Maud has been to Mowbray, and heard the most delicious singing. Why did we not go?”
“I did mention it to you, Alfred.”
“I remember you said something about going to Mowbray, and that you wanted to go to several places. But there is nothing I hate so much as shopping. It bores me more than anything. And you are so peculiarly long when you are shopping. But singing, and beautiful singing in a Catholic chapel by a woman; perhaps a beautiful woman, that is quite a different thing, and I should have been amused, which nobody seems ever to think of here. I do not know how you find it, Lady Bardolf, but the country to me in August is a something;”—and not finishing his sentence, Mr Mountchesney gave a look of inexpressible despair.
“And you did not see this singer?” said Mr Hatton, sidling up to Lady Maud, and speaking in a subdued tone.
“I did not, but they tell me she is most beautiful; something extraordinary; I tried to see her, but it was impossible.”
“Is she a professional singer?”
“I should imagine not; a daughter of one of the Mowbray people I believe.”
“Let us have her over to the Castle, Lady de Mowbray,” said Mr Mountchesney.
“If you like,” replied Lady de Mowbray, with a languid smile.
“Well at last I have got something to do,” said Mr Mountchesney. “I will ride over to Mowbray, find out the beautiful singer, and bring her to the Castle.”
The beam of the declining sun, softened by the stained panes of a small gothic window, suffused the chamber of the Lady Superior of the convent of Mowbray. The vaulted room, of very moderate dimensions, was furnished with great simplicity and opened into a small oratory. On a table were several volumes, an ebon cross was fixed in a niche, and leaning in a high-backed chair, sate Ursula Trafford. Her pale and refined complexion that in her youth had been distinguished for its lustre, became her spiritual office; and indeed her whole countenance, the delicate brow, the serene glance, the small aquiline nose, and the well-shaped mouth, firm and yet benignant, betokened the celestial soul that habited that gracious frame.
The Lady Superior was not alone; on a low seat by her side, holding her hand, and looking up into her face with a glance of reverential sympathy, was a maiden over whose head five summers have revolved since first her girlhood broke upon our sight amid the ruins of Marney Abbey, five summers that have realized the matchless promise of her charms, and while they have added something to her stature have robbed it of nothing of its grace, and have rather steadied the blaze of her beauty than diminished its radiance.
“Yes, I mourn over them,” said Sybil, “the deep convictions that made me look forward to the cloister as my home. Is it that the world has assoiled my soul? Yet I have not tasted of worldly joys; all that I have known of it has been suffering and tears. They will return, these visions of my sacred youth, dear friend, tell me that they will return!”
“I too have had visions in my youth, Sybil, and not of the cloister, yet am I here.”
“And what should I infer?” said Sybil enquiringly.
“That my visions were of the world, and brought me to the cloister, and that yours were of the cloister and have brought you to the world.”
“My heart is sad,” said Sybil, “and the sad should seek the shade.”
“It is troubled, my child, rather than sorrowful.”
Sybil shook her head.
“Yes, my child,” said Ursula, “the world has taught you that there are affections which the cloister can neither satisfy nor supply. Ah! Sybil, I too have loved.”
The blood rose to the cheek of Sybil, and then returned as quickly to the heart; her trembling hand pressed that of Ursula as she sighed and murmured, “No, no, no.”
“Yes, it is his spirit that hovers over your life, Sybil; and in vain you would forget what haunts your heart. One not less gifted than him; as good, as gentle, as gracious; once too breathed in my ear the accents of joy. He was, like myself, the child of an old house, and Nature had invested him with every quality that can dazzle and can charm. But his heart was as pure, and his soul as lofty, as his intellect and frame were bright,—” and Ursula paused.
Sybil pressed the hand of Ursula to her lips and whispered, “Speak on.”
“The dreams of by-gone days,” continued Ursula in a voice of emotion, “the wild sorrows than I can recall, and yet feel that I was wisely chastened. He was stricken in his virtuous pride, the day before he was to have led me to that altar where alone I found the consolation that never fails. And thus closed some years of human love, my Sybil,” said Ursula, bending forward and embracing her. “The world for a season crossed their fair current, and a power greater than the world forbade their banns; but they are hallowed; memory is my sympathy; it is soft and free, and when he came here to enquire after you, his presence and agitated heart recalled the past.”
“It is too wild a thought,” said Sybil, “ruin to him, ruin to all. No, we are severed by a fate as uncontrollable as severed you dear friend; ours is a living death.”
“The morrow is unforeseen,” said Ursula. “Happy indeed would it be for me, my Sybil, that your innocence should be enshrined within these holy walls, and that the pupil of my best years, and the friend of my serene life, should be my successor in this house. But I feel a deep persuasion that the hour has not arrived for you to take the step that never can be recalled.”
So saying, Ursula embraced and dismissed Sybil; for the conversation, the last passages of which we have given, had Occurred when Sybil according to her wont on Saturday afternoon had come to request the permission of the Lady Superior to visit her father.
It was in a tolerably spacious and not discomfortable chamber, the first floor over the printing-office of the Mowbray Phalanx, that Gerard had found a temporary home. He had not long returned from his factory, and pacing the chamber with a disturbed step, he awaited the expected arrival of his daughter.
She came; the faithful step, the well-known knock; the father and the daughter embraced; he pressed to his heart the child who had clung to him through so many trials, and who had softened so many sorrows, who had been the visiting angel in his cell, and whose devotion had led captivity captive.
Their meetings, though regular, were now comparatively rare. The sacred day united them, and sometimes for a short period the previous afternoon, but otherwise the cheerful hearth and welcome home were no longer for Gerard. And would the future bring them to him? And what was to be the future of his child? His mind vacillated between the convent of which she now seldom spoke, and which with him was never a cherished idea, and those dreams of restored and splendid fortunes which his sanguine temperament still whispered him, in spite of hope so long deferred and expectations so often baulked, might yet be realized. And sometimes between these opposing visions, there rose a third and more practical, though less picturesque result, the idea of her marriage. And with whom? It was impossible that one so rarely gifted and educated with so much daintiness, could ever make a wife of the people. Hatton offered wealth, but Sybil had never seemed to comprehend his hopes, and Gerard felt that their ill-assorted ages was a great barrier. There was of all the men of his own order but one, who from his years, his great qualities, his sympathy, and the nature of his toil and means, seemed not unfitted to be the husband of his daughter; and often had Gerard mused over the possibility of these intimate ties with Morley. Sybil had been, as it were, bred up under his eye; an affection had always subsisted between them, and he knew well that in former days Sybil had appreciated and admired the great talents and acquirements of their friend. At one period he almost suspected that Morley was attached to her. And yet, from causes which he had never attempted to penetrate, probably from a combination of unintentional circumstances, Sybil and Morley had for the last two or three years been thrown little together, and their intimacy had entirely died away. To Gerard it seemed that Morley had ever proved his faithful friend: Morley had originally dissuaded him with energy against that course which had led to his discomfiture and punishment; when arrested, his former colleague was his bail, was his companion and adviser during his trial; had endeavoured to alleviate his imprisonment; and on his release had offered to share his means with Gerard, and when these were refused, he at least supplied Gerard with a roof. And yet with all this, that abandonment of heart and brain, and deep sympathy with every domestic thought that characterized old days, was somehow or other wanting. There was on the part of Morley still devotion, but there was reserve.
“You are troubled, my father,” said Sybil, as Gerard continued to pace the chamber.
“Only a little restless. I am thinking what a mistake it was to have moved in ‘39.”
Sybil sighed.
“Ah! you were right, Sybil,” continued Gerard; “affairs were not ripe. We should have waited three years.”
“Three years!” exclaimed Sybil, starting; “are affairs riper now?”
“The whole of Lancashire is in revolt,” said Gerard. “There is not a sufficient force to keep them in check. If the miners and colliers rise, and I have cause to believe that it is more than probable they will move before many days are past,—the game is up.”
“You terrify me,” said Sybil.
“On the Contrary,” said Gerard, smiling, “the news is good enough; I’ll not say too good to be true, for I had it from one of the old delegates who is over here to see what can be done in our north country.”
“Yes,” said Sybil inquiringly, and leading on her father.
“He came to the works; we had some talk. There are to be no leaders this time, at least no visible ones. The people will do it themselves. All the children of Labour are to rise on the same day, and to toil no more, till they have their rights. No violence, no bloodshed, but toil halts, and then our oppressors will learn the great economical truth as well as moral lesson, that when Toil plays Wealth ceases.”
“When Toil ceases the People suffer,” said Sybil. “That is the only truth that we have learnt, and it is a bitter one.”
“Can we be free without suffering,” said Gerard. “Is the greatest of human blessings to be obtained as a matter of course; to be plucked like fruit, or seized like a running stream? No, no: we must suffer, but we are wiser than of yore,—we will not conspire. Conspiracies are for aristocrats, not for nations.”
“Alas, alas! I see nothing but woe,” said Sybil. “I cannot believe that after all that has passed, the people here will move: I cannot believe that after all that has passed, all that you, that we, have endured, that you, my father, will counsel them to move.”
“I counsel nothing,” said Gerard. “It must be a great national instinct that does it: but if all England, if Wales, if Scotland won’t work, is Mowbray to have a monopoly?”
“Ah! that’s a bitter jest,” said Sybil. “England, Wales, Scotland will be forced to work as they were forced before. How can they subsist without labour? And if they could, there is an organised power that will subdue them.”
“The Benefit Societies, the Sick and Burial Clubs, have money in the banks that would maintain the whole working classes, with aid in kind that will come, for six weeks, and that will do the business. And as for force, why there are not five soldiers to each town in the kingdom. It’s a glittering bugbear this fear of the military; simultaneous strikes would baffle all the armies in Europe.”
“I’ll go back and pray that all this is wild talk,” said Sybil earnestly. “After all that has passed, were it only for your child, you should not speak, much less think, this, my father. What havoc to our hearts and homes has been all this madness! It has separated us; it has destroyed our happy home; it has done more than this—” and here she wept.
“Nay, nay, my child,” said Gerard, coming up and soothing her; “one cannot weigh one’s words before those we love. I can’t hear of the people moving with coldness—that’s out of nature; but I promise you I’ll not stimulate the lads here. I am told they are little inclined to stir. You found me in a moment of what I must call I suppose elation; but I hear they beat the red-coats and police at Staley Bridge, and that pricked my blood a bit. I have been ridden down before this when I was a lad, Sybil, by Yeomanry hoofs. You must allow a little for my feelings.”
She extended her lips to the proffered embrace of her father. He blessed her and pressed her to his heart, and soothed her apprehensions with many words of softness. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Gerard. And there came in Mr Hatton.
They had not met since Gerard’s release from York Castle. There Hatton had visited him, had exercised his influence to remedy his grievances, and had more than once offered him the means of maintenance on receiving his freedom. There were moments of despondency when Gerard had almost wished that the esteem and regard with which Sybil looked upon Hatton might have matured into sentiments of a deeper nature; but on this subject the father had never breathed a word. Nor had Hatton, except to Gerard, ever intimated his wishes, for we could scarcely call them hopes. He was a silent suitor of Sybil, watching opportunities and ready to avail himself of circumstances which he worshipped. His sanguine disposition, fed by a very suggestive and inventive mind, and stimulated by success and a prosperous life, sustained him always to the last. Hatton always believed that everything desirable must happen if a man had energy and watched circumstances. He had confidence too in the influence of his really insinuating manner; his fine taste, his tender tone, his ready sympathy, all which masked his daring courage and absolute recklessness of means.
There were general greetings of the greatest warmth. The eyes of Hatton were suffused with tears as he congratulated Gerard on his restored health, and pressed Sybil’s hand with the affection of an old friend between both his own.
“I was down in this part of the world on business,” said Hatton, “and thought I would come over here for a day to find you all out.” And then after some general conversation he said “And where do you think I accidentally paid a visit a day or two back? At Mowbray Castle. I see you are surprised. I saw all your friends. I did not ask his Lordship how the writ of right went on. I dare say he thinks ‘tis all hushed. But he is mistaken. I have learnt something which may help us over the stile yet.”
“Well-a-day,” said Gerard, “I once thought if I could get back the lands the people would at last have a friend; but that’s past. I have been a dreamer of dreams often when I was overlooking them at work. And so we all have I suppose. I would willingly give up my claim if I could be sure the Lancashire lads will not come to harm this bout.”
“‘Tis a more serious business,” said Hatton, “than any thing of the kind that has yet happened. The government are much alarmed. They talk of sending the Guards down into the north, and bringing over troops from Ireland.”
“Poor Ireland!” said Gerard. “Well, I think the frieze-coats might give us a helping hand now, and employ the troops at least.”
“No, my dear father, say not such things.”
“Sybil will not let me think of these matters friend Hatton,” said Gerard smiling. “Well, I suppose it’s not in my way, at least I certainly did not make the best hand of it in ‘39; but it was London that got me into that scrape. I cannot help fancying that were I on our Moors here a bit with some good lads it might be different, and I must say so, I must indeed, Sybil.”
“But you are very quiet here I hope,” said Hatton.
“Oh! yes,” said Gerard, “I believe our spirit is sufficiently broken at Mowbray. Wages weekly dropping, and just work enough to hinder sheer idleness; that sort of thing keeps the people in very humble trim. But wait a bit, and when they have reached the starvation point I fancy we shall hear a murmur.”
“I remember our friend Morley in ‘39, when we returned from London, gave me a very good character of the disposition of the people here,” said Hatton; “I hope it continues the same. He feared no outbreak then, and the distress in ‘39 was severe.”
“Well,” said Gerard, “the wages have been dropping ever since. The people exist, but you can scarcely say they live. But they are cowed I fancy. An empty belly is sometimes as apt to dull the heart as inflame the courage. And then they have lost their leaders, for I was away you see, and have been quiet enough since I came out; and Warner is broken: he has suffered more from his time than I did; which is strange, for he had his pursuits; whereas I was restless enough, and that’s the truth, and had it not been for Sybil’s daily visit I think, though I may never be allowed to live in a castle, I should certainly have died in one.”
“And how is Morley?”
“Right well; the same as you left him: I saw not a straw’s change when I came out. His paper spreads. He still preaches moral force, and believes that we shall all end in living in communities. But as the only community of which I have personal experience is a gaol, I am not much more inclined to his theory than heretofore.”
The reader may not have altogether forgotten Mr Nixon and his comates, the miners and colliers of that district not very remote from Mowbray, which Morley had visited at the commencement of this history, in order to make fruitless researches after a gentleman whom he subsequently so unexpectedly stumbled upon. Affairs were as little flourishing in that region as at Mowbray itself, and the distress fell upon a population less accustomed to suffering and whose spirit was not daunted by the recent discomfiture and punishment of their leaders.
“It can’t last,” said Master Nixon as he took his pipe from his mouth at the Rising Sun.
He was responded to by a general groan. “It comes to this,” he continued, “Natur has her laws, and this is one; a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work.”
“I wish you may get it,” said Juggins, “with a harder stint every week and a shilling a day knocked off.”
“And what’s to come to-morrow?” said Waghorn. “The butty has given notice to quit in Parker’s field this day se’nnight. Simmons won’t drop wages, but works half time.”
“The boys will be at play afore long,” said a collier.
“Hush!” said Master Nixon with a reproving glance, “play is a very serious word. The boys are not to go to play as they used to do without by your leave or with your leave. We must appoint a committee to consider the question and we must communicate with the other trades.”
“You’re the man, Master Nixon, to choose for churchwarden,” replied the reproved miner with a glance of admiration.
“What is Diggs doing?” said Master Nixon in a solemn tone.
“A-dropping wages and a-raising tommy like fun,” said Master Waghorn.
“There is a great stir in Hell-house yard,” said a miner who entered the tap room at this moment, much excited. “They say that all the workshops will be shut to-morrow; not an order for a month past. They have got a top-sawyer from London there who addresses them every evening, and says that we have a right to four shillings a day wages, eight hours’ work and two pots of ale.”
“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work,” said Master Nixon. “I would not stickle about hours, but the money and the drink are very just.”
“If Hell-house yard is astir,” said Waghorn, “there will be a good deal to be seen yet.”
“It’s grave,” said Master Nixon. “What think you of a deputation there? It might come to good.”
“I should like to hear the top-sawyer from London,” said Juggins. “We had a Chartist here the other day, but he did not understand our case at all.”
“I heard him,” said Master Nixon, “but what’s his Five Points to us? Why he ayn’t got tommy among them.”
“Nor long stints,” said Waghorn.
“Nor butties,” said Juggins.
“He’s a pretty fellow to come and talk to us,” said a collier. “He had never been down a pit in all his life.”
The evening passed away in the tap room of the Rising Sun in reflections on the present critical state of affairs and in consultations as to the most expedient course for the future. The rate of wages which for several years in this district had undergone a continuous depression, had just received another downward impulse and was threatened with still further reduction, for the price of iron became every day lower in the market, and the article itself so little in demand that few but the great capitalists who could afford to accumulate their produce were able to maintain their furnaces in action. The little men who still continued their speculations could only do so partially, by diminishing the days of service and increasing their stints or toil and by decreasing the rate of wages as well as paying them entirely in goods, of which they had a great stock and of which they thus relieved themselves at a high profit. Add to all these causes of suffering and discontent among the workmen the apprehension of still greater evils and the tyranny of the butties or middlemen, and it will with little difficulty be felt that the public mind of this district was well-prepared for the excitement of the political agitator, especially if he were discreet enough rather to descant on their physical sufferings and personal injuries than to attempt the propagation of abstract political principles, with which it was impossible for them to sympathise with the impulse and facility of the inhabitants of manufacturing towns, members of literary and scientific institutes, habitual readers of political journals and accustomed to habits of discussion of all public questions. It generally happens however that where a mere physical impulse urges the people to insurrection, though it is often an influence of slow growth and movement, the effects are more violent and sometimes more obstinate than when they move under the blended authority of moral and physical necessity, and mix up together the rights and the wants of Man.
However this may be, on the morning after the conversation at the Rising Sun which we have just noticed, the population having as usual gone to their work, having penetrated the pit and descended the shaft, the furnaces all blazing, the chimneys all smoking,—suddenly there rose a rumour even in the bowels of the earth, that the hour and the man had at length arrived; the hour that was to bring them relief and the man that was to bear them redress.
“My missus told it me at the pit-head when she brought me my breakfast,” said a pikeman to his comrade, and he struck a vigorous blow at the broadseam on which he was working.
“It is not ten mile,” said his companion. “They’ll be here by noon.”
“There is a good deal to do in their way,” said the first pikeman. “All men at work after notice to be ducked, they say, and every engine to be stopped forthwith.”
“Will the police meet them before they reach this?”
“There is none: my missus says that not a man John of them is to be seen. The Hell-cats as they call themselves halt at every town and offer fifty pounds for a live policeman.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said the second pikeman. “I’ll stop my stint and go up the shaft. My heart’s all of a flutter, I can’t work no more. We’ll have a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work yet.”
“Come along, I’m your man; if the doggy stop us, we’ll knock him down. The People must have their rights; we’re driven to this, but if one shilling a day is dropped, why not two?”
“Very true; the People must have their rights, and eight hours’ work is quite enough.”
In the light of day, the two miners soon learnt in more detail the news which the wife of one of them earlier in the morning had given as a rumour. There seemed now no doubt that the people of Wodgate, commonly called the Hell-cats, headed by their Bishop, had invaded in great force the surrounding district, stopped all the engines, turned all the potters out of the manufactories, met with no resistance from the authorities, and issued a decree that labour was to cease until the Charter was the law of the land.
This last edict was not the least surprising part of the whole affair; for no one could have imagined that the Bishop or any of his subjects had ever even heard of the Charter, much less that they could by any circumstances comprehend its nature, or by any means be induced to believe that its operation would further their interests or redress their grievances. But all this had been brought about, as most of the great events of history, by the unexpected and unobserved influence of individual character.
A Chartist leader had been residing for some time at Wodgate, ever since the distress had become severe, and had obtained great influence and popularity by assuring a suffering and half-starving population, that they were entitled to four shillings a day and two pots of ale, and only eight hours’ work. He was a man of abilities and of popular eloquence, and his representations produced an effect; their reception invested him with influence, and as he addressed a population who required excitement, being very slightly employed and with few resources for their vacant hours, the Chartist who was careful never to speak of the Charter became an important personage at Wodgate, and was much patronized by Bishop Hatton and his Lady, whose good offices he was sedulous to conciliate. At the right moment, everything being ripe and well prepared, the Bishop being very drunk and harassed by the complaints of his subjects, the Chartist revealed to him the mysteries of the Charter, and persuaded him not only that the Five Points would cure everything, but that he was the only man who could carry the Five Points. The Bishop had nothing to do; he was making a lock merely for amusement; he required action; he embraced the Charter, without having a definite idea what it meant, but he embraced it fervently, and he determined to march into the country at the head of the population of Wodgate, and establish the faith. Since the conversion of Constantine, a more important adoption had never occurred. The whole of the north of England, and a great part of the midland counties were in a state of disaffection; the entire country was suffering; hope had deserted the labouring classes; they had no confidence in any future of the existing system. Their organisation, independent of the political system of the Chartists, was complete. Every trade had its union, and every union its lodge in every town, and its central committee in every district. All that was required was the first move, and the Chartist emissary had long fixed upon Wodgate as the spring of the explosion, when the news of the strike in Lancashire determined him to precipitate the event.
The march of Bishop Hatton at the head of the Hell-cats into the mining districts was perhaps the most striking popular movement since the Pilgrimage of Grace. Mounted on a white mule, wall-eyed and of hideous form, the Bishop brandished a huge hammer with which he had announced he would destroy the enemies of the people: all butties, doggies, dealers in truck and tommy, middle masters and main masters. Some thousand Hell-cats followed him brandishing bludgeons, or armed with bars of iron, pickhandles, and hammers. On each side of the Bishop, on a donkey, was one of his little sons, as demure and earnest as if he were handling his file. A flowing standard of silk inscribed with the Charter, and which had been presented to him by the delegate, was borne before him like the oriflamme. Never was such a gaunt, grim crew. As they advanced their numbers continually increased, for they arrested all labour in their progress. Every engine was stopped, the plug was driven out of every boiler, every fire was extinguished, every man was turned out. The decree went forth that labour was to cease until the Charter was the law of the land: the mine and the mill, the foundry and the loom-shop were until that consummation to be idle: nor was the mighty pause to be confined to these great enterprises. Every trade of every kind and description was to be stopped: tailor and cobbler, brushmaker and sweep, tinker and carter, mason and builder, all, all; for all an enormous Sabbath that was to compensate for any incidental suffering that it induced by the increased means and the elevated condition it ultimately would insure—that paradise of artizans, that Utopia of Toil, embalmed in those ringing words, sounds cheerful to the Saxon race—“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work.”
During the strike in Lancashire the people had never plundered, except a few provision shops, chiefly rifled by boys, and their acts of violence had been confined to those with whom they were engaged in what on the whole might be described as fair contest. They solicited sustenance often in great numbers, but even then their language was mild and respectful, and they were easily satisfied and always grateful. A body of two thousand persons, for example—the writer speaks of circumstances within his own experience—quitted one morning a manufacturing town in Lancashire, when the strike had continued for some time and began to be severely felt, and made a visit to a neighbouring squire of high degree. They entered his park in order—men, women, and children—and then seating themselves in the immediate vicinity of the mansion, they sent a deputation to announce that they were starving and to entreat relief. In the instance in question, the lord of the domain was absent in the fulfilment of those public duties which the disturbed state of the country devolved on him. His wife, who had a spirit equal to the occasion, notwithstanding the presence of her young children who might well have aggravated feminine fears, received the deputation herself; told them that of course she was unprepared to feed so many, but that, if they promised to maintain order and conduct themselves with decorum, she would take measures to satisfy their need. They gave their pledge and remained tranquilly encamped while preparations were making to satisfy them. Carts were sent to a neighbouring town for provisions; the gamekeepers killed what they could, and in a few hours the multitude were fed without the slightest disturbance, or the least breach of their self-organised discipline. When all was over, the deputation waited again on the lady to express to her their gratitude, and the gardens of this house being of celebrity in the neighbourhood, they requested permission that the people might be allowed to walk through them, pledging themselves that no flower should be plucked and no fruit touched. The permission was granted: the multitude in order, each file under a chief and each commander of the files obedient to a superior officer, then made a progress through the beautiful gardens of their beautiful hostess. They even passed through the forcing houses and vineries. Not a border was trampled on, not a grape plucked; and when they quitted the domain, they gave three cheers for the fair castellan.
The Hell-cats and their following were of a different temper to these gentle Lancashire insurgents. They destroyed and ravaged; sacked and gutted houses; plundered cellars; proscribed bakers as enemies of the people; sequestrated the universal stores of all truck and tommy shops; burst open doors, broke windows, destroyed the gas works, that the towns at night might be in darkness; took union workhouses by storm, burned rate-books in the market-place, and ordered public distribution of loaves of bread and flitches of bacon to a mob—cheering and laughing amid flames and rapine. In short they robbed and rioted; the police could make no head against them; there was no military force; the whole district was in their possession: and hearing that a battalion of the Coldstreams were coming down by a train, the Bishop ordered all railroads to be destroyed, and if the Hell-cats had not been too drunk to do his bidding and he too tipsy to repeat it, it is probable that a great destruction of these public ways might have taken place.
Does the reader remember Diggs’ tommy shop? And Master Joseph? Well a terrible scene took place there. The Wodgate girl, with a back like a grasshopper, of the Baptist school religion, who had married Tummas, once a pupil of the Bishop and still his fervent follower, although he had cut open his pupil’s head, was the daughter of a man who had worked many years in Diggs’ field, had suffered much under his intolerable yoke, and at the present moment was deep in his awful ledger. She had heard from her first years of the oppression of Diggs and had impressed it on her husband, who was intolerant of any tyranny except at Wodgate. Tummas and his wife, and a few chosen friends, therefore went out one morning to settle the tommy-book of her father with Mr Diggs. A whisper of their intention had got about among those interested in the subject. It was a fine summer morning, some three hours from noon, the shop was shut, indeed it had not been opened since the riots, and all the lower windows of the dwelling were closed, barred, and bolted.
A crowd of women had collected. There was Mistress Page and Mistress Prance, old Dame Toddles and Mrs Mullins, Liza Gray and the comely dame who was so fond of society that she liked even a riot.
“Master Joseph they say has gone to the North,” said the comely dame.
“I wonder if old Diggs is at home?” said Mrs Mullins.
“He won’t show I’ll be sworn,” said old Dame Toddles.
“Here are the Hell-cats,” said the comely dame. “Well I do declare they march like reglars; two, four, six, twelve; a good score at the least.”
The Hell-cats briskly marched up to the elm-trees that shaded the canal before the house, and then formed in line opposite to it. They were armed with bludgeons, crowbars, and hammers. Tummas was at the head and by his side his Wodgate wife. Stepping forth alone, amid the cheering of the crowd of women, the pupil of the Bishop advanced to the door of Diggs’ house, gave a loud knock and a louder ring. He waited patiently for several minutes; there was no reply from the interior, and then Tummas knocked and rang again.
“It’s very awful,” said the comely dame.
“It’s what I always dreamt would come to pass,” said Liza Gray, “ever since Master Joseph cut my poor baby over the eye with his three foot rule.”
“I think there can be nobody within,” said Mrs Prance.
“Old Diggs would never leave the tommy without a guard,” said Mrs Page.
“Now lads,” said Tummas looking round him and making a sign, and immediately some half dozen advanced with their crowbars and were about to strike at the door, when a window in the upper story of the house opened and the muzzle of a blunderbuss was presented at the assailants.
The women all screamed and ran away.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” said the comely dame halting to regain her breath.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” sighed Mrs Page.
“‘Twas Master Joseph,” moaned Mrs Prance.
“Sure enough,” said Mrs Mullins, “I saw his ugly face.”
“More frightful than the great gun,” said old Dame Toddles.
“I hope the children will get out of the way,” said Liza Gray, “for he is sure to fire on them.”
In the meantime, while Master Joseph himself was content with his position and said not a word, a benignant countenance exhibited itself at the window and requested in a mild voice to know, “What his good friends wanted there?”
“We have come to settle Sam Barlow’s tommy book,” said their leader.
“Our shop is not open to-day my good friends: the account can stand over; far be it from me to press the poor.”
“Master Diggs,” said a Hell-cat, “canst thou tell us the price of bacon to-day?”
“Well, good bacon,” said the elder Diggs willing to humour them, “may be eightpence a-pound.”
“Thou are wrong Master Diggs,” said the Hell-cat, “‘tis fourpence and long credit. Let us see half a dozen good flitches at fourpence, Master Diggs; and be quick.”
There was evidently some controversy in the interior as to the course at this moment to be pursued. Master Joseph remonstrated against the policy of concession, called conciliation, which his father would fain follow, and was for instant coercion; but age and experience carried the day, and in a few minutes some flitches were thrown out of the window to the Hell-cats who received the booty with a cheer.
The women returned.
“‘Tis the tenpence a-pound flitch,” said the comely dame examining the prize with a sparkling glance.
“I have paid as much for very green stuff,” said Mrs Mullins.
“And now Master Diggs,” said Tummas, “what is the price of the best tea a-pound? We be good customers, and mean to treat our wives and sweethearts here. I think we must order half a chest.”
This time there was a greater delay in complying with the gentle hint; but the Hell-cats getting obstreperous, the tea was at length furnished and divided among the women. This gracious office devolved on the wife of Tummas who soon found herself assisted by a spontaneous committee of which the comely dame was the most prominent and active member. Nothing could be more considerate, good-natured, and officious, than the mode and spirit with which she divided the stores. The flitches were cut up and apportioned in like manner. The scene was as gay and hustling as a fair.
“It’s as good as a grand tommy day,” said the comely dame with a self-complacent smile as she strutted about smiling and dispensing patronage.
The orders for bacon and tea were followed by a very popular demand for cheese. The female committee received all the plunder and were very active in its distribution. At length a rumour got about that Master Joseph was entering the names of all present in the tommy books, so that eventually the score might be satisfied. The mob had now very much increased. There was a panic among the women, and indignation among the men: a Hell-cat advanced and announced that unless the tommy books were all given up to be burnt, they would pull down the house. There was no reply: some of the Hell-cats advanced; the women cheered; a crowbar fell upon the door; Master Joseph fired, wounded a woman and killed a child.
There rose one of those universal shrieks of wild passion which announce that men have discarded all the trammels of civilization, and found in their licentious rage new and unforseen sources of power and vengeance. Where it came from, how it was obtained, who prompted the thought, who first accomplished it, were alike impossible to trace; but as it were in a moment, a number of trusses of straw were piled up before the house and set on fire, the gates of the timber-yard were forced, and a quantity of scantlings and battens soon fed the flame. Everything indeed that could stimulate the fire was employed; and every one was occupied in the service. They ran to the water side and plundered the barges, and threw the huge blocks of coal upon the enormous bonfire. Men, women, and children were alike at work with the eagerness and energy of fiends. The roof of the house caught fire: the dwelling burned rapidly; you could see the flames like the tongues of wild beasts, licking the bare and vanishing walls; a single being was observed amid the fiery havoc, shrieking and desperate he clung convulsively to a huge account book, It was Master Joseph. His father had made his escape from the back of the premises and had counselled his son instantly to follow him, but Master Joseph wished to rescue the ledger as well as their lives, and the delay ruined him.
“He has got the tommy book,” cried Liza Gray.
The glare of the clear flame fell for a moment upon his countenance of agony; the mob gave an infernal cheer; then some part of the building falling in, there rose a vast cloud of smoke and rubbish, and he was seen no more.